The book in my hands is older than I am. Pages softened and yellowed from decades of hands some careful, some careless. The spine cracked long ago and was taped with something that looks suspiciously like duct tape. The cover’s nearly falling off. I keep flipping it open from muscle memory, the same way – I’ve done a hundred times since I got it.
It’s a battered copy of The Stranger. Camus. Existential crisis and the weight of apathy wrapped in 123 pages of dry brilliance. A guy in my unit gave in to
Andrews, I think. One of the quieter ones. Said it “fucked him up in a good way.”
me
–
I didn’t ask questions, Just nodded and took it when he handed it over like it was a grenade missing its pin.
Now it lives here, on my desk or in my hand, depending on the day. And today… it’s in my hand. Thumb tucked under a paragraph I’ve already read five times because the words don’t stick. My brain’s somewhere else. Someone else.
I hear the door downstairs open, followed by voices. Light footsteps, laughter. My mother’s delighted tone. Then something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle.
My ears perk.
“What perfect timing! You arrived just as we did,” my mom says.
A beat of a pause, then: “Not a coincidence at all. I was totally stalking you.”
It’s her.
Of course it’s her.
I don’t mean to listen – okay, maybe I do – but her voice cuts through the air like a melody I can’t tune out. She’s teasing them. My parents are laughing. She says it so easily, like it’s a joke she tells often.
Then my mother’s voice again: “The boys are upstairs!”
“Thanks,” Penny replies.
Footsteps on the stairs. Lighter than Tyler’s. Smoother.
She skips his room at first, then I hear the thump of his door opening, His music spills out, loud and juvenile — something that could peel paint from the walls and then merciful silence again when she closes it.
I exhale and go back to my book, but the words blur.
Then, ten minutes later, there’s a knock.
A soft one. Hesitant.
I don’t look up. “Come in.”
The door creaks open and she steps inside.
1 blink. Sit up.
She’s wearing black jeans that fit too well, a white tank top, and over it a cropped pink bolero sweater thing soft, delicate, unnecessarily pretty. Her hair is loose, curls falling down her back and brushing her shoulders.
I swear I forget how to breathe for a second.
She shifts on her feet like she suddenly regrets being born. “Oh, um I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were reading. I can come back later, of–
“It’s all good,” I cut in, shutting the book and setting it aside.
Chapter 60: Asher
“Oh. Okay.” She steps fully inside and closes the door behind her, then leans against it like it’s holding her up.
Her fingers are fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, twisting it into soft knots.
I study her. “What’s up?”
“I” She tries to speak, but it comes out like alphabet soup. Her words trip over each other and die before they make it to the air. Her lips part. Close. Then part again.
I get up slowly, walking toward her. With each step, she shrinks just slightly, her back still pressed to the door. I stop in front of her close, but not touching. I have to look down to meet her eyes.
“You can tell me,” I say quietly.
She exhales through her nose, then tries again. “This all escalated kind of quickly and when Tyler gets an idea in his head he usually just–hé does it, and I know you’re home to rest or maybe not to rest or maybe just to be home and not hang out with us or–God, I don’t know–and you probably have a million other places you’d rather be than sleeping at my house, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to because of your parents or Tyler or whatever and could talk to them if you’d rather not and-”
“Penny.”
She keeps going. Doesn’t even blink.
“Penny.”
Nothing. She’s moving at 80 miles an hour and climbing. Her fingers are now at her sleeves, twisting them so hard I think she’s going to unravel herself.
I step even closer. Her words die midsentence.
“Penelope.”
She looks up. Her breath catches. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed pink.
“You want me there?” I ask, voice low.
She stammers, “1–I think it could be fun. Maybe. I know we don’t always get along, and sometimes I annoy you, probably a le anymore? Or maybe I’m wrong and you hate me but-”
“Penny,” I say again. “If you want me there, I’ll be there.”
She stares up at me. Her eyes are wide. Vulnerable.
She nods too fast. “I do. I just don’t want you to-”
“I want to,” I interrupt, before she can talk herself out of it again.
The room stills.
aybe not as much
She exhales, all the air in her lungs rushing out like she was holding her breath through the whole conversation. Her hands fall to her sides, fingers still twitching.
She glances around, then says, “So, um… do you need help packing or something?”
I glance toward the perfectly packed duffel bag sitting next to the dresser. Folded with military precision. Nothing out of place,
I lift an eyebrow.
She sees it and her face goes bright red. “Right. Of course you don’t. Okay. Well… I’ll see you downstairs.”
She opens the door so fast she nearly forgets to unlean herself from it, then slips out like a gust of wind,
Chapter 60: Asher
The door shuts.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I smirk.
Shake my head.
Lie back down on the bed, the book unopened beside me.
Penelope Scott is going to be the death of me.
And I’m not sure I mind.
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