CHAPTER 1
Penelope
ONE YEAR AGO
“Nice taco.” Amusement coats the deep voice of the guy somewhere behind me. Like I haven’t heard a million variations of ‘I like your taco’ all evening. But of course, this dude thinks he’s theoneguy that’s original.
I don’t snort and tell him to eat shit and die like I did to the other guy who told me he wanted to eat my taco, but I’m not throwing myself at his feet right now, either.
Dressing like Taco Belle for the sophomore Halloween party—a combination between Taco Bell and Belle from Beauty and the Beast—was a great idea at the time. But I didn’t give thought to the countless innuendos and come-ons I’d be subjected to all night.
I’m standing in the study of the parents-are-gone-for-the-weekend house this Halloween party’s going down in. I needed some quiet, but as it turns out, I wasn’t the only one who wandered from the main part of the building. I didn’t see anyone when I walked in, which tells me he was either hiding because he heard someone approach, the oversized brown leather couch swallowed him, or I skimmed the room so fast I missed him.
But I’m most definitely not alone in this room.
“I said nice taco.” His voice is louder, closer, and still laced with amusement that tells me he’s confident enough that he’s onto something, like a fisherman who has cast his line and is waiting for a nibble.
Why is he so insistent on getting a response from me with an uninspired line? Is this how low the bar is these days?
Unfortunately for this guy, I don’t nibble. I bite.
“Thanks, I made it myself.” I keep my voice flat and my gaze fixed on the family portraits hanging on the dark wooden walls. I’m not turning around. In part, because I’m afraid the giant, papier-mâché taco strapped to my head will launch off, a projectile missile sailing through the air at some unsuspecting fucker destined for concussion.
He probably won’t think my taco’s so nice if it hits him in his face.
And the other part is because I’m tired of rejecting men who think because I’m fat I don’t have standards.
“If you were a seagull, who would you shit on first?” He’s not giving up.
Huh. Interesting. Points for trying to be creative I guess.
I can’t say that’s a question I’ve been asked before, and it gives me pause. Which, undoubtedly, was his plan, to make me hang around in his orbit for just a little longer. I tip my head, tapping my bottom lip with a well-manicured finger.
He falls silent. Perhaps he’s giving me space and time to think of an answer, or perhaps he’s picking out his next taco to compliment, either way, the silence is filled with someone strumming a chord on an acoustic guitar. If I’m not mistaken, it’s D-major.
I know the sound, right down to the chord, because every day of my childhood, my dad played guitar. And from the moment I watched Schitt’s Creek for the first time and saw Patrickserenading David with his acoustic guitar, I wanted that for myself.
Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve wanted it my whole fucking life.
I trail my finger along one of the silver frames on the wall in front of me. The smiling faces staring back at me makes my chest hurt. How long has it been since I talked to my twin brother, Oliver?
I swallow that thought down as the stranger strums another note, and my gaze flickers to a sepia-toned wedding picture in a rusting frame.
Music is actually how my parents met. My Dad played open mic nights for fun, and Mom worked behind the bar. He sang to her every night he was there until he wore her down, and she agreed to go on a date with him.
Then he promised to sing to her every day for the rest of their lives.
Ugh. When I think about my parents’ train-wreck of a marriage I have an instinctive urge to curl in on myself.
An all-too-familiar lump swells in the back of my throat, threatening to cut off my oxygen supply, and I bite my lip to stop the welling tears to spill down my cheeks.
“Who you got for me, Taco Belle?” There’s a smile in his words now. “I’m a seagull, ready to shit on the enemy of your choosing. You get one shot, who’s it going to be?”
Another strum of the strings. G-major this time, one of, if notthemost popular guitar chord.
I close my eyes, tipping my head back just enough to be standing up straight again. I turn my head to the side so whoever he is can see my profile. “The man who ruined my father’s career.”
“Ooooh. Juicy. I’ll make it a big one.”
