Page 68 of Penelope in Retrograde

“Anything. You name it.”

“We stay here with your family until we have to leave. I know you wanted to go back home for Christmas, but I like it here. Do we have a compromise, Mackenzie?”

He lifts me up and kisses me hard and deep. “We do, Mrs.Mackenzie. We have a compromise.”

The second he puts me down I know that we haven’t compromised. I have.

Chapter 20

I had no idea it was possible for me to hate Smith Mackenzie more than I already did, but here I am, halfway through the main course of dinner, and all I can think about is him choking on a turkey bone. I’m not saying I’d let him die at the table. I’m not a monster. I’m just asking for him to pierce a vocal cord so that he’ll finally stop talking about Dubai.

What’s worse is the man seems to have virtually no memory of the fact that I was there with him. It was one of the happiest times of my whole life—certainly the highlight of our marriage—and he has no recollection, or if he does, he has zero desire to ask me about it. That would be the polite thing to do when you’re a guest at your ex-wife’s home. It might not be Emily Post worthy, but it would definitely make Dear Abby.

When talking about the exotic vacation you plan on taking with your future wife while at your ex-wife’s Thanksgiving table, include the old ball and chain in the conversation so she doesn’t spend the entirety of the dinner plotting your demise. Also, bring a dessert or casserole.

“Penny, you spent some time with Smith’s family in Dubai, didn’t you?” my father asks. “If I remember right, you enjoyed the food. Maybe your mother and I should consider traveling there first.”

At least my dad remembers I went.

“Food was great,” I say as unenthusiastically as possible.

I grab my phone from the table and pull up the group chat with Falon and Phoebe.

Penny: Now would be a great time to share your news.

Falon: Nope

Penny: Why?

Phoebe: still 2 hi?

Judging by her grammar, I’d say Phoebe and Falon are more than just a little high. How long does a person stay high after smoking weed? Curse you, Nancy Reagan, for making me such a drug noob. I google it, which is about as useful as asking a Magic 8 Ball. There’s math involved, but the general gist looks like one to three hours.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s wrong?” Martin whisper-yells, attracting the attention of my mother and Nana Rosie.

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I just need to think.”

“About what?”

Honestly, it’s like sitting next to a five-year-old. It’s worse, actually. A five-year-old can at least understand tone and body language. Martin is painfully oblivious to the fact that I’m dangerously close to stabbing him in the thigh with my fork.

“I need to change the subject.” I shove a bite of turkey in my mouth. Maybe I’ll be the lucky one who accidentally pierces her vocal cords. “I can’t listen to them talk about Dubai anymore.”

“I have an idea.” Martin taps on his wine glass with his fork, which still has a slice of turkey hanging from the tines. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an announcement.”

Shit!

He’s standing before I can stop him. Panic spreads through my body like wildfire. He moves to the head of the table, right next to my father. God only knows what this man is going to say. He’s like a runaway train, and none of us are safe.

“Martin, are you feeling all right?” my father asks. “Your eyes look a little funny.”

“He’s fine, Carter,” Nana Rosie says. “He’s just had a little too much to drink.”

“That’s right.” Martin winks at my grandmother. “I smoked a little too much wine.”

“Martin.” I smile nervously. “Come sit down. No need to embarrass yourself in front of your boss.”

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