Page 19 of Love is a Game

I cling to him, spilling tears, snot, sadness, and tragedy all over his pale blue shirt.

“I have no happy memories of her.” I heave out the words between sobs. “The only remote one is being sick! And I was delirious! Maybe I even imagined it. She never loved me, Tuck. I’ll never hear her say she loved me.”

“Oh, Pen.” Tuck pulls me closer. “Of course, she loved you.”

“How could you know that?” I rasp.

“Because—” He tilts my chin, his eyes imploring. “It’s impossible not to love you. Okay? Besides, that’s not the only time she showed it, Pen. I have plenty of memories of your mother too, you know.”

I gaze up at him. Tuck’s intent face, his blue eyes soft as he strokes my hair. Tuck…a witness to my life from so long ago, over so many years. Could he really have that kind of gift for me? A memory of my mother I’ve forgotten?

“Agoodmemory?” I question, hesitantly. “Not like when she yelled at us for trashing the kitchen or dumping our bikes on the front lawn? Or for the Zig-Zag papers she found in my pocket when she guessed we’d tried weed?”

“Nope.” Tuck gives me a gentle smile. “It’s a good one.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” he assures me. “It’s from the day I broke your nose.”

Chapter 7

Tuck

I doubt she’d admit it, even to herself. But beneath the free-spirited, colorful facade, Penelope believes in rules. In absolutes. Not shades of gray—black and white. Right or wrong. Nothing in between.

Penelope is all about saving the world, one good deed at a time. She’ll go out of her way to recycle, buy secondhand, ride her bike instead of driving—like she can tip the scales just by making the right choices.

It’s admirable, but not anything I can buy into seriously. Because I’m a realist.

Just like the fashion industry’s sustainability narrative. Every other top brand brags about using dead stock—those piles of leftover fabric hoarded by middlemen from overproduction, printing errors, or missed deadlines. They claim they’re saving it from landfill.

Please. That fabric’s never getting buried; it’s too valuable. Using it lets companies dodge safety standards on new materials and avoid paying for actual eco-fabrics. Polyester isn’t such a vile synthetic once you slap “reclaimed”on the label.

Penelope believes in the good she’s doing. There are no cracks in her conviction. And maybe that’s what gets me—how she sees things so clearly, so purely, when all I see are the loopholes.

Because there is no truth. Onlyperspective. Debating taught me that in spades—to tune into the experiences of others to make a strong point.

Like the time I had to argueagainstthe patriarchy.

I’m not so arrogant to claim I understand the female experience. But structurally? The math is simple. Men hold more power, so they make the rules—which align with their needs. So, if men gave birth, the world would look different.

Paid parental leave? Unlimited. Sanitary products, birth control, formula, childcare? Free and accessible. Every public space would have plush breastfeeding hubs with flat screens and refreshments.

It’s not radical, it’s just the way life is—those who own the narrative get to make the rules. And those who make the rules—win.

And winning is important to me. I’ve always been a bit of an asshole like that. I never saw honor in losing. If I could shape the game, I would. Ido.

Which is how I came to break Pen’s nose.

She doesn’t know about the fallout of that incident because her mother swore me to secrecy. And I can definitely be a prick sometimes, but I’m still a man of my word.

Except circumstances have changed. Pen’s mom is dead. It doesn’t exactly release me from my promise, but I figure her reasons for secrecy are well past. And why leave Penelope in agony, thinking she wasn’t loved?

The whiskey is exactly where Pen said it would be—the kitchen’s uppermost shelf, in a ceramic vase. I grab it and pour us both a generous nip. Then I sink onto the sofa beside her, feeling sure that sharing what I know is the right move. Because Pen’s memories are cut and dried. She sees all the bad, almost none of the good. And the way that extends to believing her mother didn’t love her? That cuts deep.

“She didn’t,” Pen insists again, her voice ragged, resigned. “She wasn’t a terrible mother. She was practical. And she did what was necessary. But never truly loved me. I don’t know what you could possibly say to change that. I’ve been sitting here trying to think of one time, just one, where she actually showed it. And I can’t.”

“That’s not true,” I assert, turning my body to face hers, angling my arm over the back of the sofa. “I know for a fact your mom loved you. Fiercely.”

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