Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

Ugh.

“I wonder if she even knows his middle name,” I say.

“That’s random as hell.”

“Not really. My mom is detonating her marriage over a boy toy that she knows nothing about.”

“Maybe she does. You don’t know that.”

I slow blink. “She doesn’t. Trust me. She’s seeing her name in lights right now, and that’s the only name she’s worried about. I’m not even shocked. This was another decision based on what’s best for her.”

Harper bites her lip. “Do you want a drink?”

“Actually, yes.”

She scoots her chair back and heads to the kitchen. While she preps a rum and cola, I think about the bomb that’s been dropped in my lap.

Should I call them? Should I care? Is Dad okay?

Dad left Mom once. That’s what landed me in Dogwood Lane the first time.

Harper places a drink in front of me before taking her seat again.

“You know my sister will love this,” I say. “The sympathy she’ll get when this hits the magazines will fuel Oakley’s fire for days.”

“I wish I could say that’s not true, but you’re right.”

She takes a drink as I twirl my cup in my hand. Being away from that life even for just a couple of weeks is enough to make it seem even crazier.

“Sometimes I think the ‘anonymous source quoted with insights’ is her. I know it sounds bizarre, but I believe it’s possible.”

Harper slides her plate back in front of her and lifts a piece of garlic bread. “Okay. Let’s change subjects.”

It’s no wonder I love this woman. She gets me. She knows I’m not ready to talk this to death. Besides, what is there to say?

“To what?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Anything is fine with me.” She crunches through the bread and watches me, crumbs dropping onto the table. She grins. “By ‘anything,’ I really mean Penn.”

Just hearing his name makes me relax. Instantly, I imagine his laugh and feel the energy that ripples off his body.

Over the last few days, it’s been harder and harder to toe the line with him. I haven’t forgotten my reasons for keeping him at arm’s length. He’s still adamantly in the “don’t want more than a fuck-buddy” camp. It’s just that when I see him be kind day after day, watch him work with an attention to detail that most people don’t give a crap about, and witness how he treats his friends and those he works with, it’s hard to remember all the reasons for staying away. Harper was right—he’s a great guy.

“Penn is . . . Penn,” I tell Harper. “I don’t know what you want to talk about.”

“We can start with the smile you got as soon as I said his name.”

“I . . .” I start to argue with her, but I can feel my cheeks ache. “You were right about him.”

“In what way?”

“He’s nice.”

“That’s it? ‘He’s nice’?”

I laugh. “What do you want me to say? I mean, I didn’t expect him to be all the things he is. There’s a lot more to Penn than I imagined. It’s like . . .” I think about how to say it. “He’s like a mural that the longer you look at it, the more interesting bits you find.”

I think back to the stories about his dad. Why the fish on his arm is so important to him. All the things he knows about Dogwood Lane and the love in his eyes as he speaks about the town in which he was born.

The way he ribs Matt and the respect he has for Dane, even if he calls him a dumbass at least once a day.

His smile pops into my head as he tells me about cutting Claire’s hair in preschool and ghost-hunting with Matt as a little boy. And the dice tattoo. The damn dice tattoo. It occurs to me that I know more about him than I did my best friends in LA.

A chill races over my skin as a realization hits me out of left field.

My stomach sinks.

A lack of respect is what’s taking down my parents’ marriage. It’s the root of why I left California. I tout that I want something real all the time in all aspects of my life. Penn heard me, and he’s volunteered sensitive information about himself to forge a friendship with me.

I haven’t even respected him enough to tell him we slept together—a piece of considerably more important information that I would be pissed if he held back.

“What’s wrong?” Harper asks.

I shift in my seat and stare blankly at the wall. “I just had an awful realization about myself.”

“What kind of a realization?”

My attention lands on my aunt. The concern on her face melts a little of the anger I feel—anger at myself. I sink back in my chair and sigh.

“You know, it always hurt my feelings when my mom would forget the things that were important to me. My ballet recitals or parent-teacher conferences. She even missed me walking across the stage for graduation. She got there twenty minutes late.”