Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

When a few seconds pass and Penn doesn’t even blink, I figure I’ll break it down for him.

“Jasmine Perry from The Breaker Party. Cull and McGill,” I say, naming off a couple of her biggest movies. “Top Shelf.”

He nods slowly, as if the pieces of who she is and who I am are hard to fit together.

“I know. It’s hard to believe,” I say. “She looks like she’s twenty-five and is in better shape than me and—”

“She’s a picture on a screen, Avery. She doesn’t hold a fucking candle to you.”

It’s not the words so much but how he says it that stills something deep inside me. The genuine kiss of the words, the honesty in his tone assuages my anxiety over this whole conversation a bit—not to mention how amazing it makes me feel for him to say something that sweet. No one has ever said anything like that when it comes to comparing my mom and me.

“Penn . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Thank you’ works fine.” He grins. “So that’s why you were talking about not embarrassing her and people using you. Your mom is famous.”

“Basically.”

He folds his hands together and rests his elbows on his knees. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”

“I told you. I haven’t said much of anything about me and you have, and I wanted to even the playing field a little.”

“I’m not in this friendship for information.”

My throat tightens. “Then what are you in it for?”

He stands as if he can’t sit any longer. He moves aimlessly around the room. “I don’t know. You’re just really easy to talk to and not bad to look at.” He grins at the floor. “Really, though, being with you makes me feel like I’m seen. Like you don’t care that I allegedly blew a snot rocket into Mrs. Johnson’s gradebook my freshman year. And you don’t look at me and see the goofy guy that everyone knows I am.” He looks up at me with a hesitation that stops my breath. “You see the guy I think my grandpa told me I could be.”

My chest heaves as his voice starts to crack. “Penn, don’t you make me cry, you dickhead.”

He laughs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. A white streak of paint is left in its wake. “Now I feel like Matt, all pussified with feelings and shit. If you ever tell him I acted like this, I’ll deny it.”

“I would never,” I say with a laugh. “But you’re right. I do see a man that could be anything he wanted to be. You work harder than anyone. You don’t miss a detail, whether it’s when you’re building a wall or looking at sketches or listening to Matt tell a story. You’re kind and can be sweet and—”

“Let’s stop there. I’m starting to feel weird.” He makes a face.

I laugh. “Fine. But you get the picture.”

“One I’m going to try to forget,” he jokes. “So, your mom’s a movie star. What about your dad?”

“He directs movies. He hasn’t had a hit, though, in ten or fifteen years, which is why my mom called to tell me she’s divorcing him for a guy with better connections.”

“That’s harsh.”

“What? The way I said it or the way she’s acting?”

“Both, but I don’t fault you for it.” He runs a hand down his chin. “You and I are alike in a strange way.”

“How do you figure?”

“Both have fuckups for parents. Both turned out okay, more or less—more for you, less for me, but you get the idea.”

“Stop that,” I say, shaking my head. “You turned out great. Especially considering the circumstances. You have to stop all that negative internal monologue.”

He grins. “Did you hear that on a television show?”

“No.” I laugh. “I heard it from Harper, actually.”

He joins in the laughter, settling across from me again. There’s a sweet look of contentedness on his face as he studies me that warms my heart.

“So the objective here is for you to tell me things about you, right?”

“Basically. I mean, if you care.”

He nods like I’m crazy. “For sure, I care.” His face lights up. “I have an idea.”

“That scares me.”

“As it should.” He drags the rocker from the other side of the room and places it facing the sofa. “Here’s what we’re going to do because I don’t trust you at this point not to get all sappy because fun fact: I don’t do . . . that . . . well.”

I giggle. I fucking giggle.

“Okay,” I say. “What are we doing?”

“Rapid-fire questions that will satisfy your need to tell me things and my desire to know certain things in a painless and feeling-free kind of way. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good.” He gets settled in front of me. “Dog or cat?”

“Really, Penn?”

He sighs dramatically and looks at the ceiling. “Dog or cat, Ave?”