Page 22 of Love is a Game

“You’re my much-loved, frenemy with benefits, who just cheered me up immeasurably. And for that, thank you. Seriously, thank you. Now…” She springs to her feet, brushing the conversation aside like lint off her sleeve. “Should we go see your parents? Your mom’s been amazing with all the arrangements at the funeral home. I really need to thank her.”

She’s already moving, her energy suddenly bright and unyielding, as if she hadn’t just ripped through the heart of my question and left it in pieces on the floor.

And I sit silenced. Still feeling the sting of her deflection, trying to regroup.

Because coming here wasn’t some noble decision—Ihadto. The idea of staying away felt unbearable. All because Stella’s comments about what Pen really means to me have been ricocheting around my head like a rogue pinball. No off switch. No escape.

Thoughts that hijacked my sleep, wrecked my concentration, chewed through all my carefully laid plans. Thoughts that gave me no choice—I had to take it seriously. Had to at least consider the possibility that this thing between us isn’t just about stolen moments and sarcastic banter.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s more. And maybe I’ve been an idiot who’s late to figure that out.

Meanwhile, Pen simply batted it away—a clean, decisive backhand.

So it’s on me to come up with a different approach.

The clock’s ticking.

And if I can’t change the strategy, I’ve already lost the game.

Chapter 8

Penelope

Hurt

Bereft

Yes. I really do hurt. A very deep and ugly hurt.

Bereft? A kind of strange, rarely used word that has sprung from the recesses of my mind to weave itself into the aching parts of me.

It relates to something lost. Taken.Stolen.

I guess that rings true since even my fitful sleep is filled with strange dreams of wandering through empty rooms searching for something I can’t define.

I mean, of course, it’s about my mother. She’s dead. Gone. Swept from my life. I can’t even begin to verbalize what that actually means to me.

Even though it’s not like she was a part of my daily life or considerations. We spoke occasionally—on our birthdays and most holidays. I visited rarely. Thought about her now and again. She came to see me in New York just once.

Now, I’m back here. In the single bed from my childhood. Encased within the pastel green walls I painted as a teenager, adorned with old posters curled at the edges, and boxes of things from my past I can’t bring myself to look through. The only update to the room is the HP computer and stack trays filled with notebooks and documents on my old pine desk.

At some point, my bedroom became Mom’s study.

I picture her in here, perched on the worn tapestry cushion on the hard wooden chair, paying her bills, googling garden advice, perhaps? Reading up on who knows what…I couldn’t guess.

A woman I don’t even know. My mother. How can you grieve for someone you don’t understand? I can’t even hate her for leaving me like this, for dying before I could figure her out. How do you hate a stranger?

And these stupid therapeutic exercises. What’s the point of crossing through “hurt” with a red pen? What’s the opposite of hurt, anyway?Heal? Is that what I’m expected to do? To find some miraculous way to turn this ache into something softer, something positive? But how do you heal when the source of the pain is a void?

What else do I feel?Notcreative, that’s for sure. Usually, work is the answer when my emotions get fraught and tangled. Channeling my feelings into creativity, turning the chaos in my mind into something tangible and beautiful. But I’m the opposite of creative right now. Whatever that might be.

I idly tap that query into Google and get my answer:

“Creative has to do with new things coming into being: creative is the opposite of ‘destructive’.”

Huh. If I don’t feel creative, do I actually feel “destructive”? Well…I do feel strangely compelled to rip something apart. Like this house, stamped with my childhood and Mom’s whole life. With remnants of my grandparents—the cross by the door, the lace curtains by the kitchen window, the old facets and worn carpets.

And this room. I could raze all of it and feel no regret, only cathartic relief.

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