Chapter 8 Three Years Before

3 years before Penny

The weekend shows up slower than usual, stretching itself out across gray skies.

I finish my book late Friday night, sprawled across my bed with the lamp casting a pool of yellow light. The guy found the girl in the photograph after more than a year of chasing shadows. When he finally told her everything, why he did it, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her, she dropped everything to join him. Asked him to trace back all the steps he took, take her around the world, show her the places he’d seen while searching for her. And he did.

The last chapter leaves me smiling, blinking through tears I didn’t even realize were coming. I hold the book to my chest for a minute, letting the happiness of it wash through me. Then I close it gently and set it on the stack by my bed.

Saturday morning, I pull another book from the shelf — this one about a surfer who develops a fear of the ocean and tries to overcome it. The first chapter hooks me fast, and I settle in, the hours slipping by in a blur of pages.

Most of the day is a cycle. Work out. Read. Eat. Repeat. My friends are busy — soccer games, family stuff, shifts at work. I don’t mind. The house is quiet, which is rare. Dad’s gone, though I don’t know where, and I don’t ask.

By late afternoon, I climb upstairs and find Mom in the kitchen, flipping through a recipe book. She looks up, surprised. “What are you doing out of your cave?”

I shrug. “Wanted to see what you’re up to.”

Her smile softens. “Thinking of baking. Want anything in particular?”

The answer comes without hesitation. “Your blueberry pie. Always been my favorite.”

She laughs lightly, shaking her head. “You and that pie. Alright, blueberry it is.”

The next morning, the kitchen smells faintly of sugar and fruit. I stumble upstairs to find the counter empty except for the pie, perfectly golden, cooling on its stand. A folded note rests beside it in Mom’s handwriting: I love you, honey.

But she’s gone.

Instead, Dad’s home, pacing in the living room. I don’t say anything. Just lace up my sneakers, grab my board, and head out the door.

The air outside is crisp, sunlight warm on my skin. I jog a few laps around the park before switching to the basketball court, running drills until sweat soaks my shirt. Later, I trade the ball for my skateboard, practicing tricks on the cracked pavement until my legs ache.

When I finally head back home, the house is quiet again.

Both of them are gone.

It’s not unusual for the house to be empty. They come and go as they please, and I’m eighteen now — old enough to take care of myself. I don’t even think twice about it.

So I head downstairs, flop onto my bed, and scroll through my phone for a while before I start getting ready. Tonight’s the night — my first date with Jemma.

I’ve gone out with girls before. Movies, milkshakes, sitting in someone’s driveway until the music died out. I’m not nervous around them. But with Jemma, it feels a little different. Not in a bad way. Just… important. Maybe.

I dig through my closet for a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been through three skate sessions and a wrestling match. Most of them have.

Finally, I pull out a clean navy sweatshirt and put it on. Nothing flashy. She doesn’t seem like the type to care about labels or fancy anything, and that makes it easier. I grab my sneakers, check for my wallet, the basics.

My phone buzzes. A text from Jemma.

Still on for tonight?

I grin, typing back: Wouldn’t miss it.

Another buzz. Better not. I’m giving up a Sunday night for you.

Brave of you, I send. Hope I live up to the hype.

Guess we’ll see, she replies, with a winky face.

I drop the phone on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Whether this turns into something or not, I just know one thing: I don’t want to be the guy who screws it up for her. I don’t want to be another asshole in the story of her life.

Whatever happens tonight, I just want her to remember it as good.

I can’t sit still. Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling isn’t going to cut it. So I grab my keys and head out.

The late afternoon light is soft, painting the streets in gold. I roll the windows down, let the air fill the car, and just drive for a bit, no destination in mind.

Eventually, I pull into a Starbucks drive-through. It feels like the right move — something simple to break the ice. I order my usual and then pause, thinking about her.

I don’t know her order yet, but I take a guess — something sweet, iced, maybe with vanilla. It feels like her.

Drinks secured, I make my way across town, nerves steady but buzzing underneath. Not the kind that makes me overthink, just enough to remind me this will be fun. It'll be good.

I pull up to her house, park at the curb, and kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, hands around the cardboard drink tray, looking at the front door.

Then I get out, drinks balanced carefully, and start walking up the path to knock.