Page 33 of Devoted

“Laugh it up, swan.”

She cracks another egg. “How many are we supposed to do again?”

“I don’t know. She’s cooking for four and using ten eggs. Don’t the restaurant menus describe three-egg omelets or something?”

She pauses, her expression blank.

“You’re not a Denny’s girl?”

“Who’s Denny?”

I didn’t know either until I went on my first leave after I enlisted. “Not a who, swan. It’s a diner, but franchised.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t been there.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her we will have to go there sometime. Whose fucking idea was it to stand so close to her and try to make a fucking omelet?

I find the seasonings. I let Penelope finish cracking eggs. Ten seems excessive, but I’ve never had to cook for more than myself. We search the fridge for food to put inside our omelet. I chop ham and onions while she gets the pan heated up.

After we pour the egg mixture into the pan, she brings up one of the videos we watched together and props the tablet on a glass. We need that damn thing to finish the omelet. And when we’re done at the stove, our goopy mass doesn’t look anything like what’s on the screen.

Penelope shuts the video off. “Maybe we didn’t cook it all the way?”

“I don’t know. Parts of it looked a bit overdone.” It’s a mix of underdone, just right, and overcooked.

She chews her bottom lip. “I’ll try it if you try it.”

I give the pile a dubious look. “Don’t raw eggs cause food poisoning?”

Laughter bubbles out of her, and before I know it, I’m joining her.

She stops, her expression stunned. She brushes the backs of her fingers over my cheek. “This is the first time I’ve seen you smile.”

My grin morphs into a scowl. “I smile.”

Her flat stare reads everything I’m not saying. Performing the act of a smile is different from actually smiling. She’s been able to cleave to my heart with nothing more than simple movements and statements. Penelope cuts through the shit and makes me question everything I’ve done and why. Questions I’ve needed to ask myself for so long.

“I want to show you something.” What the hell am I doing? It’s not too late to take it back. But her expression is so expectant, so hopeful, that I continue. “Follow me.”

I lead her downstairs to the locked door that I know eats her alive with curiosity. I find the key taped underneath the weight bench and unlock the door. I don’t know what to do with the key, so I just leave it in the lock. I push the door open and flip on the light.

“You can go in,” I say gruffly without looking at her.

I can’t bring myself to look at what she sees, which is ridiculous. When I bought this house and had it remodeled, I specifically designed this room. The urge was strong, so I humored myself. I zoned out through the whole process until it was time to sign off on the impeccable work the contractors did. Then, I locked the door and never entered.

“This is amazing,” Penelope breathes as she wanders inside.

I finally bring myself to look up. I take in the high-quality polished floor. The barre that runs in front of the wall of mirrors. The bright lights that won’t leave one move obscured by shadows. My in-home studio is much smaller than Penelope’s studio, but it’s meant for one person. And that one person has never set foot inside.

“You might need to do some dusting or stuff.” I plunge a hand through my hair. I keep my hair longer than in my dancing days, much longer than in my military days, but I’d like to trim it. The only problem is that I’ll look too similar to my teenage self.

Penelope goes to the middle of the room and stretches her arms up high. She swings her working leg behind her and touches her toes to the floor. Relaxing, she shakes out her limbs. Her smile carries more wattage than any of the light bulbs. “This is just…” Her gaze meets mine and her expression turns solemn. “Are you sure, Cannon? I know how hard this is for you.”

She would leave, lock the door, and never talk to me about this room again. She would do it for me. Because that’s how special she is. Letting her use this room to feel like herself again, to heal from what Roman put her through, and to create the art that makes the world a beautiful place is the least I can do.

And maybe it’s one step closer to acknowledging that Penelope doesn’t remind me only of the bad things that happened. She’s resurrecting everything. Like how I used to use dancing to cope with the stress of performing. That before Karina died, she showed me what true friendship really was. That I can’t, and I shouldn’t, turn off the memories of faces and names that looked up to me and learned from me. Their love of both the art and the sport of ballet kept me going as much as my own. I’ve done my mother’s victims a disservice by trying to forget them.

Penelope

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