Once again, I need to get a grip.
I move past him and head to my room, Penn trailing behind me. I make a beeline to my closet to grab my Disco Diner uniform, and only when I turn back and find him leaning his elbow against my doorframe, his biceps putting on an obscene show, do I realize that perhaps leading him to my bedroom wasn’t the best grip-getting strategy. At all.
“Are you okay?” Penn asks.
Rain pelts against the window. My mouth is dry. My brain is mush. “No.”
It’s the first time I’ve admitted to him that I’m not okay, and he looks at me thoughtfully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I clutch the uniform to my chest. “Not yet.”
He nods. “Okay.”
Penn waits a beat, then straightens, slowly closing the gap between us. He stands in front of me, head tilted to get a better look at me. I’m afraid he might kiss me—and that I’ll let him—but instead he lifts his arms and I sink against his chest.
It’s the hug I’ve been wanting. The affection I needed.
Physical touch.
Penn holds me to him, warm and solid, smelling like his citrusy soap and the Herbal Essences shampoo I used in seventh grade, and I smile into the soft cotton of his shirt.
This is the danger of knowing each other for so long. We have too few hoops to jump through. We can skip steps one through forty, because we can already read each other’s cues. Without thinking, we fill in the unspoken gaps. It’s like Bridget said: Penn and I have been laying a foundation for decades. Maybe even across universes.
Inevitable.
And it’s that memory of his words—their sincerity—that makes me back off.
“The Jeep died,” I say suddenly, meeting his eyes. They’re a light gray in the overcast afternoon light. “I was heading back from Bridget’s school when it broke down. It got towed.”
“What?” Penn’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t you call me?”
There’s no way to explain, so I just come out with it. “I had a meeting with my accountant scheduled anyway. Connor? Who we saw yesterday? So he picked me up.”
“On the side of the road?”
I nod, and Penn swallows, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes meet mine, searching, and I’m afraid of what they’ll find.
“Anyway,” I say. “I should get dressed. We need to get going. Theo’s probably waiting for us. Are you going to change?”
Cool.Now I’m rambling.
Penn’s still a little dazed when he shakes his head. “No. I already told Theo I can’t make it in today. Two guys called off at Curly’s, so we rescheduled our meeting for Sunday.”
“But that’s in two days.”
“I know. Sorry.”
Anxiety needles at my scalp. After talking to Connor and visiting Rollerworld today, I’m convinced I have to work more closely with Penn to turn the diner around. Not only because he’s my “other half” around here but also because he truly has the management experience I lack. He was right: Running a bar and running the rink really aren’t so different, and although I’ve listened to his suggestions, mostly, I’ve stubbornly criticized them.
When I got here, I had to do everything any way except Penn’s way. But now I think maybe what the game really needs is for me to consider both of our perspectives. The numbers, yes, but also the best ways to preserve what makes the rink so special in the first place.
I’m cautiously optimistic, but the clock is ticking. I’ve been here almost a week.
I must look forlorn, because Penn says, “I’ll drop you off, and I’m sure Theo can give you a ride home, okay?”
It’s not a ride I’m worried about. It’s the colorful sand I imagine falling through an hourglass. It’s that Penn’s schedule gives me hives. His time is divided among Curly’s, PennPals, and The Disco Diner. He’s the one who needs two versions of himself.
“It’s okay,” I say, unable to explain why every second makes a difference. “I’ll figure it out.”
