“Oh, you mean like those crime documentaries you’re so obsessed with?” Nana Rosie motions for my mother to pass her the popcorn. “What’s normal about wanting to watch a woman poison her husband with oleander? Sounds awfully depressing if you ask me.”
“Technically, they all have happy endings because they always catch the killer,” Phoebe says.
“The Bachelorette is not so bad.” Falon holds out an open bag of barbecue potato chips to Phoebe, which she snatches out of her hand like a hangry raccoon. “On second thought, Penny, now might be a good time for a bottle of wine.”
“I’m on it,” I say. “Anybody else have any requests?”
“A lobotomy,” Phoebe grumbles, mouth full of chips.
“I’d love a beer,” Nana Rosie says. “It goes better with popcorn in my opinion. In the can is fine.”
My mother makes a face indicating that beer in the can is anything but fine, but she holds her tongue.
“Do you want me to pause it if you’re not back before the ad break is over?” Falon asks.
“Not necessary,” I say, knowing all too well that leaving this group without something to distract them for any length of time has the potential to end in a riot. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
I hurry into the kitchen, sliding across the marble floor in my fluffy socks. I feel a little like a kid back in high school again, lounging in my flannel pajamas and watching bad TV. It’s the sort of thing I’d do all the time with Phoebe. During school breaks, we’d camp out in front of the TV, watching our favorite movies. Phoebe would always pick something indie and edgy, while I wanted something romantic with Meg Ryan or Drew Barrymore. We’d devour bags of sour candy and tortilla chips with salsa, and we’d wash it down with Mountain Dews.
Life was so easy back when we were in high school. I never thought of us as being best friends back then, but now, I don’t know what else we’d call it. Up until our senior year, Phoebe was the keeper of my secrets, and I kept hers. She came out to me when we were freshmen, years before she was ready to tell my parents. She was so afraid of being different from me. She was afraid I wouldn’t know how to relate to her, but I wasn’t. I’d been sneaking romance novels from the public library for years. If there’s one thing I understood, it was attraction. I took her to her first Pride parade that summer, and I held her hand when she told Mom and Dad her junior year.
I can’t remember the last time I held my sister’s hand. I can’t remember the last time she trusted me with her secrets, and I don’t remember the last time I thought to tell her mine. That’s the problem with coming back home, I guess. You realize how much you’ve missed since you’ve been gone.
“Penny! Where’s the wine?” Phoebe shouts from the living room. “This kind of torture is illegal in some countries.”
“Just a minute!” I call back.
I grab a bottle of chilled red from the wine fridge, along with two cans of beer—no glasses required—and three stemless wine glasses. I try to scoop everything into my arms to carry into the living room, but it’s impossible to do in one trip. If living in San Francisco has taught me anything over the years, it’s that making two trips is never an option. I eye Nana Rosie’s gardening basket next to the back door.
Bingo.
I lift the top of the picnic-style basket, and a skunky, familiar odor hits me. I turn on the overhead light to get a better look inside.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I hold up a sticky bud. “My grandma’s a pothead.”
The door that leads from the garage to the kitchen opens, and I snap the lid closed. Marijuana might be legal in California, but old habits die hard. In walks my father, followed by Martin. Both appear more surprised to see me than I am to find Nana Rosie’s stash.
“Penelope.” My father nods, wiping a layer of sweat above his upper lip. “Would you tell your mother to come see me in our bedroom? Please?”
“Is everything OK?”
“Perfectly fine.”
He makes a quick exit down the hall to his bedroom before I can say anything more. I shift my attention to Martin and try to assess the situation. He’s still in his clothes from before, which means whatever the two of them were doing occupied a fair chunk of time.
I narrow my gaze. “Why were you in the garage with my father? I thought you were changing.”
“I didn’t want you to find out like this, but your father cornered me on the way to my room and brought me into the garage so we could talk in private.” He looks down at his feet. “Banks, your father has asked me if I would be willing to be his fake boyfriend at our company holiday party.”