The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

I fish a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and begrudgingly hand it to the man, who makes a show of giving me instructions. He tells me how to hold the mallet while encouraging the surrounding onlookers to heckle me.

I pull back the hammer, holding it behind me, and aim for the middle of the rubber plate.

The metal ball shoots up halfway to the bell, then falls back down unceremoniously.

Hmm. I know I can do better than this.

“Try to get it right in the center, babe,” Penelope encourages me from behind, picking at her sweet treat as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Three small prizes make a medium,” the man tells me with a smirk.

Three small prizes, my ass.

I rear the hammer back and smash the plate again. This time, I send the ball up three-quarters of the way, but I’m still unable to ring the bell.

There must be a trick to this I’m not aware of.

“Right in the center, babe.” I hear.

I nod. “Right in the center. Gotcha.”

Swiftly, I watch the center of the plate where I have to strike carefully—same as I would watch a baseball being pitched to me, the way I’d watch the bat strike the ball, keeping my eye on it the entire time.

Lo and behold, on the third try, the ball fires like a shot, striking the bell and ringing it loudly, much to the glee of my girlfriend, who bounces up and down like a child to celebrate my victory.

“I knew you could do it!”

The man isn’t as excited about my triumph, but he walks toward the wall of prizes, showing us what we’ve won—two mediums, one big, three smalls, or this, that, and the other thing.

“It’s not for me to decide,” I tell him. “She’s in charge.”

Penelope smiles, eyeballing the animals and the blow-up guitars. The blow-up hammer. The horrible blow-up aliens. She stares into bins of mini slinkys, yo-yos, and sticky hands, and plucks a small shiny object from obscurity, sliding it on her finger.

It’s a plastic emerald ring, and its green stone is surrounded by gaudy plastic diamonds.

“That’s it?” the guy asks. “You don’t want that big Daffy Duck?”

Penn shakes her head with a laugh. “No thanks. This is perfect.”

She holds her hand out, letting the fake rock shimmer in the carnival lights. “We can go now.”

“Oh, we can go now?”

“Yeah. I’m happy. We’ve had dinner and our fair snacks. Let’s go back to your place and get in our jammies and watch a movie.”

Penelope goes up on her toes so she can kiss me on the lips.

“Whatever you want, babe.”

I hadn’t wanted to come here anyway. I certainly hadn’t wanted to go on any rides, and I sure as shit don’t want to waste more money playing any more games.

“Let’s go.”

I wonder if she still has that ring.

She was so happy keeping things simple. She never wanted or expected me to buy her gifts—so on the rare occasion I’d buy her flowers (from the grocery store, usually) and surprise her with them, she would be over the moon as if I’d spent hundreds of dollars on them.

Everything happens for a reason.

I knew that now.

She is back in my life not just because the universe was pointing me in this direction with the dreams and the memories and the thoughts—but God had thrown a huge wrench in the reveal by presenting me with my daughter. Unexpected and shocking, to say the least.

Why now?

Why did fate choose now? These moments?

No one from above responds to me as I lie here alone, searching for the answers. Waiting.

Waiting for my mother’s voice.

Or God, whoever comes first.

It’s late, but I’m full of energy, so I pick up my phone and shoot Penelope a text. Perhaps she’ll be awake and in the mood to chat.

Maybe she’s got a lot on her mind, too. Maybe she can’t sleep.

Me: You awake?

Penelope: I am. Unfortunately.

Me: Today was heavy, wasn’t it?

Penelope: It was. I’m not sure I was mentally prepared for it, but I’m glad we went.

Me: It was time.

Penelope: It was…

There is a long pause before Penelope texts me again.

Penelope: I have a lot of regret, Jack. More than you know, and if I could go back in time and do it all over again, I’m sure I would do so many things differently.

Me: I didn’t text you to make you feel guilty. I texted you because I’m here, wide awake, doing a lot of thinking.

Penelope: I imagine you have. That’s all I’ve been doing, too.

Penelope: I am just glad you’re speaking to me. You would have been well within your right to shut me out.

Me: That’s true—but that’s never been my style. That’s never been me. I face things head-on, even when they suck.

Penelope: True. I’ve had to grow a lot because my first instinct is always to…run from my problems. I’m not sure why since no one in my family ever ran out on me.