Page 3 of Love is a Game

Penelope

Tuck rises, rolling up his sleeves over his strong forearms. And I’m hit with a sharp pang of annoyance.

I missed my chance for another jab—because, naturally, his sharply tailored pants and perfectly fitted shirt are custom-made,notthe disposable junk he profits from.

Oh well, as my grandma used to say: “It’s all vanity and chasing the wind now.” Who cares if I missed an extra point? I already know my speech struck a chord because Tuck’s got that cunning look in his blue eyes like he’s actually invested in this debate, which otherwise he would have sleepwalked through just to boost his profile.

Now, I get to sit back and enjoy the show.

And what a show it is…Tuck is impeccably handsome—even more so with the ever-so-slightly crinkled shirt and disheveled hair courtesy of my roaming hands in the dressing room.

Plus, a perk of the expensive cut of his pants is how well they define his ass, of which I have an unobstructed view. And after our wild reunion backstage, I’m riding high on blissful endorphins, even if it cost me a broken nail and an almost very embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.

Tuck takes his time, narrowing in on the audience before directing a humorous look my way.

“Thank you, Penelope.” He dips his head with a charismatic grin. “Always a privilege to follow in your wake—even if it’s as full of crap as the Hudson River.”

The warm response to his quip and generous ability not to be more offended by my remarks work in his favor. Yet, I don’t feel in the least sorry about dissing his business model.

Tuck’s a skilled debater since high school—I’ve just given him something to get his teeth into. Besides, it really does cut deep that he deals in fast fashion when he could be doing so much more to address the industry’s vile impacts.

That topic is a constant wedge between us, along with everything else he stands for that I’m opposed to. Like his politics (mainly his inability to comprehend the issues with laissez-faire capitalism). And his poor choice of football team—I’m sure he roots for the Jets just to rile me! Then there’s the fact he sees nothing wrong with toasting a bagel (sacrilege!), his ridiculous habit of taking outdoor swims—inwinter, his hyper-organized approach toeverything…

And, the way he knows memuch toowell.

I guess that’s a given since he’s my oldest friend. Well, not really afriend.

Frenemy is probably more apt.

We’ve been passionate rivals since I moved in next door to him at eight years old. When Tuck’s perfectly normal family—high school teacher parents, manicured lawn, Sunday roasts, and summer barbeques—provided a constant and vivid contrast to my dysfunctional childhood.

As we matured to adulthood, that rivalry morphed into what we have today: frenemies with occasionalbenefits.

But that’s as far as it goes. Even though our strange relationship somehow sustains itself, while ouractuallove lives each seems to combust with a morbid regularity.

What we have, however the hell it can be defined, is a weird and warped connection that can never be more or less than what it is.

So what if our bodies fit together like a yin and yang symbol? That his hands on my skin, his breath on my neck, his whispered voice in my ear send me to places beyond the earthly plane? That he fucks me with an intensity that relieves the pain of every ugly truth buried inside my soul?

And so what if he’s finally ditched that honey-blonde pain-in-my-ass girlfriend who passes off her coke habit as “part of clubbing culture” instead of the pathetic excuse it is to escape her shallow lifestyle? She was never right for him.

Neither was Cathy-Columbus, the self-proclaimed travel expert who has been everywhere and done everything—just ask her.Or Flaky Fifi. Or Elena, duller than beige curtains. Or that sly, double-D backstabber who tried to sabotage our friendship in college.

This passionate, illicit secret we share—hidden even from our closest friends—never seems to fade. If anything, the secrecy keeps it alive, untouched by the mess of real life. By all the ways we don’t align. It never seems to matter that the world around us keeps shifting, or that we’re driven by different goals, wired in different ways. Somehow, against all logic, our strange, electric connection endures.

A round of applause—what did he just say?

“…leveraging economies of scale isn’t some Lex Luthor villainy; it’s Business 101.” Tuck addresses my earlier point with a fair amount of venom.

“And outsourcing overseas?” He questions. “That’s how my company achieves cost efficiencies that—guess what? Let us pay every single employee fairly, no matter their location. Can the Made in the USA crowd say the same? Tell me, what do American workers sewing every bead onto Met Gala gowns or couture showpieces actually earn for those hundreds of hours? Because I’m dying to know if that paycheck screams fair wages—or exploitation in fancier packaging.”

I suppress a little smile as he gets more animated.

“You set the trends, then blame someone else for catering to the demand you created!” he spreads open his hands. “This is America—everyone deserves to feel like a million bucks in clothes that reflect who they are.”

Typical Preacher Tuck. Now he’s calling out half the room for their false virtue.

Seriously, he thinks he’s so different from his school-teacher parents, but give him a debate topic and everyone listens up like a class trying to avoid detention.

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