Page 34 of Love is a Game

And now? The company runs itself. The structure is solid. A board of directors, executive and senior management teams, global distribution. Expansion isn’t even the goal anymore. It’s about maintaining market share and staying ahead of trends just enough to keep us relevant. But not so much that we lose what made us successful in the first place.

I should feel accomplished. I should feel something. But instead, I keep circling the same question—what’s next?

That’s the thing about reaching the top. There’s no higher peak, no clear path forward. Just a plateau where everything is stable, profitable, predictable.

All my success, for what? For who?

I look at my parents with their happy, fulfilled, relatively simple life. Then there’s Mason—about to be married. Brady’s building a future with the mother of his child. And I’m proud of them. Sincerely. But it also makes me feel the absence of something I can’t ignore anymore.

Brady’s really stepped up—fatherhood. It’s got me thinking. Is that what I want a chance at, too? To have the privilege of raising a child? Someone to teach, to watch grow, to pass on what I achieved?

But it’s a slim hope. My track record with relationships isn’t good. Never going the distance. As soon as I’m deep enough in to even have those conversations—marriage, kids…the future…it inevitably falls apart. And I know why.

This ache. A hollow space success never filled. Because the one thing that ever really mattered—the one thing I was always chasing, whether I admitted it or not—was her.

Pen.

I want her in my future. Ineedher in my future. But after everything—the choices we made, the paths we took—how do I make that happen?

Because whenever I picture the future, it’sherI see in it.

But this isn’t just about what I want. I can’t afford to mess this up. If I go all in and lose—if I hurt her, there’s no coming back from that.

Brady barely forgave me for that business move against Pen. If I screw this up, he’d never let it slide. But that’s the least of it. I could live with Brady hating me. What I couldn’t live with is knowing I did something to hurt Pen.

Because for all her tough confidence, I know she’s learned to deflect and keep people at arm’s length because of vulnerability. There is a part of her that’s more fragile than she lets on. Maybe more than even I realize.

Her childhood left dents in places she doesn’t talk about, cracks she’s spent years covering so no one can see. And if I push too hard, if I make the wrong move, I could be the one to tear them wide open.

So then what? Am I being selfish—delusional—to believe we could ever be more than this?

Do I walk away and convince myself she’s better off without me?

Chapter 12

Penelope

I try to describe the scene to Misha. Even as the memory arouses a horrible dragging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

My ten-year-old self, proudly rocking a red-and-white gingham blouse with snap buttons and an embroidered cowgirl patch on the chest. Paired with a white denim skirt and Keds—laces deliberately removed. I felt effortlessly cool.

Right up until I stepped into the schoolyard and Becky Kennedy laid eyes on me.

“Becky zeroed in like a fly to shit.” I plant my face in my palm as the shame rebounds from way back then. “She pointed—actuallypointed—and yelled: ‘That’s my old shirt!’ Her stupid friends jumped in, whispering, pointing. And then the chants started: ‘Penelope’s a dumpster diver! Penelope wears trash clothes!’”

Misha scrunches her face. “God, that’s awful! I never even considered how buying second-hand stuff in a small town means there’s a good chance you might know the person who donated it!”

“And I had no choice,” I explain. “That’s where Mom took me to shop. But I made damn sure nothing I bought could ever be recognized again,” I say, the indignity still swelling inside me.

“I slashed t-shirts, dyed them, ripped yokes off tops and skirts, and pieced them back together with other fabrics. Used offcuts of leather, denim, bias binding—anything to rework the look. I got creative.Reallycreative. Because no one was ever going to make me feel that small and pathetic again.”

Misha becomes quiet for a moment, then lets out a breath. “Wow. So that’s what started off your whole career? Isn’t it crazy how something traumatic can actually prompt you in a positive direction?” she ponders.

Then she must catch something in my expression because she backtracks instantly.

“Oh, god, Penelope, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to minimize what happened. I’ve just been on this whole kick lately—books about pivoting your outlook, embracing change, accepting stuff. Vivian keeps calling me out on it, like, ‘Misha, stop with the philosophy lessons.’” She sighs. “I may have become unbearable.”

“Seriously, no.” I hesitate. Then admit: “Actually, I rarely share personal stories like that. I just find you easy to talk to, I guess.”

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