“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I’m a smart guy.”
“Some other time.” I yawn. “It’s past my bedtime.”
Martin nods. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Banks.”
“Goodnight.”
Chapter 13
When I wake up, I’m greeted by the not-so-subtle reminder that while I may be sleeping in my teenage bed, my body is definitely over thirty. My head throbs with what I can already tell will be a baby hangover, my mouth tastes like the bottom of a trash can, and my back feels like someone tried to twist it into a pretzel. I check the time, expecting it to be much later than the bright and early 7:00 a.m. that’s glaring at me on my phone screen.
I scroll through my phone, debating whether I should go back to sleep. Maybe the key to waking up refreshed like a teenager is to sleep past noon like a teenager.
There’s a new text from an hour ago in my group chat with Phoebe and Falon.
Phoebe: We’re doing a turkey trot 5K this morning. You’re welcome to join!
Falon: You get a free t-shirt!
Ew. Why do people think that giving a run a cute name automatically makes the run fun? If gynos called it a turkey Pap and offered a free pair of underwear, would people be more willing to sign up? Just when I was starting to think that being in a group text with my sister and her future wife was cute, Phoebe had to ruin it with physical activity.
Penny: I don’t turkey trot.
Penny: And I brought my own t-shirts.
I’m about to close my phone and go back to sleep when a text from an unknown number pops onto my screen.
Unknown: Hey, it’s me. I got your number from your sister.
Apparently, Phoebe’s had a much more productive morning than I have. I save Martin’s number to my phone.
Penny: The snitch strikes again.
Martin: I wanted to see if you maybe wanted to grab some coffee this morning. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.
Penny: Is it Dolly Parton? I’ve always wanted to meet Dolly.
Martin: Not exactly.
Penny: Fine. Starbucks?
Martin: They’re open on Thanksgiving?
Penny: Starbucks and Cher never sleep.
I do the mental math of the amount of physical exertion it will take for me to make myself look presentable, which is challenging considering the fact my hangover is growing by the second.
“Penny!” Nana Rosie’s voice bellows over the intercom. “Are you awake?”
I really need to figure out how to disassemble that thing. “Penny’s not here.”
“Then who, may I ask, am I speaking to?”
“Cher.” I flip my hair for effect and don my best Cher voice. “Whoa.”
“Excellent. Cher, please come downstairs so we can give you your to-do list.”
“Whoa. Cher doesn’t do lists. Cher lies in bed and waits to be served by men dressed in loincloths and bow ties.”
“If Cher doesn’t get her heinie down here right now, she’s going to get cleaning the turkey added to her to-do list.”
“Be down in ten,” I groan. “And by ten, I mean twenty.”
“Over and out.”
I throw on a pair of jeans and pull a gray knitted sweater over my Jessica Simpson concert tee. I slip on my trusty Birkenstocks over a pair of white fluffy socks because according to Gen Z, socks and sandals are all the rage . . . and I’m also a giant wimp when the weather drops below seventy-five.
Ozzie scratches at the outside of my door, reminding me that he’s yet to take his morning pee. Apparently, taking her bedmate out isn’t on Nana Rosie’s to-do list. You’d think that I could simply open the door to the backyard and let him out to do his business, but Ozzie is a city dog. City dogs only pee after they’ve had the chance to smell at least ten spots where other dogs have peed, and they’ll only poop after twenty to thirty minutes of intense negotiation and threats. I buckle his tiny harness and leash, grab my phone, and sneak out through the garage before anyone has the chance to stop me. I don’t “people” well before coffee, so really I’m doing everyone a favor.
I text Martin that I’m on my way. The closest Starbucks is just three blocks away, so it shouldn’t take me long. I round the corner of Clementine Street and wait patiently as Ozzie sniffs three bushes and a fire hydrant before deciding to piss on the tire of a Prius. I think Ozzie was an oil tycoon in a past life.
We’re halfway down Orange Avenue when I recognize my father walking straight toward us in a teal-blue tracksuit. “Dad?”
“Penelope.” His eyes widen. “Good morning.”