“No problem. Anything else I can do for you?” I smile sweetly.

“I think you’ve done quite enough,” Penn says. I look over at Dad’s back, and his shoulders are shaking with laughter. I think he’s relieved we’re not flirting.

“I see you’ve already met.” He stacks the steaks onto a plate.

“Oh, yeah,” I retort. “Penn has seen quite a bit of me.”

At dinner, we all sit at the table and eat as though the world is not ending. As if Penn is a legitimate part of our family. I push my food around. Mom and Dad introduce Penn as a family friend to Bailey and me, and I snort while she shakes his hand over the salads and crystal diamond water pitchers. Tasmanian rain, if you must know. Expensive and pretentious, just like us.

Penn is open and kind even though he talks like a boy from the hood. His speech is lazy and confident and mesmerizing. He makes a point of ignoring me. His eyes and cheeks are still a nice shade of purple, but I can tell that in a few days, the bruises will fade, and then his stunning, immortal god face will haunt me on a daily basis. No one talks about the unfortunate state of his body or why he is here until Bailey raises her head from her plate.

“What happened to your face?” She covers her mouth to hide her braces as she speaks.

“Bailey,” Mom scolds at the same time Dad groans and shakes his head. Penn flashes her an easy smile. I stare at him, seeing what I don’t want to see. That when he’s not dealing with me, he’s not a douchebag.

“I punched a door.” He throws a Brussels sprout into his mouth, chewing.

“You did?” Bailey’s eyes widen as they assess his knuckles.

“Swung right back and punched me harder.”

“It looks awful.” Mel states the freaking obvious, pushing a forkful of sautéed spinach into her mouth.

“You should see the door.” Penn leans over to catch Bailey’s gaze. Then everyone but me bursts out laughing, and I can practically hear the crack of the ice as it breaks around the table. The only problem is, there are two icebergs. They’re on one, and I’m drifting away on another, far away from them.

Penn clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t have the best summer, and I needed an outlet. The door turned out to be…tougher than I thought, but it led me here.”

I roll my eyes, stabbing a piece of chicken and dragging it in white sauce.

“So since we’re addressing the subject,” Mel says, carefully placing her utensils on her plate, “Daria, Bailey. Penn’s been going through some dark moments recently. We thought it would be a good idea to have him here during his senior year before he goes off to college.”

“His senior year? It’s my senior year! And don’t you mean if he goes to college,” I add, throwing all caution to the wind. He’s been horrible to me, so why shouldn’t I be horrible to him? I get that I hurt him. That we both did something terrible four years ago. But he didn’t even give me a chance to apologize or explain. All eyes snap to my face, other than Penn’s. He digs into his steak, chewing on a juicy piece.

“Based on his grades and performance on the football field, I can assure you that Penn is on his way to Notre Dame on a scholarship.” Melody sends me a tight, this-is-not-how-Followhills-conduct-themselves smile. She hates it when I’m Hulky and spiteful.

“What happened?” Bailey makes a face to Penn.

“My mom passed away,” he explains. Bailey shoots her gaze to me as though I’m the one who killed her. Consequently, I want to die.

“At any rate”—Dad’s eyes narrow on me—“should you girls like to voice any concerns or issues, our door is always open.”

Bailey looks over at Penn, then down at her lap.

“I always wanted a big brother. Is that what you’ll be?”

I choke on my water, spitting some of it onto my plate. Is she freaking kidding me? She is thirteen. Who talks like that? Bailey. Bailey talks like that. She’s goodness and sunshine wrapped in a pink bow. A straight-A student and her mommy’s beloved ballerina. She and Luna volunteer to clean beaches and fold secondhand clothes for charities every summer break.

Penn slides into our lives effortlessly, and no one notices how uncomfortable it makes me feel. Or how he still hasn’t acknowledged my existence since we sat down.

He takes a sip of his water.

“Are you accepting applicants?”

I roll my eyes so hard, I’m afraid they’ll end up on my plate. His smile widens behind his glass.

“Job’s yours.” Bailey’s eyes light up. “We could go bowling!”

“We could, but we won’t because it’s lame,” Penn deadpans.

“Totally lame.” She snickers, breathless.

“But I see you’re a reader.” He gestures with his chin to the stack of books piled on the coffee table in the living room. Bailey is a bookworm. She loves poetry. Another reason she is my personal 2.0 version.

“There’s an open mic place in San Diego where people read their poems. It’s pretty rad, and they serve a sick apple pie there. We could go. Your parents can come, too.”

Everyone grins as though they’re starring in a toothpaste commercial. No one realizes he failed to extend the invitation to me. I slam my water glass on the table. I am ignored. Maybe I’m like the boy who cried wolf. So snappy and short all the time that when I actually have a reason to be pissed, no one gives a damn.

“This is the best,” Bailey says at the same time Mel jumps into practicalities.

“You don’t have a car, Penn. Since you’ll need to commute to San Diego every day, you’re not going to argue with me about this next thing.”

Penn shoots her a look I don’t think I’d ever be able to get away with. Part murderous, all infuriated.

“Is this the part where you’re getting me a car? Because I’m not a toy boy.”

“Already did.” Dad shrugs, popping a piece of steak into his mouth. “It’s nothing fancy, and I forgot to extend my warning about not touching my daughters to my wife, too—that toy boy remark almost cost you your nose.”

“Fine. Correction: I’m not a charity case.” Penn stabs his steak so hard, the dead cow is almost groaning in pain.

“Are you sure about that?” I drone, swirling the water in my glass. “Because you look and dress like one.”

“Daria,” Mel snaps.

Bailey shakes her head at me.

I hate this. I hate him. And I hate that I’m showing off my fake colors, the bitchy ones, in all their insecure glory when he’s around.

Penn pretends he didn’t hear me and steals a Brussels sprout from Bailey’s plate.

“Thank Marx.” She laughs. “I hate them. Do you know you have a hole in your shirt?”

I want to tell her that it’s intentional. Symbolic. Because he always has one, no matter when and where I see him or what he’s wearing. Instead, I count the pepper bits on my piece of chicken.

My sister and I aren’t close.

“There’s a story behind it,” he says.

“A good story?” she asks.

“I don’t have any other types of stories.”