Chapter 10 Three Years Before
3 years before Penny
The movie is good. Not great, not life-changing, but good. The kind of movie that makes the whole audience laugh in the same spots, cheer at the same over-the-top stunts, and groan together when the cheesy line lands. Jemma laughs easily, her hand brushing against mine on the armrest until finally I gather the nerve to lace my fingers with hers. She doesn’t hesitate. She just smiles in the glow of the screen, squeezes once, and keeps eating popcorn with her free hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And that—more than anything happening in front of us—is what sticks with me.
When the credits roll, she leans into me to whisper, “Told you popcorn was the best part.”
I chuckle, standing and stretching my legs. “Pretty sure you're the best part, but… sure.”
She swats at my arm as we file out with the rest of the crowd.
The night air hits cool after the stuffy theater, a breeze carrying the faint smell of fried food from the diner across the street. The sidewalks are still alive with chatter, headlights gliding past, music thumping faintly from someone’s car. We fall into step toward my car, still talking, still laughing.
By the time I pull up in front of her house, I don’t want the night to end.
I cut the engine, hop out, and circle around to walk her up to the porch. The porch light is on, warm against the dark, moths flitting lazily around it. She lingers at the door, fiddling with her keys but not really trying to go inside yet.
“You okay being alone?” I ask, nodding at the empty driveway.
“Yeah,” she says softly. Then she looks up at me, eyes wide, hopeful, like she’s waiting for something.
For a second, I just stand there, memorizing the way her hair falls over her shoulder, the faint lavender scent of her perfume, the way her lips curve when she’s trying not to smile too hard.
I reach out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. My voice is low, careful. “I hope you know I’m interested in you. I just want to respect your boundaries.”
Her smile deepens, and she tilts her head slightly. “Can you kiss me?”
That’s all the permission I need.
I lean in, one hand finding her waist, the other braced lightly against the doorframe. Our lips meet, soft and tentative, then a little surer as she leans into me. Her hand presses against my chest, steadying herself, and for that moment everything feels perfectly still.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead lightly against hers and murmur, “Better than Pizza Hut.”
She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand, and I swear it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. “Way better,” she says, backing toward the door.
I watch her slip inside, turning once to smile at me again before the door clicks shut.
I don’t move right away. Just stand there on her porch, grinning like a fool, replaying that kiss over and over in my head. Eventually, I make it back to my car, sink into the driver’s seat, and sit there for a while with my hands on the wheel, still smiling.
The ride home is pure bliss. Windows down, radio blasting, me singing along off-key to whatever pop song comes on. The kind of drive where even the stoplights feel like they’re on your side.
But the high takes a hit the second I pull into the driveway.
The house is dark. No cars. Too dark. Too empty.
I frown, climbing out, the gravel crunching under my sneakers louder than usual. Inside, it’s the same — quiet, still, almost hollow.
They leave me alone sometimes, sure. But usually, they’re back by now.
I pull out my phone, type a quick message to Mom: You good?
No response.
I set the phone down, shake it off. Shower, I decide. That’ll clear my head.
The hot water beats down, and I close my eyes, replaying Jemma’s laugh, the way her bracelets clinked when she showed me her wrists, the way she said can you kiss me? like she already knew the answer. I stay there longer than I mean to, the steam fogging up the mirror by the time I finally step out.
In my room, I pull on a t-shirt and shorts, flop onto the bed, and reach for the surfer book. The guy finally gets back into the ocean, fighting his fear one wave at a time. I root for him, page after page. Then—sting. Jellyfish. He collapses in the shallows, and I feel the jolt of it like it’s me out there.
My eyelids grow heavy. The words blur. I dog-ear the page, set the book aside, and stretch out.
My phone stays quiet on the nightstand. No text from Mom.
But I let sleep take me anyway, smile still tugging at my lips from the night.
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the quiet.
No footsteps above me, no voices drifting down through the vents. Just the hum of the fridge upstairs and the faint creak of the house settling. I reach for my phone, still face-down on the nightstand.
One notification.
A text from Mom. Sent at 2:07 a.m.
I’m okay. I’ll come back soon :)
The smiley face feels wrong. Like a sticker slapped over a crack in the wall.
I let out a long breath, running a hand over my face. Relief mixes with frustration, heavy in my chest.
I know I should just be glad she texted at all. Glad she let me know something. But the truth is, it doesn’t make me feel better.
Two years ago, everything fell apart. We all lost him. All three of us were left standing in the wreckage, forced to figure out how to breathe again without him there.
We all had to grieve.
But somewhere along the way, they let go. Or maybe they just let themselves get lost in other things — work, fighting, disappearing into the night and coming back whenever.
And me? I’m the one still here, clinging to the idea that we’re supposed to be a family. Still caring about something they act like they already buried.
I toss the phone back onto the nightstand and sit up, staring at the familiar walls of my room. The books stacked high on the desk. My skateboard leaning against the corner. The little anchors I’ve built for myself.
I shake the frustration off as best I can. It’s morning. The sun’s shining through the basement window. I’ve got things to do, places to be. And maybe I'll see Jemma at school today.
One more reason to keep moving.