Page 82 of Penelope in Retrograde

“It was actually Elvis and Madonna,” I mutter under my breath.

“Carter, give the girl a break.” Nana Rosie rests her hand on top of mine. “We’ve already sat through an entire dissertation of her divorce in between courses, and I, for one, would like to put the kibosh on divorce talk for the rest of the evening. Thanksgiving is a time to appreciate family.”

Hearing her say the word family stings. I know she means us here at the table, but I can’t think family without thinking about the Mackenzies. I haven’t spoken a word to them since the split, even though they’re right across the street. Smith’s house used to be my refuge when the walls in this house started to cave in. Now I can barely look at his house without feeling sick to my stomach.

The worst part is that I’ve never wanted to talk to Fiona more than I do right now. I want to cry on her sofa and tell her how hard I tried to be happy on the road with Smith. He tried too. I know he did. The fighting was both of our faults. I want to tell her that she was right, and that I should’ve listened to her. She told me that compromising my happiness for Smith’s would only lead to resentment on my part and distrust on his end.

If you knew you didn’t want this kind of life, why didn’t you tell me, Pen? I can’t walk away from the magazine now. I can’t let Marcus and Donovan down because you’ve finally decided to be honest with me.

I relive that final argument with Smith nightly, and I’d give just about anything to talk about it with Fiona.

“Shall we talk money, then?” My father clears his throat. “I assume that you and Smith didn’t have much of a chance to put money away while you were caravanning around the country like a pair of vigilantes.”

“No.” I take another sip of coffee. “Well, unless you can put a price tag on crystal figurines from gas stations.”

“Excuse me?” My father groans.

“You said yourself that we were vigilantes.” I shrug. “The only places we visited besides concert venues were gas stations, and crystal figurines were the easiest things to hide in my bra when we shoplifted.”

“I’m switching you to decaf.” My mother grabs the coffee cup from my hand.

“Do you have any money to live off of or not, Penelope?” my father asks. “It’s a simple question.”

“Of course she has money,” Nana Rosie interrupts. “She’s past twenty-five now. She has access to the trust I set up for her.”

“I thought I had to finish college to have access to that,” I say. “That’s what Phoebe had to do.”

“The trust was set up so that you could access it upon graduation from college or after you turned twenty-five,” Nana Rosie says. “I thought your parents told you that.”

“I guess it slipped our minds,” my father says, none too convincingly. “Anyway, back to my original question. Penelope, what kind of savings do you have?”

I can’t go back to my father’s original question. At least, not without yelling and some choice words. The trust funds that Nana Rosie set up for my sister and me are sizable to say the least. I mean, they’re chump change to the Hilton sisters, but they’re still sizable. Phoebe was able to afford to go to Oxford with hers and not have to work for her first year in London.

If I’d had access to that kind of money last year, my life could look completely different right now. Smith and I would’ve had options. I wouldn’t have needed to work two jobs. He might not have ever applied to Digital Slap, and if that never happened ... maybe he’d be here now. No. We’d be back in Dubai with his parents, and everything would be OK.

“Penelope, are you still with me?” my father asks. “I need to get an understanding of your finances.”

“You mean I could’ve had access to that money for an entire year?”

Neither of my parents make eye contact with me. Suddenly, they’re both very interested in their pies.

“Penelope, what matters is you have access to it now,” Nana Rosie says. “You can use that money to restart your life.”

“Dad.” My voice comes out like a growl. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me that I had access to my trust last year?”

“I told you it was an oversight.”

“Bullshit.”

“Penelope Banks,” my mother snaps. “I will not tolerate that kind of language. Your father and I made the decision to keep quiet on the trust because we worried about something like this happening.”

“Something like what, Mom?”

The answer dawns on me the second the question leaves my lips. Divorce. She’s talking about my divorce. My parents didn’t want me to have access to my trust, because they thought Smith and I would end up divorced, and since we didn’t have a prenup, a divorce would entitle him to half of it.

“Penelope ...” My mother trails off. “We just—”

“Thought I’d get a divorce.” My gaze flickers between my mother and father. “You two hoped my marriage would fail.”

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