Chapter 9 Three Years Before

3 years before Penny

The door swings open, and there she is.

Jemma’s dark hair falls in long waves over her shoulders, glossy in the porch light. Her skin glows, smooth and warm, her smile wide and easy. She’s wearing fitted jeans and a soft-looking shirt in pale yellow, casual but still put-together. I glance down at my own jeans and sweatshirt and grin. Same wavelength.

“Hey,” I say, holding up the drink tray. “So, I had to guess what you’d like at Starbucks. Hope I didn’t blow it.”

She takes the cup, already smiling before she even sips. Then she tries it, her eyes lighting up. “You nailed it. Vanilla latte’s my favorite.”

“Good to know. Guess I’m psychic.”

“Or lucky,” she teases, stepping aside so I can hand her the drink properly.

Before I can answer, a tall figure appears in the doorway behind her. Her dad. He fills the frame, serious but not unfriendly, scanning me the way dads do.

“Evening, sir,” I say quickly. “I don’t know if Jemma told you, but we’re going to the movies. Starts at eight, done around ten-thirty. I’ll make sure she’s home safe.”

Something flickers across his face — surprise, then approval. He nods. “Appreciate that. I’m leaving for the night shift at the hospital, so I’ll see her tomorrow. You two have fun.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jemma says, rolling her eyes but smiling.

I step back, let her grab her bag, and together we head down the walkway to my car. She slides into the passenger seat, her hair catching the faint glow of the streetlamp, and for a second, I’m glad I got Starbucks just to have an excuse to look at her while she drinks it.

Once we’re driving, the tension eases. Music hums low from the radio, something poppy enough to fill the silence without overpowering it.

“So,” she says, leaning her elbow on the window, “do you actually like movies, or is this your go-to first date move?”

“I like them,” I say. “But they’re terrible for conversation. Which is why—” I glance at her shoes. “Do you have walking shoes?”

She laughs, glancing down at her sneakers. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because I thought we’d park a little further out. Walk to the theater. Give me a chance to prove I know at least one thing about you.”

Her brow arches. “And what’s that?”

“That you’ll dump your Pepsi on me if I try talking during the movie.”

She bursts out laughing, shaking her head. “Okay, fair. You’re not wrong.”

Two blocks from the theater, I pull into a lot and park. We get out, cups in hand, the sidewalk buzzing with life — couples heading out, the glow of neon signs, the faint smell of fried food from a diner on the corner.

“So your dad’s a doctor?” I ask as we fall into step.

She nods. “Yeah. Night shifts are brutal. He still tries to make it work, though. It’s just me and him at home most of the time.”

“That’s cool,” I say honestly. “Sounds like a lot, though.”

“Yeah,” she says, then brightens. “But I keep busy. Lately I’ve been making bracelets. Like, with beads and wire and all that.”

She holds out her wrists, jangling with color — blues, reds, tiny silver charms. Each one is different, intricate.

I stop walking for a second, leaning closer to actually look. “These are awesome.”

She looks a little surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, meeting her eyes. “You’re good at this.”

Her smile softens, like she wasn’t expecting me to take them seriously.

“You should make me one,” I add, almost without thinking.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “For real?”

“Why not? They’re nice. Just… maybe not pink.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Alright, then. What’s your favorite color?”

I shrug, thinking about it. “Never really picked one. Maybe blue?”

“Blue,” she repeats, nodding like she’s filing it away. “Alright. I’ll make you one before the end of the week.”

And with that, we keep walking, the theater lights glowing brighter ahead of us, and I can’t stop thinking that this night already feels like the start of something good.

The theater lobby is alive with noise and the buttery smell of popcorn. Kids dart between the lines, teenagers crowd the arcade machines, parents shuffle drinks into cup holders. Jemma sticks close to my side as we edge toward the counter.

“What size?” I ask, scanning the menu above.

“Large, obviously,” she says. “Popcorn is the whole point of coming to the movies.”

“Noted.” I grin, handing over a crumpled twenty for the largest tub they’ve got, plus two sodas. The cashier slides them across, salt already dusting my fingers.

We step into the dim theater room, the giant screen glowing with commercials for car insurance and candy bars. The crowd isn’t too heavy — clusters of kids our age, couples tucked into corners, the occasional lone guy a few rows back.

We claim a spot in the middle. She tucks her drink into the holder, balances the popcorn on her knees, and I slide into the seat beside her.

“Okay,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“Something about you. Something not in your school file.”

I think for a second. “I skate. A lot. Parks, streets, anywhere I can get kicked out of.”

She laughs, popping a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “Rebel.”

“Hardly. I fall more than I land tricks.” I shrug. “But I like it. Makes me feel like I’m going somewhere. Eventually, I want to travel. See places outside of Northhaven. Not just… here.”

She chews, studying me like she’s filing that away. “Where first?”

“Anywhere with mountains. Or the ocean.”

“Good choices,” she says, nodding approvingly. “Okay, my turn. Favorite foods. Tacos are at the top, no debate. And mangoes. I could live on mangoes forever.”

“Mangoes, huh?”

“Don’t judge. They’re elite.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “No judgment.”

The commercials keep rolling, but our voices stay low, trading little details back and forth. Favorite bands, worst teachers, stupid stories from middle school. She laughs easily, tilts her head back when she does, and it’s contagious — I find myself laughing just because she is.

The lights dim a little more, the previews begin. She leans back in her seat, settling in. I focus on the screen for a while, but after about forty-five minutes, I realize I haven’t seen half of what’s happening.

My heart’s pounding for a different reason.

I glance at her hand resting on the armrest between us. My fingers twitch. I lean in, close enough to feel her hair brush my shoulder.

“Would it be okay if I held your hand?” I whisper.

She turns, eyes glinting in the flickering light of the screen, lips curving into a smile.

“I was wondering when you’d ask,” she whispers back.

Her hand slides into mine, warm and sure, and for the rest of the movie, I don’t care what’s happening on screen.