Page 7 of Penelope in Retrograde

“Are you taking my picture?” Smith asks.

I fumble my phone. “No. I was taking a selfie.”

“Really? You want a photo to commemorate your time in this rideshare?”

“That sounds awfully judgy coming from a man who made me take his photo with the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile on more than one occasion.”

“Do not mock the Wienermobile.” Smith holds out his hand. “Hand me your phone. I’ll take the picture for you.”

“As if,” I say in my best Cher Horowitz voice. “The whole point of a selfie is that you don’t need anyone to take it for you. Ask any Kardashian.”

“True, but I’m pretty sure I could ask any Kardashian if they wanted their photo taken by an award-winning photographer and they’d jump at the chance.”

“You’re an award-winning photographer?”

“In the flesh.”

“Have they called you to photograph the Wienermobile yet?”

“Not yet.” He looks down at his hand. “The offer still stands.”

“Fine.” I quickly change my camera back to selfie mode and hand over my phone. “But make sure you get my good side. I don’t have the Kardashian money to ensure that all of my sides are good.”

“You never needed it, Pen.”

Heat spreads across the apples of my cheeks, and I can’t help but smile so big it hurts my face. He hands back my phone, and I instantly start to tuck it back in my purse.

“An award-winning photographer takes your picture, and you don’t even bother to look.” He shakes his head. “I’m insulted.”

“Calm down, diva. Clearly the description award-winning doesn’t extend to your personality.” I open up my phone. Looking up from my screen isn’t a picture of me. It’s him.

“You can let Jackie know that you got the damn picture.” He chuckles. “Her text popped up when you handed me the phone.”

My cheeks go from heated to wildfire, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m speechless. I drop the picture in the group chat and tuck my phone away.

“By the way, what exactly is a Smut Coven?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, which I wouldn’t mind doing, but it doesn’t seem fair to make Aidan an accomplice.”

Aidan slams on the brakes, and the van fishtails from side to side as we attempt to merge onto the 5. Ozzie and Harriet slide to the back of the van. I turn to reach for them, but Smith’s arm holds me back like a human seat belt. He holds me like that until Aidan regains control of the van, and when Smith finally moves his arm, I think my heart might beat right out of my chest.

“I think he’s trying to kill us both.” My voice shakes.

“Sorry about that!” Aidan shouts over his shoulder. “You’d think on Thanksgiving, people would at least be willing to let you in. Won’t be long until we’re at the bridge, and then it should be smooth sailing. You two should be home in no time.”

“Sounds good,” Smith says.

Aidan lays on the horn. “One lane, buddy! You get one lane! Sorry about that, guys. It must be a full moon or something. All the weirdos are out.”

“It’s not,” Smith and I say in unison.

We lock eyes, and suddenly it’s like we’re a couple of actors that have just broken the fourth wall. I reach for the smoky quartz necklace around my neck and run my fingers over its smooth surface. Fiona, Smith’s mother, gave it to me. She taught me about moon phases, astrology, and crystals. She taught me a lifetime’s worth of lessons. Smith never had much interest in that stuff when we were young. It was all too woo-woo for him, but I liked finding something to believe.

“There’s a new moon in two days,” Smith says.

“When did you start paying attention to the moon?”

“This summer.” His face grows solemn. “Before Mom died.”

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