I stare at the two of them. Both geniuses in their own way. Both idiots too.
“I’m going to get hurt.”
Kate shrugs again. “I guess. But it’s only love.”
Penelope slides a side eye to Kate, then back to me. “What’s so bad about getting hurt?”
“I don’t…want to get hurt.”
Kate rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well,” she plucks a leaf from the lavender plant and rolls it between her fingers, bringing it to her nose. “Shit happens.”
Penelope grins. “No one likes getting hurt honey.” She glances at Kate. “And shit does happen.”
“Well, sure, but there’s a difference between getting hurt by accident and running straight into the firing squad.”
Kate tilts her head, pondering my metaphor. “I guess.” She looks down at the crushed lavender between her fingers, sniffing one last time, and then sprinkling them on the deck at her feet. “But in my experience, firing squads happen too, so I wouldn’t worry about that either.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Don’t get attached. You only get hurt if you let yourself get hurt. Don’t let yourself.”
“My god,” Penelope finishes her drink and places the sparkling mug on a collection of metal loops and rings that form a table. I glance at it, wondering when she took up welding. “You are both so dysfunctional. It’s unreal.”
“I am not.”
“Why would you say that?”
Kate and I speak at the same time.
Penelope comes closer, her hemp skirt sashaying behind her as she drops elegantly to a crossed-legged position between us. Placing a delicate, paint-smeared hand on Kate’s perfectly pedicured foot, she smiles. “You can’t prevent yourself from getting hurt. Only a fool thinks they can.” She looks to me, “And trying to prevent love is not only a waste of time, it’s a waste of life. Why would you try to avoid one of the best parts of living?”
“Because it doesn’t work out,” Kate mutters, studying the tips of her fingers, where crushed lavender lingers.
I nod, pointing to Kate.
Penelope glances between the two of us, a look of sympathy, if not outright pity, on her face. “Love happens, you two, sometimes out of the blue. And trying to avoid it because you’re worried it ‘won’t work out’” she uses her fingers to signify quotation marks, “doesn’t work either.”
Kate sits silently, her face mulish. I glance at her, her perfect clothes, perfect hair, a queen’s demeanor. I can’t remember ever seeing her lose her cool, lose her temper, or even seem flustered. If ever there were a person who could talk herself out of feeling an emotion, it would be she.
I on the other hand…for all my intellectual trappings, book loving, and nerd living, the truth is…I’m vulnerable. I’m inexperienced. I haven’t dated a lot. I haven’t fallen in love often.
“I am completely over my head,” I mutter. “I’m head over heels with a guy who is so totally out of my league, who could have anyone he wants, and I just…” I shake my head.
Penelope rests her hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
I pause, pressing my lips together, and look between the two of them. The truth is hot and hard and choking in my throat. I close my eyes.
“I don’t believe he could ever really love me.”
I open my eyes. Penelope has that sad look on her face again, a combination of pity and grief. Even Kate, behind that flawless complexion, seems depressed.
“Honey, why…”
“It’s a fairy tale.” I smile at them both, knowing tears shimmer in my eyes. “And there’s a reason we read fairy tales. They help us sleep. They humor children. But they’re not real. Nerdy, boring women do not sweep gorgeous, international men off their feet. That’s not how this works.”
“I think you’ve already swept him off his feet, sweetie,” Kate speaks quietly. “We all think that.”
Penelope shakes her head, eyes still on mine. She has that same quiet intensity of Dory, the quiet compassion of Christine.
“You are such a fucking idiot.” Hmm…and the language of Jessica.
“I am not-”
“We already had this conversation,” she points to me. Kate nods. “Remember? Before he even arrived. We were joking that you two would get together and you immediately, without even a pause, shot down the idea.”
Kate nods again.
“Excuse me?” I stare at both of them. “Since when did shooting down a daydream about dating a movie star make someone an idiot.”
“It wasn’t the shooting down part, Jane. It was the why.”
“What why?” I look to Kate.
“From what I remember,” she shifts in her chair, “you said that it would be impossible because of who you are, not because of who he is.”
Penelope nods.
“I don’t see your point,” I say, even as a nugget of self-realization eats at the corner of my mind.
“This keeps coming up with you, honey,” Penelope has her hand on my knee, as we both sit on the floor of her deck, surrounded by flowers and herbs growing from lopsided, home-made pots as Kate peers down at us from her chair like an empress surveying her minions. “You have such confidence in some areas of your life, but absolutely none in others.”
“Remember that article you wrote for the New York Times? Ripping apart that famous author for her homophobia? I couldn’t believe the way you put yourself out there like that, but you did, and it was fantastic.” Kate pointed to me, “It also got you a book deal.”
“And how many years did you spend applying for professorships? Five? Six? I mean, how could you have kept doing that, if you didn’t believe, deep down, that you were awesome and would eventually succeed?” Penelope taps my leg.
I shrug. “I’m good at writing.”
“Were you always?” Kate asks. “Or have you spent the last few decades studying, writing, editing, practicing, and learning how to be great at your job?”
Penelope peers at
