Rollerworld is unimaginative. But they’re doing something right.
I take one last look before I turn and leave. I’ve seen all I need to see, and I want to escape before Sloane spots the competition lurking in the doorway.
“Did you get what you need?” Connor asks when I settle back in beside him.
I meet his eyes and swallow down the lump in my throat. I think I need a hug. Connor’s hugs have always felt so safe and solid. Reassuring. But that wouldn’t be true here, and it wouldn’t be the case back in reality anymore, either. Everything is upside down and backward. Even me. “I don’t know,” I admit, glancing at the sign as we pull away.
“Well, what are you thinking?”
I don’t want to tell Connor what I’m thinking. Because I’m thinking about Penn, and the silly uniforms I’ve come to love, and the care with which Theo “alphabetizes” the holographic skates.
It isn’t rational, and maybe I’m just not thinking straight after a whirlwind of a sleepless night, and my ex showing up like a stranger, but I don’t want The Disco Diner to have that kind of depressing fate. I want to save it, neon lights and all. Only I’m not sure that’s possible, and as the game continues to break, piece by piece, I’m not sure I have much of a choice.
Connor kindly fills the silence with commentary about the weather and the perils of local construction timelines, two more of his favorite topics. When we reach my street, he parks in frontof the mansion and says, “We’ll keep in touch.” But then something dawns on him, a sunny smile taking over his face. “Actually, I’m heading out of town next week. So if I’m tough to get ahold of, I’m not ignoring you. I’m just trying to soak up New York in the fall.”
Halfway out of the car, I stop, gripping the handle too tightly. “New York?”
He shrugs. “An opportunity,” he tells me, still grinning.
It must be the same opportunity—the one from Scott the Douchebag. Surely that’s why Connor’s heading out there, and why he’s glowing just like Bridget did over her date with Ethan.
Two choices I discouraged.
Two people who look far happier without my input.
All I can do is lift a hand in Connor’s vague direction before I rush out of the car and into the rain. When I get inside, I lean back against the front door and close my eyes, willing the tears not to fall.
Connor looked like the best possible version of himself in that split-second mention of New York, and I want that for him. I want him to pursue that lightness. To feel it.
What’s nagging at me, though, is that I want to be the best version of me, too.
And I’m not quite sure who that is yet.
15
Ambiguous Footsie
I rush upstairs,taking the steps two at a time. Without a car, I need to hurry, or else I’ll be late for my meeting with Penn. In a half hour, according to the PENBY calendar invitation, he’s supposed to meet with Theo and me to share a streamlined process for inventory management, along with a plan for how to train the staff.
But I quite literally run into him in my hallway.
“Hey,” Penn says on a laugh, holding out his arms to steady me.
I stare up at him, out of breath. “Hey.”
He’s in his gray Curly’s T-shirt, his face inches from mine. I’m distracted by the soft look in his eyes. The naked affection in his easy smile.
My brain has a whole cornucopia of plights with which it should be concerning itself: the Jeep breaking down, the unnecessary pool party, if I should really refuse Rollerworld’s offer. My entire material existence. And yet, as Penn hooks a hand around the back of his neck, the way he always does when he’snervous, all my neurons seem capable of responding to is the blush crawling up his cheek, and the tendons in his forearm, and the memory of his hands tangled up in my hair last night.
Great. Perfect.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Penn’s smile slants. “Why are you drenched?” Reaching out, he tugs at my hood’s drawstrings. “You look like one of those little troll dolls entered a wet T-shirt contest.”
“I was going for drowned Care Bear.”
His laugh bursts out of him like confetti, bright and colorful, and I wish I could tuck the vibrant sound inside the pages of a scrapbook.
