Page 28 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

“Hey,” I say, feeling caught off guard.

“Was that your mother?” he asks, careful not to look me in the eyes.

“Yup. She was just checking in.”

My dad walks farther into the kitchen, reaches for the coffee, and pours himself a cup. “And how’s she doing?”

“She’s good,” I say slowly. It’s not easy between me and my father. There are so many things I want to ask him but don’t know how; like why he keeps all our old family photographs hanging in the living room, or why my mother’s favorite tea is still stocked in the cabinet. And, most importantly, why he so easily threw away their marriage.

But I’ve never had the balls to go there, so I change the subject. “Have you ever gone to the book club at Penny’s store?”

My father glances at me quickly before grabbing a spoon and stirring his coffee. “No. I try to avoid Babs and Rayna as much as possible.”

“Don’t ever do it,” I warn him as a memory of Rayna grabbing that cursed blue silicone toy pops into my head.

“Okay,” he replies with a half smile. “I’m going to take the boat out, if you want to join me?”

He finally lifts his eyes to mine, his expression more relaxed. Almost hopeful. Probably because we’re no longer talking about my mother. I still find it so strange how two people could spend over two decades together—build a life and a family together—and then just stop talking. I’ll never understand love, and I’m done trying.

“I really have to get some writing done.”

My dad bobs his head, clearly disappointed but trying to hide it, and goes straight for the door. “All right, I’ll see you later, then.”

I consider calling after him and saying I’ll go. But then we’d be stuck on a boat for hours together and it would be just as uneasy as this conversation. God, why are relationships so difficult? Why can’t I even talk to my own father?

He’s barely gone sixty seconds when Vovo appears. “Amor, I forgot the chicken for dinner tonight. I’m going to run to the store quickly, though I have flowers being delivered. Can you listen for the door?”

“Want me to run to the store? I don’t mind.”

“No. A estadia.” Stay. “I go.”

I don’t argue. When she starts talking in Portuguese, she means serious business. Besides, I should be writing. No matter what my mother says, the only way this book is ever going to get written is if I just start putting words on the page. Even if the words are awful. Even if I rip them up later. At least they’ll exist.

But I do take my mother’s advice on one thing: I draw on my own experience to craft the first chapter—or rather on Penny’s, since I’m writing from the female perspective. I find myself laughing as the story comes more easily—about a time-traveling woman slipping into a wedding dress in the present, only to find herself topless in a bootlegger’s bedroom in the 1920s—when I hear a familiar voice. “Ana?”

I blink and rub at my eyes; I’ve written ten full pages. My blood pulses and I feel a bolt of excitement I haven’t experienced in a very long time.

“Ana!”

Shit. I rush to the front door and swing it open.

It takes a few seconds for my brain to register that the person standing in front of me, holding a gorgeous bouquet of yellow sunflowers, isn’t a dream. She’s not from my memory, or my imagination. Nope, Penny Darling is very real.

I wonder if there’s a scientific explanation for why every time I set my eyes on Penny’s, that buzzing in my brain quiets. Maybe it’s the copper color. It hypnotizes me. I’m caught in her amber glow.

I also wonder if she’s thought about last night as much as me.

“Monty?” Her confused tone brings me back to the present.

And what a present it is. Smiling, I take her in. From the red bandanna that is trying and dramatically failing to contain her thick bangs, to the long loose braid that hangs against her breastbone. It brushes back and forth as she shifts, a spot where I’d like to run my fingers, and maybe my tongue. Fuck, there I go again. What is wrong with me? “Sorry, I was in the writing zone.”

“Ah, I remember those days.” Penny’s face lights up. “I would have whole conversations with you about something I’d just read and you wouldn’t hear a single word. You’d be so far into your own writing world.”

“Sounds like I was a terrible friend.” I laugh as I hold open the door for her. “Why’d you stick around?”

Penny pulls her lip between her teeth as she pauses at the door. “There’s a serious underappreciation for dating in silence.”

My brows rise in question and she smacks a hand over her face. “Not that we were ever dating. I’m talking about friend dates. Friendly dating?” She shakes her head and groans as her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of red. “Please ignore what I just said.”