Page 59 of Penelope in Retrograde

“It’s OK to have cold feet, you know.”

“I don’t have cold feet, and even if I did, it’s not any of your concern.”

“Whoa. Did I do something to offend you? None of this is making any sense to me.”

“I’m not offended, and I’m not obligated to make sense to you.” I pull on my cardigan and stuff my necklace into my pocket. “Let’s just drop the subject.”

“Come here.” He pulls me in close to hold me, but I step back. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I just want to give you a hug and tell you that everything’s going to be all right. Penny, I like you. I think you’re brilliant, and I hate to see you self-destruct.”

I don’t want him to “hate to see me self-destruct.” It’s too much pressure, because inevitably I will self-destruct, just as I always do when I’m home, and when that happens, I’ll have let him down too. Then he’ll look at me the way my parents and Phoebe do. He’ll look at me and think, What a shame. She had so much potential. If only she could’ve followed through. I can’t have Martin look at me that way. I won’t allow it.

“You’re a nice guy, Martin,” I force myself to say. “But I’m not looking for someone to comfort me or hug me or kiss me. I’m not self-destructing, and if I do at some point, it’s not your problem. I don’t need you to worry or even care about me. I just need you to be my fake boyfriend for one more night.”

I leave before I can take it all back.

I pour myself a glass of red wine in my father’s den before anyone notices me. My goal isn’t to get drunk. I just need to take the edge off. I need to blend in. Maybe I’ll have a glass and then ask Nana Rosie to take me on a tour of her greenhouse.

I pop my head into the foyer to see if I can spot Nana without blowing my cover, but the minute I do, Smith eyes me. Stupid Smith Mackenzie with his mud-wrestling air fryer of a girlfriend. I duck back into the den, but it’s too late. He’s standing in the doorframe within seconds, and to add insult to injury, slung over his shoulder is his leather travel bag. The same bag that had my engagement ring in it yesterday. Why the hell would he bring it here?

“I hope this isn’t too weird,” he says. “Sarah and me coming over, that is.”

As if I needed the clarification.

I open my mouth with the intent of saying It’s fine because that’s really the only appropriate response to a question like that. Anything else would make things awkward and uncomfortable, and my whole life, I’ve been trained to not make people feel uncomfortable when in my home. I’ve been taught that if anyone is to feel awkward or uncomfortable, it should be me.

I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to tell Smith exactly how much undue stress his invasion of our Thanksgiving has caused my family. I don’t need to be rude about it or uncivil. I just need to communicate the facts.

“You’re an asshole, Smith.”

Not exactly a fact and not necessarily civil, but it’s a vast improvement over some of the choice phrases running through my head.

“Huh?” He lifts his brow and leans forward as if he’s somehow misheard me. “Did you just call me an asshole?”

“Yes, I did.” I stand a little taller. “You’re an asshole, and I think you should leave.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Right now.”

His initial expression of confusion shifts into something in between wounded and annoyed. “I asked you this morning if you were OK with us coming over. You told us dinner was at seven. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I remember that.” I reach for the wine bottle and top off my mostly untouched glass. “And now I’ve changed my mind.”

“What am I supposed to tell Sarah? You want me to interrupt her talking to your sister and tell her that you’ve changed your mind and now we need to leave? That’s not right. You can’t just take back an invite after you’ve already given it, Penny.”

He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and something inside me pops like a champagne flute shattering on concrete.

“Why not? People take back things they give all the time.” I press my finger into his chest. “In fact, some people not only take things back, but they also give them away to new people. That, Smith Mackenzie, is not right.”

“What are you talking about?” He pushes my hand away. “You’re not making any sense at all.”

“I’m making perfect sense.” I lower my voice to a growl. “What isn’t making sense is you and that air fryer sitting in my dining room.”

“Are you drunk?”

“There you two are,” my mother says. She’s standing in the hallway holding a glass of something bubbly. “I’ve been looking all over for you guys.”

She glides across the den in her silk chiffon caftan. Her hair is done up in one of those big, sweeping updos that Southern women come out of the womb knowing how to do. Her makeup is bold and dramatic, which makes her look a little like a love child between Blanche Devereaux and a drag queen.

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