Page 39 of Love is a Game

Pen folds her arms, defiant. “She never went anywhere besides home, work, and the grocery store. No hobbies. No interests. So where did all those messages come from?”

She yanks out her phone, scrolling furiously before reading aloud, her voice laced with disbelief.

“An angel on earth, fly high! I will never forget your warmth and compassion. Love, Angie and Paul.”

“You were my strength when I had no one. I will remember you forever. Minnie.”

“Caitlyn, your generosity and strong spirit kept me going whenever I wanted to cave. My heart is broken. Belinda.”

Pen looks up, her eyes burning with intent. “Whowasthis woman? Because that doesn’t sound anything like my mother.”

I can tell this isn’t going anywhere. “Pen, it’s been a long day. How about we clean up and you get some sleep?”

For a second, she looks like she might argue, still wired, still determined to press her point. But then her gaze drifts over the table. She pushes back her chair, considering.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Mom says firmly. “It’s an emotional time.”

We clear the table, and Mom retrieves the donated food from the freezer, despite Pen’s protests. Soon, I’m walking Pen next door, arms loaded with plastic containers.

“It’s ridiculous,” she mutters. “What ‘old friends’? Don’t you remember how mean those girls were to me in school?”

“I do,” I admit. “But no one’s at their peak in high school. Ever consider they might regret who they were back then, too?”

She shrugs, taking the strudel from my stack while I attempt to wedge everything into the freezer, packing as tightly as a Jenga set to fit it all in.

Meanwhile, Pen uncovers the strudel and pulls out a pair of shot glasses.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It’s tradition,” she declares. “You’re not allowed to eat strudel without whiskey shots. It’s the law in…Germany? Austria? Yeah, pretty sure it’s compulsory in Austria.”

“Or what? The strudel police show up and haul you away?”

Pen finishes pouring and raises her glass. “C’mon.”

I hesitate.

“Tuck, you’re a sophisticated guy—don’t be so culturally insensitive,” she chides. “No strudel without whiskey.”

“I haven’t eaten any strudel.”

She snaps off a wedge of pastry crust, leans in, and waves it over my lips. “Open.”

I do. And the sweet, tart fruit and buttery pastry melt in my mouth.

“And now the whiskey!” she commands.

We clink glasses. As I reach for a napkin to wipe my mouth, she points accusingly.

“Hey! Seven years bad sex if you don’t hold eye contact through the toast.”

I freeze mid-wipe. “That a fact?”

“Swear on my Austrian heritage,” she says solemnly.

“First I’m hearing of that. Aren’t most Austrians blonde and blue-eyed?”

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