UNEDITED
Between his semi-committed addiction to smoking and his role as CEO of Elemental Coffee, Cassian Russell has spent the majority of his life running one of the most popular coffee shops on the Island with his best friend, Jake Swift. After a...
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Cassian
"Gabe," I say, running a hand through my hair. "I can't get Pen out of bed."
"Well, what happened?"
"I'm not sure," I reply. "She won't tell me. The last time she spoke a single word to me was when I collided with her on the beach."
Gabriel sighs. "Okay, I'll be over as soon as I can."
When Gabriel hangs up, I set Penelope's phone down on the counter. Thank God for facial recognition—I'd never be able to crack her passcode. I'm not sure what she's hiding on her phone, but her passcode is foolproof; no one could guess it. I'm assuming she's got years of information from trying to find her biological parents, but I could be wrong. Maybe she has a secret life I'm unaware of.
Sighing, I grab the kettle from the stove and pour the boiling water into a teapot, allowing the tea to steep. I've already tried to talk her out of bed, but she refuses to move. But Pen never rejects a steaming cup of tea. Especially when it's my mom's homemade tea. Pen loves everything my mom does and fully supports resorting to Indigenous alternatives for things like headaches and period cramps. From the cupboard, I remove two mugs and then collect the teapot. The heat is tolerable, so I brave the journey to Pen's bedroom.
Before I enter, I knock. I will her to respond. I want her to roast my out-of-character politeness or to make a comment about being too loud. Although it's only been two days since her exchange with Patrick happened, I miss the old Penelope. I miss joking around with her, teasing her. I miss her laugh and smile. Work was boring as hell today, save for the anger that was stirring deep in my gut while I watched Patrick beat the shit out of the old counter. My lack of information is the only thing that kept me from using the sledgehammer on him. And while I have my theories, acting without knowledge isn't smart. Ophelia's presence wasn't enough to curb my concern, either. Although she wanted to talk and see how my weekend went, I was short and snippy to her. I must apologize later, but Penelope's well-being is more concerning.
Her bubbly, no-shit personality and dry sense of humour have been absent since Saturday night, leaving me with no one to poke fun at. Or talk to. The only noise I've heard are the choking, gasping sobs behind her closed door.
When there's no response, I press my forehead against the door and curse beneath my breath. She's reminding me too much of Jake just after his parents died. I have the tools to support someone battling depression, but it's anguishing to watch someone I love suffer. Support can only go so far. But I'm doing what I can.
Shaking off my bleeding heart, I straighten my posture and grab the handle. "I'm coming in, Pen. If you're not presentable, at least use your hands to cover up. Like I did. Though, in my opinion, I was presentable. You didn't seem to mind staring, either."
I shove the door open, darkness and the potent smell of vanilla perfume overwhelming me. Somewhere, behind all the sweetness, I can smell hair that hasn't been washed in a few days and old socks. Without consent, I flick the light on. Penelope groans, pressing a pillow over her face. Because she's laying in the middle of the bed, I sit down on the edge. My weight weighs the mattress down, causing her to slide up against my hip. While ignoring her curses—though, hearing her voice again brings a smile to my face—I set the tea pot and mugs down on the nightstand and pour the steaming liquid into each mug. I smell lavender, honey, and something bitter.
