Page 5 of Love is a Game

“Yes,thatBen—the one I heard you threatened to castrate?” I tilt my head accusingly.

Tuck twitches with annoyance. “He needed an extra incentive to stay away from you.”

“Huh? Is this what we’re doing?” I ask, contrite. “Am I now supposed to warn Stella not to cross your path again, or I’ll liberate that poor miniature pooch she stuffs in her purse? Or dump her Daddy’s palm oil into the fuel tank of her precious Porsche?”

Tuck takes a breath and consults the ceiling—about as close to an eye roll as he gets.

“Well, it’s the same thing,” I argue. “Ben’s totally harmless! He was just messed up on all those protein boosters and steroids. He’s all about music gigs now—back reliving his twenties. Binge weekends with his DJ friends. Kind of tragic, but he’s into it.”

“Donottell me you’re hooking up again.” Tuck clenches his jaw.

“Ugh, are you kidding? I’ve lived those days.” I laugh. “With you, Brady, and Mason. When we were all newcomers to the city. Totally green country kids hitting the big smoke.

“Remember squeezing into that shared apartment?” I grin. “Getting wrecked for nights on end, then spending two days in hazy, hungover limbo with weed, bad bodega sandwiches, and intense Uno marathons?”

“Back when all we had to worry about was holding down a day job or submitting the odd assignment?” Tuck muses. “Things change, huh?”

I smile faintly. “I don’t know about that—you’re still the same smart-ass agitator you’ve always been.”

“Pot, kettle, much?” Tuck sniffs. “You love stirring controversy. And I don’t give a shit that you critique me. But you might want to rethink your vendetta on other people. Stick to generalizations, okay? Big business screwing up the planet is fair game, but naming names? That’s how you get sued for slander.”

I fold my arms, leaning against the vanity. “Like dissing the prestigious sponsor of this event, Tuck?” I remind him of his debate point. “Or like Stella’s dad—the palm oil tycoon? Is that what you’re worried about?”

“My point was hardly slander—it’s public knowledge,” Tuck argues. “But Stella’s father?Yes. And he’s just one of several influential people you’ve openly criticized.”

“So, what was the tipping point?” I flip things. “Did Stella finally realize you weren’t ready to spend your life on a yacht chasing a perpetual suntan? That you’re actually a workaholic, holiday-vibes-phobic, control freak?”

“You really want to talk about the relationship I just ended?” he challenges.

“No,” I admit, sullenly.

“Let’s move on.” His deep blue eyes hold mine. “When are we seeing each other next? Don’t say it’s not until Mason and Mia’s wedding.”

“I don’t even know if I’m going,” I reply abruptly. “Why on earth does it have to be in Blue Mountain Lake? Isn’t thebride’shometown the traditional choice?”

Tuck dips his head. “Because when Mason took Mia there and proposed, she totally fell in love with the place. Just like most people fall in love with where we grew up, Pen. Countless tourists and newcomers. Everyone other than you apparently.”

I tug at the red band on my wrist—a protective talisman againstMal de Ojo, the evil eye, gifted by a friend from Oaxaca. Except the bad vibes I need it to fend off are homegrown—no ancient curses required when I’m fully capable of manufacturing my own daily dose of self-sabotage.

It’s the same tired playlist of childhood insecurities, looping in my brain like a jingle from some insidious TV ad. Just when life starts feeling good, it chimes in with its usual refrain:You don’t deserve this. Don’t get too comfortable. It’ll all fall apart anyway.

“You have to go to the wedding,” Tuck insists. “I’m the best man—and you’re designing the wedding dress! Plus, it’s our gang, all together again: you, me, Brady, and Mason! How long since that’s happened? Don’t you wanna relive all the good times?”

“Moving to the city together was thegood times, Tuck—getting the fuck away from Blue Mountain Lake. Because that place? Oh yeah,suchfond memories,” I reply sarcastically.

“C’mon, Pen. It wasn’t all bad.”

“Tuck, you can’t speak to my experience. I’m not interested in revisiting all our hometown nostalgic crap, okay? This wedding-reunion-nightmare gives me heart palpitations at just the thought. Not everyone wants to relive their childhood trauma, you know.”

Before he can respond, my phone lights up. And that strange ripple effect I’ve sensed all week intensifies.

“Tuck…why the hell isyour mothercalling me?”

“Huh?” He leans forward, his casual demeanor shifting to alertness. “My mom? Callingyou?”

“Yes! Your mother is calling me!” I hold up the phone, dread prickling at my skin as if simply saying “Blue Mountain Lake” has pierced some invisible force field.

“Then answer it,” he urges, his voice tense.

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