Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel(2)

I do know. As of eight o’clock this morning, when my mother decided to spring the news on me of a gentleman caller joining us for the holiday, I officially know everything there is to know about Martin Butler without ever having to look him up on the internet. That is exactly how desperate my mother is to make sure that I fall in love and have one hundred of Martin Butler’s babies. Because falling in love and having babies is the answer to all your problems, according to my mother and the majority of Hallmark movies.

“Are you still on the line, Penelope?” My mother’s voice snaps me back into the present. “You’re not even here yet and you’re already ignoring me.”

“It’s impossible to ignore you, Mom. You’re like one of those blow-up things with wild arms they stick out in front of car dealerships.”

“I’m going to choose to ignore that, Penelope.”

Typical.

“Did I mention your sister thinks Martin looks like that famous Christopher? Oh, which one did she say?”

“I hope it’s Walken.”

“Hemsworth!” She shouts it like she’s just gotten bingo. “Anyway, he’s very handsome and smart. I told him you write books, and he seemed very impressed by that.”

“Did you tell him I can also read? Or that I can walk, chew gum, and sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ backward at the same time? What about my boobs? In my experience, men seem to really like them.”

“I don’t know why I worry about someone kidnapping you.” My mother groans. “They’d bring you back within an hour. Hurry home, and for the love of god, do not drink any caffeine.”

“No promises.”

I hang up the phone and plop down into an empty seat in the food court. The smell of salty fries mixing with hot pepperoni pizza makes my stomach growl. My parents are the type that believe dinner is best served over a three-hour period, starting with half an hour of cocktails and conversation, which means if I don’t eat now, I will die of hunger with a martini in my hand.

Ozzie whimpers in his crate. It would be cruel not to get him his customary slice of meat lover’s, and even crueler for me to make him an orphan because I passed up a slice of greasy airport pizza. The line isn’t too long, so I drag Ozzie and my luggage over while pulling up the Dryver app on my phone.

“A slice of meat lover’s pizza and a slice of pepperoni with extra garlic,” I say once we reach the front of the line. Extra garlic might not be the wisest choice, but Martin should know up front that I’m the sort of woman who will always sacrifice fresh breath for a satisfied belly. “Add red onions too.”

“Alone for Thanksgiving?” the cashier asks. He leans over the counter and smiles at Ozzie. “Oh, never mind, there’s your little date. Such a cutie.”

“What did you just ask me?”

“Uh . . . if you were alone?”

His name tag says Karl. Karl with a K. He looks like a Karl with a K. All entitled and judgy. The teenage acne and oversize plastic frames almost had me fooled into thinking he was some Pretty in Pink, Jon Cryer nice guy. But he’s not. Karl is no Duckie Dale. I narrow my eyes and push the 10 percent tip option on the card reader instead of 20 percent.

“My husband is dead, Karl.”

“Oh my god.” My receipt shakes like a leaf in his hand. “Are you serious?”

“No, but what kind of person asks someone if they’re alone in an airport?” I snatch the receipt from him. “I’ll tell you what kind. Serial killers. Are you a serial killer, Karl?”

“No!” Karl frantically waves his hands in front of me. “I thought I was flirting. I promise I wasn’t thinking of killing you.”

“Oh.” I wish I could say this was the first time that something like this has happened to me. You’d think that a woman who writes romance books for a living would be a tiny bit more perceptive when it comes to flirting. “Sorry I called you a serial killer.”

We stare at each other in awkward silence. There’s a small line of people behind me that had no idea they’d be getting dinner and a show when they stepped in line for pizza.

“Do you want Parmesan packets?”

“Obviously.”

Ozzie and I take our slices to a table at the back of the food court. It’s the farthest I can get away from Karl and people without breaking any laws of science.

I pull out my phone and open the Smut Coven group chat.

Penny: I scared a cashier who was trying to flirt with me.

Jackie: Again?

Chelsey: Did you make this one cry?

Penny: No. I called him a serial killer though.

The Smut Coven consists of me and my two closest friends, Chelsey Hicks and Jackie Von. Like me, Jackie and Chelsey are romance writers. We met at a local writers’ group, not long after I moved to San Francisco, and started critiquing each other’s work. When Jackie and Chelsey’s lease was up, they moved in with me, and the Smut Coven was born. We’ve been roomies for the past nine years, and as of a month ago, we’re now business partners. Or at least we will be if we can come up with the cash to officially open our romance bookstore.

Chelsey: That wasn’t very Pisces of you.

Jackie: Cut yourself some slack. It’s your first time home in forever.

Jackie: And you’re there on business. Not pleasure.