Filed to story: Penny and Navy Brother Asher
Penny face shadowed and unreadable under the flickering glow of the streetlamp
His breathing is a little fast, like he’s just finished a sprint, but his body is still, anchored, like nothing short of a hurrie una va
Ho looks as surprised to see me as I feel, for one fractured second.
And then his mouth tightens into something enliler, and he steps berk just enough to give me space, but not enough to feel polite
He doesn’t help me with my bag.
He doesn’t say ‘s okay.
He just watches me, expressionless, waiting for me to gather myself like he’s some immovable wall and I’m an inconvenience he’s willing to tolerate for exactly thirty seconds.
I huff out a breath, grabbing my bag off the ground, and brush past him with a muttered, “Sorry,” even though every nerve in my body is still jangling from the collision
But of course he doesn’t just let me go.
He has to say something
“Where’s Tyler?” he asks, his voice low and rough like he’s scraping it up from the bottom of the ocean, no cutting question. emotion in it. Just a quiet
I stiffen.
I don’t know why that question burns the way it does, but it does.
I don’t know where Tyler is.
I haven’t known all night. it to him.
And I don’t want to explain that
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, my hands tightening around the strap of my bag
He raises an eyebrow, slow and unimpressed, like I’ve just confirmed something he already assumed.
“You shouldn’t be out alone this late,” he says, the judgment threaded through the words so thick it feels like a weight thrown at my
Before I can think about it, before I can talk myself down, the words are out of my mouth, sharp and fast and furious.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you shouldn’t be either,” I fing back, my voice too loud in the quiet street, my heart pounding against my ribs.
He tilts his head slightly, that same maddeningly calm look on his face, like he’s studying a mildly interesting problem he can’t quite be bothered to solve.
And something about that-the way he stands there, the way he looks at me like I’m something small and breakable- patience inside me snap clean in two. the last thread of
“You don’t even know me,” I burst out, my voice shaking slightly with the force of it, “so maybe you could stop being such an asshole all the time. I mean seriously, what is your problem? With your stupid-your stupid big body-and your-and your stupid judgmental face and-“
I stutter to a stop, the heat burning up my neck, the words tripping over each other in a clumsy, mortifying mess
I hate this.
I hate that he can drag this mut of me without even trying.
I hate that I came enough to be this angry.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t smirk.
Doesn’t even blink.
Just watches me, silent and unreadable, like a wall I could hurl myself against a hundred times and never even leave a scratch
I breathe out hard through my nose, squeezing the strap of my bag until my knuckles ache, and finally, finally turn away.
I stomp down the sidewalk, my whole body buzzing with leftover anger and humiliation, not looking back, not giving him the satisfaction. the fight ha has drained out of me, leaving something hollow and shaky in
By the time I reach my house, my legs ache and my throat is tight and the its place.
I push the door open and step into the dark, the house silent and empty around me, the kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful, just big and lonely.
I lean back against the door, dropping my bag at my feet, and close my eyes, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and cold air.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him.
I know that.
He’s been an asshole since the second we met-cold and sharp and impossible-but he didn’t deserve that
Not really.
I’m not mad at him.
Not really.
I’m mad at Tyler, for leaving.
At myself, for caring.
At the auditions, for being tomorrow.
At the whole stupid, tangled mess. of it.
I shove off the door, kick my shoes into a comper, and head upstairs, too tired to shower, too tired to think.
Tomorrow is a big day.
Tomorrow is the only thing that matters,
I crawl into bed, pulling the blankets up over my head, and promise myself that I’ll leave it all behind when I wake up.
That none of this will matter once the monke
The smell of bacon and coffer is the kitchen, thick and warm, curling into the corners of the house in a way that feels almost too familiar, too easy, like muscle memory pulling me through the motions before I have a chance to think ton hard about it.
I flip another piece onto the growing pile on the plate by the stove, the grease spitting in protest, and reach for the carton of eggs without needing to be asked, without needing anyone to point or prad or remind me.
My mother beams at me from across the kitchen island, her hands busy arranging a plate of toast, but her eyes soft and shining like it’s Christmas morning and I just handed her the moon.
“You didn’t have to,” she says, the gratitude plain in her voice.
I shrug, cracking the eggs with a practiced flick of my wrist, betting the shells fall neatly into the trash. It’s nothing.”
It’s easier to stay busy.
Easier to move than to think,
Easier to pretend that being here-being back-isn’t peeling at the edges of something I worked a long time to hold together.
My dad strolls in, mug of coffee already in hand, looking relased in the way only people who have lived their whole lives in safety can look, and drops into a chair with a groan that’s more for show than anything else.
“How long you been up?” he asks, raising an eyebrow over the rim of his mug
“A white,” I say, flipping the eggs neatly, the heat from the stove baking into my skin. “Went for a run-
Mom pauses, the butter knife she’s holding hallway to the toast. “Didn’t you go for a run last night, too!”
I nod.
They exchange a glance-the kind parents think is subtle but never is-and I suppress a sigh
I’m used to training,” I say before they can ask. “Trying to keep the habit,”
It’s not a lie.
It’s just not the whole truth either.
The kitchen door swings open again, the easy creak of it dragging my attention toward the hallway, and Tyler shuffles in, yawning like he hasn’t seen a morning before noon in years, his hair sticking up at ridiculous angles, his hoodie half-zipped and backwards.
He looks like he’s been dragged through a storm and lost.
The sight of him irritates me more than it should, like a pebble caught in the tread of my boot, something small and stupid that shouldn’t bother me but does
I flip the eggs harder than necessary and plate them without a word. ing out the stool beside Dad and dropping onto it like gravity’s got a personal vendetta
“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep, dragging
Mom sets a plate in front of him, rulling his hair fondly, and he grins up at her, all boyish charm and lazy good nature, and for a second I have to look away, have to focus on scrubbing the skillet like it matters, because the easy affection between them grates against something raw in me.
We alt down, the four of us, the kind of picture you on a Hallmark card If you didn’t look too close at that cricke
There’s some chatter-Right, easy things abmit the neighbor’s new puppy, about the town’s upcoming festival, about the traff: downPNG getting worse now that the college kids are back-and I let it wash mer me, answering when I have to, nodding when I don’t,
And then Mom, slicing her bacon into neat little pieces, glances mer at Tyler and says, almost absently. Th-are you going to Penny’s edition today!
The question hangs there for a second, stretching thin..
Tyler, mid-bite, freezes.