Page 15 of Love is a Game

Me:Thought you were driving…

Pen:Kind of misplaced mine

I sigh, dig out my wallet, juggling bottles and sandwiches, snap the photo, and hit send.

Ten seconds later—

Pen:Never mind! Found it. In my makeup bag

Yep. Chaos in a chic camel-leather coat. Organization has never exactly been Pen’s strong suit.

Which is why, halfway to Blue Mountain Lake, when she brings up Mia’s wedding dress again, I’m worried.

Apparently the dress design is set, the boning and beading details in play. But something in Pen’s energy is way off.

And I know Pen’s no procrastinator…but she can overwork her designs and second-guess herself to the maximum limit of schedules.

I press her for more details. “Er—you got a thorough brief from Mia, right?”

Pen gives me a sidelong glance as she changes gears. “Of course! That’s why I went back to basics. I even pulled out my old tech books on design. I realized I had to completely remove myself from the equation. Like, it’s not actually about me at all, is it?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, Mia is the bride—it’s her day! I couldn’t approach this dress as I do my usual designs. This has to be deeply personal, right? Sure, Mia said I could let loose with my creativity and see what happens…but she also used words like ‘sensual’ and ‘nostalgic.’” Pen’s face twists like she’s tasted something bad.

She grips the wheel of the compact rental—a cherry-red Kia Soul with an interior that smells like synthetic lemon—shifting slightly in her seat as she focuses on the two-lane road ahead.

“And she specifically mentioned a ‘sweetheart neckline.’ Which makes sense—Mia’s got great tits,” Pen notes matter-of-factly.

The landscape opens up as we drive. The road flanked by endless green fields rolling out like patchwork quilts.

“So how far along is the actual production?”

“It’s practically done,” Pen’s voice wavers.

“Except?”

“Nothing, Tuck! It’s a perfectly acceptable, classic wedding dress, and seriously, Mia would make any dress look a million dollars, right?”

“Why are you so scared to put your stamp on it?”

Pen’s wide eyes flash white.

“Tuck—it’s not my thing! Where do I get off dabbling in romance and nostalgia and tradition?Huh? What do I know about any of that! I’ve done the best I can. There’s nothing wrong with the design.”

“Sure. Except Mia askedyouto design it, Pen. Which means she’s not after a generic wedding dress. And this is an opportunity for you to really showcase your unique talent. Why are you silencing yourself? Limiting yourself? Censoring who you are?”

We round a bend, and there it is—a symbol of our retreat from the city. A rusty green tractor lumbering along, a red triangle hazard sign bouncing on its back.

Pen groans, easing up on the gas.

She mutters something about tractors having no business on main roads as its massive wheels kick up dust.

We inch around the beast. Beyond it, the scenery expands—dotted with barns and silos, corn stalks rippling in the breeze—but that tranquility has zero effect on Pen’s emotions.

“What the fuck, Tuck? You think I’mcensoringmyself? I’m just trying to respect the damn tradition of all this wedding bullshit.”

“C’mon, Pen. You never fantasized about getting married?” I challenge. “Being in love, walking down the aisle, celebrating with your—” I quickly sidestepfamily. “Your closest people?”

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