Chapter 74: The Final Month - Part 2
Wednesday evening. Week three.
Penny's on my couch reading Y: The Last Man. I'm reviewing inventory spreadsheets. Neither talking.
Just existing in the same space.
"This is nice," she says without looking up.
"Reading in silence?"
"Being together without needing entertainment. Just—" She gestures. "—this."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to miss this most. The quiet parts."
"Not the karaoke disasters?"
"Those too. But the quiet parts more." She closes the comic. "In New York, I'll be alone a lot. In a new city. New people. No one who knows me."
"You'll make friends."
"I know. But they won't be—" She pauses. "—you. Or the gang. Or this."
"You'll have the play. That's what matters."
"The play matters. This mattered more."
Past tense.
We're already speaking about us as history.
Thursday. Late night.
"I want to talk about after," Penny says.
We're in bed. Two AM. Neither sleeping.
"After you leave?"
"Yeah. What are the rules?"
"Rules?"
"For staying friends. Because I want to stay friends. Eventually. When it doesn't hurt."
"Okay. What rules?"
"First month. No contact. We need space to adjust."
"Agreed."
"After that—texts. Check-ins. Nothing heavy. Just—making sure we're both okay."
"How often?"
"Once a week? Twice?"
"Let's say once. Leaves room for missing each other without being desperate."
"Good." She's making notes on her phone. Actually writing rules. "Visiting?"
"If you come back to LA, we can hang out. As friends. With the group."
"What about you visiting New York?"
"Let's—wait. See how the first few months go."
"Because seeing each other might make it harder."
"Yeah."
"Okay." More notes. "Dating other people?"
The question hits harder than expected.
"We can date other people," I say carefully. "We'll be broken up."
"But if you start dating someone—tell me? Before I hear it from Leonard or someone?"
"Same for you."
"Deal."
She sets down her phone. "This is so fucking mature."
"We're very evolved."
"I hate how evolved we are."
"Me too."
"I want to be messy. Dramatic. Make this your fault somehow."
"Feel free."
"But it's not your fault. It's nobody's fault. It's just—" She's crying again. "—timing. And circumstances. And life being unfair."
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"That doesn't change?"
"That doesn't change. Just changes shape."
"Into friendship."
"Into friendship."
She rolls toward me. "Two weeks left."
"Two weeks."
"Then we're done."
"Then we're done."
Friday. Week three's end.
Penny hands me an envelope.
"Don't open it until after I leave."
"What is it?"
"Letter. About what this meant. What you meant. All of it."
"Penny—"
"I wrote it last night. Couldn't sleep. Just—kept thinking about everything. Needed to say it properly."
"I wrote you one too."
"You did?"
I pull mine from my desk drawer. Hand it over.
"Mine's probably less eloquent."
"I doubt that."
We exchange letters. Neither opening them.
"After I leave," she says.
"After you leave," I agree.
Saturday. Santa Monica Pier.
We're walking the length of it. Cotton candy and screaming kids and the smell of ocean mixed with fried food.
"This is aggressively California," Penny observes.
"That's why it's on the list."
"I'm going to miss this. The ocean. The weather. Nebraska doesn't have this."
"New York doesn't either."
"New York has theater. And bagels. And—" She stops. "—I'm trying to make myself excited about leaving and it's not working."
"You don't have to be excited about leaving. Just excited about the opportunity."
"What if I fail?"
"You won't."
"But what if I do? What if I'm terrible? What if—"
"Penny." I stop walking. Face her. "You're going to be brilliant. I know this. The director knows this. Your agent knows this. The only person who doesn't know this is you."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've watched you perform. At parties. At karaoke. When you're trying to convince Howard that his jokes aren't funny. You're always performing. And you're always good."
She's crying. "I'm going to ruin my mascara."
"You look great with ruined mascara."
"Liar."
"Truth."
We keep walking. The pier stretches ahead. The ocean's doing its thing. Indifferent to personal drama.
"One more week," Penny says.
"One more week."
"Then I'm gone."
"Then you're gone."
"And we're over."
"And we're different."
"That's a nicer way of saying over."
"It's the true way."
She takes my hand. "Thank you. For making this bearable."
"Thank you for making seven months perfect."
"They were pretty perfect, weren't they?"
"Yeah. They really were."
Sunday night. My penthouse.
One week left.
The bucket list is almost done. Photos number in the thousands. Letters written and exchanged but not read.
Penny's asleep on my couch. Camera on her stomach. Wonder Woman comic next to her.
She looks peaceful.
I'm not.
Seven days.
Then she's in New York.
And I'm here.
And this—whatever this is—becomes past tense.
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