Page 53 of Penelope in Retrograde

Phoebe plucks a dying chrysanthemum from the arrangement. She eyes the dead flower in her hand, as if she’s deep in thought and carefully considering her words. It’s like she’s not sure whether she wants to tell me what’s gotten her so worked up, and it’s in that moment that I realize exactly how far apart we’ve grown.

“Just say it, Phoebe.” I rest my hand on top of hers and the dead flower. “I don’t want to spend this weekend fighting.”

“I invited a friend.” She clears her throat, eyes still focused on the flower. “A colleague, actually.”

“A colleague?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Oh my god, are you dating someone? Why didn’t you tell me? Is it serious? Who is she? Tell me—”

“Penny, stop!” she snaps at me. It catches me off guard. Phoebe’s plenty moody, but she’s not the type to raise her voice without reason. “It’s a colleague, OK. I don’t have time to date or look for a relationship. I’ve got a career and a life that I’m trying to build for myself, and I don’t need you causing a scene at another Thanksgiving that will derail all of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The woman I’ve invited over is Caroline Winston. She’s the dean of admissions of one of the most exclusive business cohorts and master’s programs at Oxford.”

Now it’s my turn to stare blankly. “So?”

“So, you have to be invited to join the program, and I want to make a good impression on her.” She sighs in exasperation. “Dad didn’t set this up for me. I did. I’m the one who found out she’d be doing a lecture series at UCLA in November, and I’m the one who invited her over when I realized she wasn’t flying out until Friday. Everything that happens at this dinner table today is a reflection of me, not Dad.”

My blood has moved from boiling to scorched earth. “And you think that me getting engaged will make you look bad?”

“No.” She pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to stave off the giant headache that this conversation is bound to give her. “I’m just saying it’s very likely that Mom and Dad are going to say something about your engagement that will upset you, even if they don’t mean to. You’ll overreact, which will inevitably lead to an argument. You’ll storm out like you always do, and the rest of the meal will be painfully awkward, which is going to be the lasting impression Caroline Winston has of me.”

I don’t know what to say, and I don’t think I’ve ever been speechless with Phoebe. She’s embarrassed of me. Me. Not Dad and his obsession with business and status. Not Mom and her unrelenting need to play matchmaker. Hell, I don’t even think Nana Rosie’s naked moon dancing would embarrass Phoebe the way she’s worried I will.

“Look”—her eyes soften a little—“I love you, and I’m happy for you and Smith. Really, I am. I’m also just really stressed.”

“I can tell.”

“Would you mind not telling Mom and Dad until after dinner? Or at least until after Caroline leaves? You could just stick your ring in your pocket, and then when the coast is clear, you can scream it from the rooftops. OK?”

“No.” The word shoots out of my mouth like an arrow. “Absolutely not.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m not taking off my ring, Phoebe. I’ll hold off telling Mom and Dad, but I’m not going to hide my engagement because you’re worried it might hypothetically lead to an argument that will embarrass you.”

“You think they won’t notice? Have you met our parents?” She points the dead flower at my face like a baton. “And it’s not a hypothetical argument. You guys always argue. It’s your thing. And you argue double on holidays!”

“It’s not my fault!” I wave the flower away.

“Of course it’s not!” She smacks the flower on the buffet table. “Nothing ever is.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve never asked you for anything, Penny. Never. And the fact that the one time I ask you to do something important to me, you flat out refuse is bullshit.” She dumps the flower in the bin next to the buffet table. “It’s bullshit, and you’re too selfish to realize it.”

“Well, I’m sorry my engagement is such an inconvenience to you.”

The doorbell rings like a buzzer signaling the end of a round in a boxing match. Both of us start and stop awkwardly toward the door, neither of us knowing how to proceed. It’s not like we haven’t fought before. It’s just never felt this personal. Thankfully, Marie sweeps in to answer the door.

Smith breezes into the dining room, blissfully unaware of the battle that just took place. “Hey, is someone else coming to dinner? A black SUV just pulled up.”

Phoebe and I stare at each other blankly. Every fiber of my body is telling me to leave. I could grab my bags and be out the door before my parents noticed. I could wave at Caroline Winston on my way to Smith’s house, and Phoebe could tell her I was just a neighbor stopping by to say hello. My family could have a nice, quiet Thanksgiving completely drama-free. I don’t even think Phoebe would try to stop me. I’d be doing her a favor.

“Are you two OK?” Smith rests his hand on my shoulder.

“We’re fine,” I lie. “But I just got a call from my editor. Apparently, Irene Steadman’s family wants me to meet them in person tomorrow to go over her obituary. We should probably drive back.”

“I thought her family hated her,” Smith says.

---