the subsequent four days. I dropped the phone back on the bed and flopped down next to it.
Ford jumped up and onto my chest, happily kneading my rib cage and breathing fishy breath on me. I needed to get in a better head space for my date with Keats, and sleeping another hour with my stinky cat would have been perfect, but the new red boots were calling.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, reluctantly pushing him off. He nipped my arm.
• • •
I still got to Soho twenty minutes early. But maybe that wasn’t so surprising, since I always leave for places early, perpetually worried I’ll end up on one of those trains that gets stuck in a tunnel and I’ll have to crawl my way aboveground with only my wits and the Mole People to guide me.
I decided to kill time at the McNally Jackson bookstore. Walking in and seeing the bright colors of book covers and the light wood floors, my heart slowed into a comfortable rhythm. Home. Books were home.
I started toward the mystery section, hoping to find a copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley, and rounded the corner so quickly, I plowed into Eph’s dad, George, in front of the travel section.
“Oh, Mr. O’Connor!” I said, blushing. “I’m sorry!”
He ran his hand distractedly through his thick black hair. “Penelope, good to see you,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “Is Eph here?”
George had this frown on his face, like he had eaten something he couldn’t decide was rotten or not yet, but was veering toward probably spoiled. Had Eph told his dad about the kiss?
“No,” I said quickly. “Only me, getting ready to go on a date. With a boy. Keats.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to add all that.
“Of course,” he said, exhaling, just as a pert, freckled young woman came up behind him. Her tidy ponytail swayed as she handed him a steaming cup.
“Darjeeling with a little milk, just like you like it.”
“Um, thanks, Annabeth,” he said, blowing absentmindedly on the tea.
“So I bet Mrs. O’Connor is glad you didn’t have to work today after all,” I said, trying to sound helpful.
George sipped his tea and winced. “Actually, I—I mean we—are working . . . taking a little break from exhibit planning.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering why he was taking a break all the way downtown when the museum was all the way uptown.
Annabeth put her hand lightly on George’s elbow.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry—Penelope, this is Annabeth Miller. She’s been helping out at the museum while she finishes up her dissertation. Annabeth, Penelope is a family friend, and one of my son’s favorite people in the world.”
“Hey,” I said, extending my hand. “I bet you know my dad, Dr. Marx?”
She flinched, her smile fading; then, just as quickly, she recovered, shaking my hand enthusiastically. “Totally!” she said. “He’s brilliant.”
“Um, yeah, thanks, I guess?”
We all stood there awkwardly, George focusing intently on his tea, Annabeth still smiling but now humming an anxious tune under her breath.
“So, I have to go,” I said, holding up my wristwatch, even though I still had at least ten minutes to burn.
George seemed relieved. “Good to see you, Penelope.”
“Yeah, you too. And nice to meet you, Annabeth.”
She nodded, her lips pursed in a tight smile, and I walked as quickly out of the store as I could without actually running. Halfway down the sidewalk, curiosity got the better of me, and I backed up and peeked through the window.
George and Annabeth were exactly where I had left them. His back was to the window, but I saw Annabeth, and she was not happy—her face red and scowling, her hands gesturing furiously as she mouthed something.
I’ve always been crap at lip reading, and I was worried Annabeth would see me spying from outside, so I pulled back. But whatever she was saying, I was pretty sure it was angry and very sure I shouldn’t have seen it.
I headed to the coffee shop, my new-old red cowboy boots clicking on the sidewalk, feeling queasy about what I’d witnessed. I stopped outside the shoe store next to Cafe Gitane and studied the boots in the window, wondering if I should text Eph or call him and tell him what I saw or make sure everything was okay with his parents.
But I thought about last night, and everything Eph-related switched back to weird mode in my mind, so I decided to shelve the whole thing, at least for now. Keats—it was time for Keats.
•