Page 9 of Love is a Game

Her delicate, pale features don’t suit tanning beds, contoured makeup, or sun-kissed highlights. And she wouldn’t be caught dead in athleisure.

Pen defies Hollywood fashion norms. For all her creative designer clothing, her make-up is understated, her hair natural and undone, and her shoes have all seen their fair share of pavement. Her beauty lies in contradictions. Aloof yet authentic. Edgy but always effortless.

Love her? Yeah—of course, I do.

In lovewith her? Well, hell—that’s another question entirely.

How do you define a person who helped shape the core of who you are? Penelope’s smarts, her sass, her bravery challenged me, made me better. She’s always been a risk-taker, and since I was never going to let her outdo me, I had to push myself harder.

From marbles to board games, backyard baseball to pinball—we fought to beat each other at everything. My parents couldn’t get me to care about schoolwork, and Brady never gave a damn about grades, but if Penelope got a B, I wanted an A. She even got me to join the debate team in high school—because, of course, she signed up first.

And now, even as I check my influx of work-related messages and shoot off responses, my main concern is if she’s okay.

I power through a batch of emails, hit the gym, and unwind with a cold beer, holding off until evening before reaching out.

She’ll be holed up in her studio most of the day, completely immersed in designing her upcoming collection. And asking how she is? Pointless. She’ll brush it off with a curt, noncommittal answer that gives away nothing.

So, instead, I bait her.

With a photo of my dinner. Complete with a heavy sprinkle of random herbs to make my plate of roasted chicken and greens look vaguely artisanal.

Because Pen might love eating, but she hates food porn with a passion. And totally abhors the use of pointless garnishes.

Bingo. My phone buzzes within seconds:

Pen:Is this a *show ur single w/o saying ur single* challenge?

Those dried herbs CANNOT save this microwave tragedy.

Rating: ??

Then she sends a photo through—a Mexican burrito bowl sitting by Pen’s sketch pad on a familiar wooden table. The cluttered background confirms it’s her studio.

Okay—so she’s still at work. But at least I know she’s eating.

Pen:Challenge accepted. I raise u a room-temp bowl of disappointment, apparently seasoned w/ air

Me:Work done soon? Need company 2nite?

Her response is almost immediate:

Pen:Late one. Talk soon x

And there it is—Pen’s tactical retreat. I know she’s hurting, but the barrier’s gone up. As it always does when things cut her deeply.

I shove my plate aside and flop back against the couch. Is she really going to shut me out when she so obviously needs someone?

Her mom just died. I’m pretty sure Pen can’t face the fallout of that alone.

I consider the options. After all, I’ve spent my life one-upping Penelope Miller.

And I guess now is the time to dig in and strategize.

Chapter 4

Penelope

What a joke. I’m running late for my flight, stressed to the max, all because I wasted precious time on positivity exercises.

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