Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(74)

Penn gives him a tight smile, takes my hand, and walks away. “See ya later.”

“Good seeing you.”

Once we’re out of earshot, I can’t help but ask, “Who was that?”

“His name is Patrick,” Penn says. “Word has it that the night a guy named Bobby Jones went missing, Patrick was the last guy to see him.” He looks over his shoulder. “Never got a good feeling off that guy.”

“He feels icky.”

“‘Icky.’ Good word.”

He grins, hesitates, and then takes my hand in his.

Laughter from a group of little girls running down the center of the blocked-off street fills the air along with scents of cinnamon and cotton candy. A giant lemon is perched on top of a food truck that sits next to a tent set up for donations to a local food bank.

“This is the sweetest little thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, taking in the game of bingo to our right and ignoring the wobbliness on Penn’s face. “People still play that?”

“Every Thursday night at the senior center. Actually, there was a brawl with these two seventy-year-old men a couple of months ago over whether the ball was B or G. I’m talking this fight, if that’s what you want to call it, had the police called and everything.”

“Oh, gee,” I say with a laugh.

“No. It was B.”

I shove him with my shoulder as he chuckles. “Hey,” he says, pointing across the road. “See that little building?”

I follow his gaze to a narrow slice of a building between two larger ones. It’s a deep green that probably is held together by decades’ worth of paint. There are letters just above the mildewed overhang, but I can’t make them out.

“What about it?” I ask.

“That place used to be Bernie’s. You could walk in and get a soda on the left at this sandwich-shop kind of thing. The rest of the top floor was a pharmacy.” He tugs my hand and guides me around a group of kids throwing bang snaps at the ground. “In the back, there was a set of stairs that took you to the basement. They sold furniture or appliances or something down there.”

“It looks like it’s been closed forever.”

“Well, since I was seven or so, probably. When the big chain pharmacy came to Rockery, that place closed. They couldn’t compete. But everyone here remembers Bernie’s. Maybe you could include it in your mural somehow.”

My heart fills. He’s always thinking, always remembering things like my mural or shutting the door to the old library so Meredith’s dog doesn’t run out—even though he verbalizes his dislike for said dog constantly.

We venture down a little farther, taking in the stands selling homemade purses and trinkets for a dollar. A crowd cheers as a man overseeing a game hands a plastic baggie filled with water and a goldfish to a little girl.

I breathe a sigh that comes from my soul. This place feels like home, a place where you could start a family and be a classroom mom and bake cobblers for banquets.

I glance over at Penn. Maybe someday.

“Those remind me of Floater,” Penn says. “Most traumatic thing of my single-digit years.”

“Fun fact: I’ve never had a pet.”

He flinches, like I just told him I’m from Mars. “Never? You’ve never had a pet? Not a fish or a dog or a cat? Nothing?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Not even a hamster.”

“I think you’d be a dog person, as much as you like to cuddle. Hamsters are boring. Cats are cool but more standoffish. They’ll let you pet them when they want to be petted, and you can go fuck yourself the rest of the time.”

I laugh. “Really? They’re that bad?”

“They’re really that bad.” He checks out for a minute, gazing into the abyss. “I’ve been thinking about building a cabin.”

He says it in a way that makes me unsure whether I was supposed to hear it or if I’m even supposed to comment.

“Well,” I say, “the paint at your place isn’t that bad. It’s fixable.”

He looks down at me and grins. “Yeah, but maybe it would be better to just forget it and start fresh. What do you think?”

“I—”

“Hey, Penn.” A loud voice comes from behind us and we whirl around. A man is making a beeline our direction. “How are ya, buddy?”

Penn slips his hand from mine. “Hey, how are you, John?”

“Hanging in there. You know how it goes.”

I step back out of instinct. The angle of Penn’s body and the loss of his hand makes me feel like I’m intruding.

“Who is this?” John looks me up and down.

“This is Avery,” Penn says. “Avery, this is John. I did some work at his place last summer.”

We exchange hellos before they turn their attention back to some construction talk. I glance around, wondering if there’s something I can go look at as a way to excuse myself, but there’s just children’s games and political booths.

“So, is this your girlfriend?” John asks.

“No,” Penn says. “We’re just friends.”

I watch Penn struggle with his words. His eyes dart to mine as if he’s not sure how to handle this question. I’m sure as hell not handling it.