I stop, and we both turn at the sound of my front door closing, expecting to find Penn.
But it isn’t Penn who walks out of the mansion.
“Who’s that?” Ryan whispers.
“No idea,” I say, flummoxed.
We stare, open-mouthed, at the short, blushing redhead who waves shyly to us as she walks down my porch steps and across the driveway, a brown bag slung over her shoulder. Her car is parked in the street, and when she gets inside, Ryan lets out a surprised laugh.
“Damn.” He shakes his head. “Penn’s really making himself comfortable, isn’t he?”
The mysterious houseguest drives away, and panic bubbles in my chest.
Who is she, and why is she here? With him?
Did she come over this morning? Or was that an overnight bag?
Maybe she’s the reason Penn leapt out of his seat when we got too close. Maybe she was with him all night. Right on the other side of our shared wall.
No wonder he didn’t knock.
I feel sick.
“You might need to establish house rules on sleepovers,” Ryan jokes, giving me one last hug as his Uber arrives. “And you definitely need to keep me posted on whoeverthatwas.”
I nod, dazed, as my attention shifts from Ryan’s car to the mansion. Slowly, I move to the porch, where I wait a few minutes for Penn to sashay his way outside next.
He doesn’t, so, with a ringing in my ears, I text him.
When are you heading to the diner? Want to go together?
Hey. Thought you already left.
I’m running behind.
I’ll meet you there.
“Running behind,” when really he’s trying to run circles around me. Penn thinks he’s dealing with MASH Ruby, but he’s dealing with me: a determined universe-hopper with a whole lot at stake. And this is a game I refuse to lose.
I need to find out what he’s up to. I need answers.
In a harried haze, I make a mad dash inside to grab my purse and the keys to my Jeep. Penn’s black Toyota 4Runner still sits in the driveway when I pull out. I park a couple blocks away, just around the corner, facing the mansion. And then I wait.
Here’s hoping the neighbor’s hedges are enough to hide my Crayola watercolor on wheels.
I sit still. I try to steady my breath. I tap the tiny disco balls hanging from the rearview mirror, watching their shiny reflections sway across the dashboard. The minutes tick by, and a Pink song starts playing. My thighs stick to the hot leather seat. My shirt feels too tight.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel, waiting, bracing, stewing over how much this has gotten to me. Penn is supposed to be only a means to an end here—a game piece—but I feel blindsided, like I did with Connor. I feel horribly, impossibly vulnerable, and I’m not sure what’s more humiliating: my current stakeout or the fact that I genuinely believed in the power of a tank top to alter a dynamic three decades in the making.
After eleven excruciating minutes, Penn backs out of my driveway. But instead of going toward The Disco Diner, he drives toward me.
“Shit,” I mutter, reversing farther around the corner.
My brain quickly cycles through excuses for why I’m lurking in the street like a private investigator.Can’t text and drive!Busy scrolling to start my day with the perfect playlist!Fortunately, Penn passes without seeing me, and as I trail him, I carefully maintain a three-car buffer, praying he won’t spot me behind him.
At the far edge of town, Penn pulls into a parking lot for a senior facility. I’ve visited the place often, actually, to see Connor’s grandma, and I assume Penn’s just turning around.
