I’ve always been fluent in Penn, a known variable.
Not here, though. Not when that skill might finally be put to good use.
So I need to get creative. Because, frankly, I’d rather dive into the aquarium and lock lips with all thirteen of my pet fish than try to convince Penn to fall in love with me, but if he’s going to be my “other half” in this world, then I need to connect with him.
It isn’t just my reality at stake. MASHland has made it clear: My choices have consequences. Not just for me, but for Ryan, too.
“What?” Penn asks, his eyes searching my face. He stops. “Oh.You think I’m a good cook, don’t you?” He smirks. “And you hate it. Don’t you?”
True.
But what I really hate is the gap between what I should know and what I don’t. So I set my fork down, clasp my hands on the table, and tell Penn, “I think we should start over.”
A clean slate. That’s what I need to feel like I have some sort of control here. No matter how many emails I read or old photos I look at, I’ll never fully catch up to who I am in this world, or who everybody else has become. I’m playing a game without knowing the rules. And I refuse to end up trapped here, dressed like an extra in a Disney Channel Original Movie.
“We should startwhatover?” Penn asks.
“I want a clean slate,” I explain. “For you and me.”
An even playing field. A new beginning.
Penn pauses, napkin pressed to his mouth. When he finally sets it down, his lips slide into a grin. “You just want me to forget about that negligee, don’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “No. I want you to forget the last, say, eighteen years? Give or take?”
“Wow.” Penn lets out a surprised laugh. “That’s very…specific. Why do we need a clean slate again?”
“So that we can survive temporary cohabitation.”
He considers it for half a second, then shakes his head. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
Penn shrugs. “Sorry, Wynne. I don’t know if I can agree to that. Think of all the precious memories we’d lose. Like the day you drove me to the dentist and nearly killed me in your manic attempts to turn off the windshield wipers. Or the time you askedme, dead serious, whether a Sausage McMuffin was a real thing or a euphemism.”
A laugh rockets out of me. “I did not ask you that.”
His smile falters. “How do you not remember that?” He clocks my distress. Quietly, he says, “You’re serious about this.”
“Yeah. I am.”
His lips purse as he studies me. “Okay, then.” He clears his throat, extending a hand as he unwinds my scarf from his neck. “Pennjamin Hayes.”
I snort. “Pennjamin?”
He lifts a shoulder. “New start, new name.”
My smile returns, my chest lighter now that I’ve convinced Penn to start over with me.
But as the candlelight shimmers across his face, I remember catching his eye across the sticky bar table on my birthday, and some small voice tells me:Careful what you wish for.
Stop knocking on the wall.
It’s Morse code.
You don’t know Morse code.
I do. I’m self-taught via Google.
