Page 31 of If Our Hearts Collide

While everyone in high school and college craved the feeling of being behind the wheel, I was too spoiled with my brothers basically hiring a personal driver to tote my ass around town.

It never really bothered me that I wasn’t driving—until now. If I want to keep off my brothers’ radars in every little thing I do, then I need to prove to them that I can handle my own life.

Rolling off my bed, I make my way into the bathroom and start the shower to heat up. I have plans to meet Angie and Claire at the Plus None offices for brunch. It was a last-minute idea that was coordinated the night of my birthday party. Knowing how amazing these women are to me, I couldn’t say no, even though I’m pretty sure I know the nature of this meeting.

I slide out of my pajamas and step under the hot water. Steam billows out around me, making my skin tingle.

I know the girls would love for me to come work with them, but I just am not sure I would be the right fit. I haven’t modeled in a long time, and when I did, I’m not even sure I was good at it. Maybe everyone was just telling me what I wanted to hear in order to manipulate me.

That’s what Mark did.

Or perhaps Angie and Claire feel obligated to include me in the business for the mere fact that I am family.

I don’t need a pity invite. I want to genuinely be considered—and to actually feel like I’m good at it—before accepting any offers.

I crave the rush that comes from being passionate about something and actually miss the invigorating feeling of belonging and having a purpose.

I squeeze strawberry shampoo into my palm, rubbing my hands together vigorously to work up a lather. I massage my hair with the soapy foam, working my scalp.

I can’t believe I’m twenty-two years old. It seems like just yesterday I was so pumped to turn eighteen. Then the thrill of turning twenty-one was lost in the commotion. Now I am a year past that and more excited than ever to face challenges head-on, to take risks, and to prove to myself that I can live again.

I scrub my face with a sugar and honey mixture that I made using a recipe I found online. I’m not that big into organics like Claire is, but there is something special about putting together homemade ingredients. The scrub smells incredible, coupled with the backdrop of strawberries lingering in the air.

After I rinse completely off, I towel myself dry and throw on a skirt and a floral tank. I add some curl gel to my fingers and work it through my hair. I accessorize my outfit with strappy heels, some jewelry, and a pair of sunglasses. By the time I get to Hoffman Headquarters, my hair will be dry and hopefully not a frizzy mess. I wrap a hairband around my wrist just in case.

I exit my room, making my way downstairs to find Momma.

“Good morning, Penny,” she greets with a warm smile. “Well, don’t you look lovely. Going somewhere fun?”

“Hey, Momma. Yeah, I have a brunch date with Angie and Claire at Hoffman Headquarters.”

She gives me a nod, glancing at her phone. “Did you call for a ride yet?”

“No. I was about to.”

“No need,” she says.

“Why…?”

“Because you don’t really need to.”

I curl and uncurl my toes. “But why, Momma?”

She looks down at her phone again. “Because Collins is almost here. Graham just texted me.”

I let out a sigh. Seriously? “Welcome to the start of the micromanaging,” I grumble. “Courtesy of my brothers.”

“You know those two would move heaven and earth for you.”

Guilt stabs at me, forcing my shoulders to slump. “I know that. I just”—I push my wavy hair back over my shoulders—“want to do things my way. Without…”

“Interference?”

“Exactly.”

“It’s been a very rough time when you were gone, Penny. We are all still adjusting. Some of us just have a different way of dealing with the pain of wondering what if. So, please give your brothers some prevenient grace. They know you are unable to drive right now, and in the meantime, they have Collins available to give you a lift.”

“I guess I should thank Graham for the ride.” I try to leave the sarcasm out of my tone, but it seeps in anyway.

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