I set my head in my hands, staring at the screen through my splayed fingers.
The details are vague, but the message is clear: There’s an offer on the table.
Earlier, I felt sure that saving The Disco Diner could help my cause. Now, though, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to save it or sellit. I don’t know if Sloane Bishop is good news or bad, or if anybody else knows about her interest in a partnership—which sounds an awful lot like an acquisition. Bridget and Penn must not know, or they’d have mentioned it.
There’s a knock at the door. I mumble-whine into my palms. “Yes?”
“Dinner’s ready,” Penn singsongs. “And I swear it’s edible.”
—
The Penn Iknow wouldn’t think twice about what he’d eaten at The Disco Diner, let alone try to compensate for it. But three Le Creuset pots the color of sunflowers dot the stove, steam snaking out from beneath the lids. The kitchen smells like heaven. Like garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs.
“I already made you a plate,” Penn calls from down the hall.
All the research in the world couldn’t have prepared me for a Penn who eats in the formal dining room. Most of the meals we’ve shared have been consumed while sitting on counters or barstools.
“Who even are you?” I ask, rounding the corner.
Never mind. This Penn isn’t so different.
He sits at the head of the long dining table, still wearing nothing but his gray sweatpants, now with my yellow polka-dot scarf tied around his neck. Smirking, he tugs at it with two fingers and says, “I was inspired.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?”
“You. Many times.”
I roll my eyes and sit beside him, where my plate is already piled high with spaghetti and meatballs. He’s lit a tall pillar candle and poured us two glasses of red wine. If I didn’t know anybetter, and he weren’t wearing a scarf-bib, I might be fooled into thinking the whole setup was romantic.
“This is so nice,” I say, reaching for the wine. “Is there a catch? Did you poison it?”
“Just a healthy sprinkling of arsenic.”
“Yeah, right. You’re not the murder type. You can’t even handleScream.”
He arches his scarred eyebrow. “Have to earn my keep around here somehow. And I couldn’t let you eat Gushers for dinner.” As he twirls his pasta, he asks, “Recognize this dish? It’s one of Ryan’s recipes. From his old blog. I still revisit that thing for ideas.”
A buzzing fills my ears. One, because Penn reading Ryan’s old recipes is so sweet that I don’t know what to say. And two, because I’d completely forgotten about my brother’s short-lived cooking blog.
“It’s interesting,” I say, tiptoeing through the conversation. “How Ryan pursued it.”
Penn beams. “I’m so proud of that guy. He’s worked so hard, and he really did it all his way, you know? Finding restaurants that fit him, climbing the ranks.”
I nod, speechless. I can’t get over how different my brother’s life looks here. Penn, Bridget, my parents—their lives seem to match between worlds. But not Ryan’s.
Maybe it’s because my choices affect him the most.
Of course they do.
We grew up defined by the Ruby-and-Ryan Venn diagram everybody used to compare us. Our parents, friends, teachers, coaches. Strangers who met us on the playground. They pointed out what was only me, what was him, and where we overlapped.That’s the lens through which I’ve been perceived all my life. Sometimes I wished I could stand on my own, but mostly I found it grounding. I was always connected to something—to him. He was the mirror through which I could see each piece of myself reflected and refracted.
Here, though, I don’t know Ryan. I’m untethered. And I’m facing one impossible, unknowable decision after another, in a world with consequences I’m not entirely clear on.
I take a very long sip of wine.
Penn fills the silence with work talk, relaying his pitch for new hours. Meanwhile, I shovel in forkfuls of absolutely delicious pasta, trying to settle my nerves.
The thing is, I know Penn. I know the small bump on his nose is from a line drive to the face in middle school. I know he used to be self-conscious about all the scruff along his jaw, which showed up earlier for him than it did for other boys. I know his eyes have always crinkled when he laughs, but only recently started to crease in the corners with every expression.
