Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “The lake, for sure, but you’ve got that. The old cannon in the park. Everyone in town has had their picture taken riding that thing at some point or other.” He grins. “The train trestle on the far end of town. It goes across the creek that feeds the lake.”

I scribble down his ideas. He goes back to cleaning up.

An idea comes to me slowly, more in feelings than in images. I watch Penn move around the room and notice how careful he is about everything he does. It’s not what I expected. At all. Come to think of it, he’s not what I really expected him to be, and I don’t know what to make of that.

I flush.

“Hey,” I say again.

“Are you bored or something?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you keep saying ‘Hey.’”

I slip my pad back in my bag and hoist it on my shoulder. “Forget it.”

“No. Tell me.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“Ave . . .”

“Stop calling me ‘Ave,’ by the way.” I don’t really mind the nickname, but I’m sort of embarrassed that he thinks I was pestering him.

He rolls his eyes, not taking me seriously at all. “Tell me now.”

“I don’t like being told what to do.”

He looks at the ceiling. “Fine. Please tell me what you were going to tell me.”

The way he says it is downright adorable. It’s a tongue-in-cheek, “I’m trying so hard to play your game” kind of way that makes me grin.

“I was going to see if you had plans tonight, but—”

“I don’t.” He says it immediately without even letting me finish. “I’m free.”

My stomach twists. I sort of just spewed this whole thing without really thinking about it, and now that he’s free, I realize what I might’ve gotten myself into. Not that spending time with Penn is a bad thing at all. It’s quite the opposite.

“Well,” I say, trying to settle my heartbeat, “I was wondering if this was an okay time for me to cash in my ticket?”

A look of pure bewilderment is slowly replaced with complete shock. “You mean to tell me that is gonna work?”

“It probably wouldn’t have except for the fact that I happen to need some help from someone who knows their way around.”

“Fuck, yeah. Let’s go.”

“Now?” I ask.

“You just asked me if right now is a bad time, and now you’re acting surprised that I’m—”

“No, you’re right,” I say, brushing an errant lock of hair out of my face. “I’m sorry. Yes. Now.”

He heads for the door and motions for me to follow.

Once we’re outside, he moves the bucket holding the door open and locks the building. I head to my car and deposit my bag. When I turn around, he’s standing behind me.

“It’s taking you long enough,” he says.

“It’s been two minutes.” I laugh. “I’m ready now.”

“Let’s go.”

Before I realize what’s happening, we’re shoulder to shoulder, going down the sidewalk.

The breeze rolls gently around us as we walk beneath a giant pine tree. The air is scented with the woodsy, citrusy smell of the trees. It settles some of the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“You didn’t bring your sketch pad,” Penn notes as we pass a bench.

“I know. Sometimes I think having it on hand when you’re experiencing something takes away from your creativity. It’s kind of the same thing as losing a moment because you’re trying to take the perfect picture for social media.”

“I don’t do social media.”

“Nothing? Not even one site?”

“Nope. If I don’t know you in real life, I don’t need to know you online. Besides,” he says, “I’ve looked at that stuff long enough to know it isn’t good for you.”

“How do you figure?”

“I don’t know. Have you ever logged off one of your app things and felt better about yourself? More motivated? Have you ever thought, even once, ‘Man, I’m really kicking ass over here’?”

I consider this. My timeline is full of my Los Angeles friends and their curated content of parties and events. Their lives look picture perfect, except I know the truth.

“True. But it makes it easier to check in with my parents and my sister,” I say. “There are good uses for it, you know.”

He just shrugs.

I take in his profile. His jawline is rugged and sharp. I’d venture to guess his nose has been broken at least once, but somehow it gives his face character. There’s a mole next to his nose that’s so small that I haven’t noticed it before. I wonder what else there is to know about him.

“Have you always lived here?” I ask.

“I went to preschool right over there.” He points to a little gray building with a faded rainbow sign. “I cut Claire’s hair one day. Oh, and then this other time”—he grins—“it was pouring rain. There was a dog in the play area outside, and I let it in. Want to talk about getting in trouble.”