Page 127 of Love is a Game

I can’t afford to get ahead of myself. Not without something solid.

So I take a breath.

“Let’s start by fixing your business.”

Chapter 37

Penelope

It’s bad.

Way worse than I anticipated.

So bad that the panic is clenching at my intestines like a fist. Like, I might actually throw up.

It goes beyond the studio.

Now that I’ve finally opened all my neglected emails, I realize my apartment’s caught in the price hike, too—up twenty percent. Twenty percent! Is that even legal? Holy hell.

I stare at the spreadsheet bleeding red across my screen. Where the hell am I supposed to find the money for another year?

My fingers automatically search for the band on my wrist. Gosh, it probably wasn’t even the knife blade to blame for its demise. More likely, those threads unraveled under the weight of my constant negativity.

Shit. I always knew I was an emotional mess. But I had two things going for me: my business and New York. Or so I thought.

This is what you get when you ignore financial statements for months on end. My whole life is slipping through the cracks.

What would Mom think of this disaster? The apartment she bragged about, the one she sent photos of to Dad and his wife as proof I’d made it, potentially gone. The business she always said I was too sharp to let fail? Crumbling under the weight of my own blind ambition.

Turns out that eco-fabrics and noble mission statements don’t pay the rent. And if I lose the apartment, what then? Do I downsize? Move to a cheaper neighborhood? Find some cramped little box where I can pretend I don’t see the walls closing in?

The thought of scouring the city for a new place, of signing away my independence in exchange for something lesser, something less me—is completely, utterly soul-crushing.

I push off the seat, pacing the hall, arms wrapped tight around my chest. So stupid. So irresponsible. How could I have been so blind, so reckless, to let things spiral into this financial avalanche?

I stalk into the kitchen, pour a glass of water with shaky hands, and stare out at the house next door. Keith is outside, watering their yard, his gaze fixed on Mom’s precious dahlias. Their drooping stalks and unhealthy hue make them look about how I feel.

Keith lifts his head as I wander aimlessly outside, my shoulders slumped, my grip tight around the glass.

“Might need staking,” he says, nodding toward the sad-looking dahlias. “Caitlyn used to clip them ‘round this time of year—said it’d help them bloom stronger.”

I glance at the garden. The overgrown flower beds, the patchy grass. Somehow, it feels like a tragic metaphor for my entire life.

“Yeah…” My voice is hollow. “I’ve kind of neglected everything. She wouldn’t be impressed.”

Keith studies me, his weathered face full of quiet patience. “Penelope,” he says in a firm voice, “you came back here and handled things nobody ever wants to face. You did right by your mom. She’d be nothing but proud of you.”

I straighten slightly. Is he serious? Does he have any clue how much I’ve messed up? That his son, his amazing, steady, patient son, deserves so much better than the emotional whiplash I’ve put him through?

And despite everything, Tuck is striving to handle my tanking business, unaware how far my fuckups extend. Not yet knowing my apartment will soon be gone, too. That I’ll be dragging my things to some grim little dive in Tremont where I’ll have to triple-bolt the door at night.

“That’s nice of you to say, Keith,” I mumble, picking at a faded, limp leaf. “But I’ve—I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” The words spill out, unchecked. “I don’t know what direction I’m going in, what I want. And I put everything into my work, but only the creative side. I let the business part of it fall apart, which Mom would be so disappointed about. She always said to budget and never overextend. She didn’t even own a credit card.”

Keith’s thick eyebrows pull together in an expression of sympathy I don’t deserve.

I let out a hollow laugh. “And I’ve ignored people. Important people. I’ve hurt them because I was too wrapped up in myself to consider their needs. And then—” My breath catches. “Then I decided I could be a mother. As if I have the slightest clue what it takes. What the hell kind of credentials do I have to be a parent?”

Keith sets down the hose, rubbing his hands together. “You know,” he says, looking over the garden thoughtfully, “I do a lot of research on how to support my students. And this one concept stuck with me—because after decades of teaching, I think it’s dead-on.”

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