Page 52 of Punishing Penelope
“You can’t hit me. I’m shot.”
“Not in the arm.”
“Penelope Wilder… always with the hard truths,” I slur, then smack my lips, trying to get my tongue to cooperate.
“You didn’t call me.”
“I was busy being shot.”
“After!”
“I slept.” I gesture to the drip in my arm and the bandage around my thigh.“I slept.”
“Lame. You worried me.”
Sweeter words have never been spoken.
“C’mere.” I crook a finger and beckon her closer, then fumble for her neck to steal a kiss but end up entangled in her hair.
“Ow.” She twists her head and pulls her hair from between my fingers. “You’re really out of it, aren’t you?” Throwing her bag on the bedside table, she sits next to me.
I groan when the mattress shifts, making the pain in my thigh flare-up.
“Fuck, no. This won’t do.” He presses the call button before I can object. A few moments later, a nurse shows up. “He’s in pain,” says the celestial being by my side. “Give him all the stuff.”
The nurse frowns at her, then focuses on me. I’m too caught up in angel-Penelope to take much notice but nod when I’m asked about pain. The nurse fiddles with my IV drip, then a blissful calm spreads, and the pain lessens. Penelope becomes blurry again.
She argues with the nurse, then leans in.
“They’re throwing me out. I’ll be back in the morning, you doofus. Don’t go anywhere.”
Grunting an answer, I grab her hair and pull her in, stealing a kiss.
“Guess fucking you’ll have to wait,” I mumble. Then I’m completely out of it, floating away on a wave of fuzziness.
It’s sooo good.
Shot or not, I believe things are looking up.
She’s there. Hour after hour, day after day, she sits by my side with her laptop. She’s made my bedside table into her office desk. She works, bosses the nurses around, doesn’t give a fuck about visiting hours, is incredibly, beautifully annoying, and all mine. Apparently.
Why else would she stick to me like a butt to a vinyl seat on a hot day?
When I’m discharged, she drives me home and supports me all the way while I try to coordinate the crutches. Not used to being dependent on anyone or anything, I loathe the tricky sticks I need to move around.
She takes over my living room with her work stuff and buys all my favorite food. I suddenly find myself with a lot more streaming services, and we watch movies every night. Penelope hates cooking, but she’s a pro at ordering takeout. She only drinks coffee in the morning but eventually comes to love the rich breakfasts I demand to have some energy for my work. She learns to adapt to my habits, to ease up her self-centered lifestyle, and I learn to let go and ease up on mine. For the first time in my life, I delight in someone taking care of me.
We talk—a lot—about our years apart, the good old days, our dreams for the future, and very carefully, about the bad old days. We talk about losing those you care for and the loss eating away at your soul until you’re nothing but a shell you need to fill with something, or you might as well lie down and perish.
The place she was in back then, our last year in school—swallowed up by darkness—left no room for me or for any emotions other than all-consuming anger. She was furious with herself, with all of us, for putting Savannah in a spot where that bullet took her life. I’ve been stupid and selfish, thinking my teen love for her could have mended anything, finally understanding how we were too young and too immature. I needed her to move on so we could get back together. She needed to find herself, and she has through therapy, work, and enough time.
Every hour spent in her company makes my heart open a little more and teaches me to forgive myself and my idiot former self.
I’m getting too used to having her around, and fuck if I’ll let her move back to her place.
As I sit on a towel on a plastic chair in the shower, she hand bathes me, making sure to avoid the bandage.
It gets harder every day.