Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(57)

“What kind of a realization?”

My attention lands on my aunt. The concern on her face melts a little of the anger I feel—anger at myself. I sink back in my chair and sigh.

“You know, it always hurt my feelings when my mom would forget the things that were important to me. My ballet recitals or parent-teacher conferences. She even missed me walking across the stage for graduation. She got there twenty minutes late.”

Harper frowns.

“But it hurt so bad to always be on the fourth back burner that I finally stopped telling her things. If she didn’t know, she couldn’t be expected to show up. It was a self-preservation type of thing.”

“It makes sense. Probably not super healthy, but it makes sense.”

“But it’s turned me into someone that wants that connection with people, Harper, but I don’t always give it. Maybe I can’t give it. Like, I want you to care about the things in my life. Not ‘you’ but the theoretical ‘you,’” I say when she looks confused. “I want someone to want to show up for me. But I don’t always give them a chance to.”

“Sounds like you have a problem on your hands.”

Ouch.

This stings a little, but she’s right. And this isn’t my mom’s problem. It’s mine.

I think of the sadness on Penn’s face as he shared the stories about his dad. The man who thinks he’s allergic to relationships is better at them than the woman desperate for one.

“You know,” she says, testing the waters. “I suck at relationships. Fact. But I’m really good at friendships. And the first block you have to lay in a friendship is trust. A part of that is trusting them with bits and pieces of your heart and believing they’ll show up when you need them.”

She pats my hand before she gets to her feet. As if she knows I need a few minutes alone, she gathers our plates.

“I’m going to clean the kitchen up. If you need me, I’ll be in there, okay?”

I nod. My eyes are watery, so I don’t look at her. I just keep thinking about Penn and how I owe him so much more than I’ve given him. If nothing else, I owe him the truth. About me and about us.

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I find his number. It rings four times before he answers.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, Penn. It’s Avery.”

“Hey. What’s up?”

I slosh my drink around, watching the liquid slam into each wall of the glass. “Are you busy right now?”

“Depends who is asking and why.”

“Well, I’m asking, and it’s because—”

“Then nope. Not busy,” he says with a chuckle. “Doesn’t matter why.”

A shy smile touches my lips. “Great. Can I meet you somewhere?”

“Well, here’s the deal: I’m elbow deep in paint.”

“Are you at the library?” I gasp. “Are you messing with my mural?”

“Calm down,” he says with a laugh. “I’m not at the library, and I’d never touch that mural. It’s art.”

A ball of warmth settles in my stomach. “Sorry. Okay. Can I come to where you are, then?”

“I’m at my house, but you’re welcome to come over. I’d meet you somewhere else, but it would take me forever to get this paint off me. It’s in my hair. I think it’s in my nostrils, even.”

I laugh. “Okay. I’ll be there in a little bit.”

“Bring your painting clothes.”

“I don’t have painting clothes,” I say.

“Then what do you wear to paint? I’ve ruined these jeans for sure.”

I rise to my feet. The anxiety about telling him the truth about us subsides as the excitement at seeing him takes over. “Usually something I don’t want to ruin, but I don’t usually paint like a child so it’s not a real problem.”

“Well, I do. So just prepare yourself for that.”

“Will do. See ya soon, Penn.”

“See ya, Ave.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at his name on the screen. The reason for the call and for going to see him blasts back and hits me straight in the heart.

What am I about to get myself into?





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

AVERY

Come in,” Penn shouts.

I push open a well-worn door that designers would pay big money to replicate. It’s the color of tobacco with streaks of caramel and has enough dings and dents that I would ask if it was purchased at an antique store if I didn’t know better. Penn may be many things, but an antique collector, I’d venture to say, is not one of them.

The house is airy. Ceilings go on for what feels like forever in the main entryway. The wallpaper is probably from the seventies with a cream background and orange-and-brown flowerlike designs. A chandelier hangs, and the light dances from the crystals dripping off it.

“I’m in here,” Penn calls out.

His voice comes from ahead and to my left. An oversize doorway with ornate trim in solid wood leads me to him.

He’s standing in the far corner, a paint roller on an extended handle in his hand. He’s covered. White paint is everywhere, including his nose.

“Getting any on the wall?” I tease.