Page 67 of In For a Penny
I always get massive migrainesthe day after I’ve been crying a lot. The pressure is killer, and my eyes always hurt for a day or two after. It’s a nightmare. It’s like the universe’s way of kicking me when I’m down.
Oh, Penny, you’re sad? Let me give you a crippling migraine that will make you basically nonfunctional for the rest of the day.
When I wake up the next morning, alone in bed, it’s exactly how I feel. Nonfunctional. Out of office. Not here. Adios. Speak tomorrow when my brain is back to working condition and it’s recovered from beingmindfuckedby last night’s new information. Claire and Austin together. A couple. Some friend I have. And what a waste of time Austin was.
But I had figured that last one out already.
I stare up at my bedroom ceiling and think about my next move. I refuse to wallow in self-pity. I refuse to cry again over this unholiest of unions, because I realize that most of the grief I’ve felt is really just about what the breakup means for me and my future. But you know what? The possibilities are endless now. Because I don’t have to go back to New York at the end of my master’s if I don’t want to. And I don’t have to stick to the plan I had set in motion for myself.
Endless possibilities.
I could stay in the country after I graduate, move permanently to London, find a job, and carry out my life here. I could marry a British guy and have babies with bad teeth. I could switch from coffee to tea. I could permanently trade Whole Foods for Waitrose.
I could do a lot of things.
Right now, however, I want to stay in bed just a little longer, just enough to rest my eyes some more before having to leave my room and facing the expression on Allie’s face. I’m sure that she’s already heard what happened through the grapevine by now.
But then I smell the seductive scent of breakfast: eggs, sausage, and the faint hint of maple syrup. My stomach grumbles.
Traitor.
I was hoping to stay in bed all day today, but alas, my stomach has other plans for me.
I get out of bed and check myself in the mirror. Utter shit. Bags under my eyes, hair a mess, face splotchy. Thank God Oliver left already—although,how rude. Not even a goodbye? Whatever. I’ll text him after I shower.
I walk toward the bathroom but stop dead in my tracks. Allie and Oliver are both seated at the kitchen table, having breakfast.
“Morning, darling. How are we feeling today?” he asks with a smile.
“Super,” I say bitterly and confused. I thought he left.
“Well, you look super!” Allie says cheerily, forced smile shining.
I walk toward them and narrow my eyes. “Scrambled eggs with chives? Breakfast sausage? French toast? And…” I sniff the juice in Oliver’s glass. “Is thispassion fruitjuice?Jesus, you guys must really feel sorry for me. Did you really go all the way to the Caribbean Market this early on a Friday morning for this?” I can’t believe them. I’m half-touched, half-annoyed. Am I really that pathetic that they had to go to all this effort to make me feel better?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Allie says innocently.
“When did you even have time to do this? Or plan this?” I ask. They’ve bonded. I can see it in their expressions. Oliver is easy to like (and dislike), but once he’s in, he’s in. And Allie has just discovered Oliver. I smile a little at their new friendship.
“It’s half-past noon.” Oliver smirks. “We ran into each other this morning on my way to the bathroom, and I properly introduced myself. Then, we got to talking, and we decided to make a special breakfast—for no reason whatsoever,” he speaks the last part quickly.
I take the fork in his hand that he’s packed with egg and French toast and shove it in my mouth. “Mmmm, well, I appreciate the pity-brunch. It’s amazing. Well done. Truly.” I laugh and pull up a chair.
“I’ll get you your own plate,” Oliver says as I pour myself a glass of passion fruit juice.
“This is amazing. Thank you.”
Allie finishes the last of her French toast and rises from the table, taking her dishes to the sink and rinsing them before placing them in the dishwasher. She’s so efficient. I wish I were the type of person that could rinse a plate or mug after using it and put it immediately in the dishwasher.
I’m not like that. I’m a stacker. I stack plates in the sink like Jenga pieces until there is no more room and I am forced to run the dishwasher.
Another sign that I’m not the best at adulting.
“I have to head out, but I’m glad you enjoyed the breakfast.” She kisses the top of my head. “Claire’s a bitch. Take a shower.”
“Thanks.” I smile at her and take another sip of the golden deliciousness that is passion fruit juice. I wait until I hear the door close behind her before I turn to look at Oliver.
“I need you to set me up on a date with someone.”
