Page 18 of Punishing Penelope

The whole house reeks of mourning. It’s unbearably choking, and my anxiety skyrockets. I can’t handle being in her world for one fucking minute. I don’t know how she even stands up.

Penelope backs out of the hug. I hold on to her hand, but he doesn’t hold me back. I let her go and she falls to her knees, wrapping her arms around her chest, hugging herself.

“Why, Peter? Why? Why did we… go there? Why her? Why her? I miss her! I miss her so bad. I keep thinking I’ll hear her steps, her voice, see her come around the corner. Her chair’s empty. Mom set a plate for her last night, then… then she removed it and ran. She just ran into her room and hasn’t come out, not even to eat.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you want to go outside for a while? Sit or walk? Anything?”

Her eyes dart to the door. “Is there a white van? Like, across the street?”

I try to think, try to visualize the outside. “Yes.”

“That’s news people. I’m not going out there.”

“Can I do anything?” I feel utterly helpless, useless.

“My aunt and uncle are here, and more family’s coming in. Too many. I can’t stand all the people. They shop, cook, and help… help…” She swallows hard. “Help with the planning. Oh God!” Hand slapped over her mouth, she almost doubles over and makes a retching noise.

I get it. The funeral. The unthinkable.

I crouch before her. “Let me help. We can… I’ll keep you company.”

Penelope looks around us, then her hand finds mine. I snake my arm around her waist as if she’ll fall if I don’t hold her.

In her room, everything looks the same, but everything is different, off somehow. We end up on her bed, and I hold her while she cries. I don’t know for how long, but I’ll give her all my time and more.

She stirs and puts her mouth to my ear. “Fuck me.”

My body jolts with instant arousal while my mind revolts at the idea.

“I want to feel something else than… this. Please.”

So, I take her. It feels wrong, yet a little bit right, as if we’ll get through this together. The sun shines bright through uncovered windows. The house is dead silent. We move under her comforter, neither of us saying a word. I come with a held-back groan, and it’s over.

I try to caress her, to get her off, but she shoves away my hand. She lets me hold her again. When her breathing changes, I know she’s asleep, so I sleep a little, too.

When we wake, the sun has set, and my stomach rumbles. In the hallway, I hold her hand.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“I’ll call you.”

I know she doesn’t mean tomorrow. She means someday when she can make room for me again.

If ever.

There’s nothing I can do. I can’t take her pain. I can’t make it go away. I can’t make it not have happened.

So, I leave.

I leave my heart in this house of unmentionable sorrow. I don’t plan to take it back. I have no use for it without her.

Stephan is gone, and maybe it’s for the better.

The media twists and turns the angles of our story from that night, and I learn to hate them.

The investigation, all the interrogations, end up in nothing. Stephan still had the place as his address, had a key. His foster dad acted in the belief he was being robbed.

Which is sort of true.