April showers brought thunderstorms, flooding, made people and umbrellas became best friends, and created broken potholes. Weeks poured into one another, I pulled left, right, diagonal, and backwards to finish offering feedback on the film edits and touches. With doing all-nighters, my sleep patterns were messed up. My heavy joints and sore wrists, pressure leaning over the keyboards, headaches squeezed under my eyes and above my brow – I resorted to my gray square framed glasses. Contacts irritated my eyes. I had two solo interviews left . . . so did Sugar. I hadn't reached out to her.

After the incident, I pushed off meeting up as much as possible. My stomach clenched. Palms perspired, skin wrinkled, transforming into clammy.

What am I supposed to say? When is it even the correct time?

No time like the present, I could hear Min-ho say in my mind. Ugh, optimistic Min-ho.

I relayed the park situation to him later on the shooting day.

Min-ho eyes squinted. "Um – that's awful. At least, you didn't get sick on her."

I remembered him asking, "What else happened?"

"What do you mean," I shot back at me, "what else? Nothing else did."

Min-ho tilted his head. His teeth showed. "Uh-huh."

"I'm telling-"

"You don't have to tell me," Min-ho declared, cutting me off, "It's your choice. I like to hear it, but I won't force you."

Min-ho knew.

I kept my mouth shut. I protected my revelation – "ah ha moment" – because once I said it out loud. It'll be real.

I like Sugar. Her smile inspires me to tease her. The way she insists on documenting her grocery list. The way she bites on her fingernails when she's deep in thought. The way she's prepared: remembering my favorite salty snacks, walnuts, and handing me a monster and always saying, 'You can only drink one.'

She always committed.

Even if she was late, she was here.

Unlike me.

I frowned.

Slouching in my chair, my black coffee steamed out of the plastic cover hole. My hands were placed on my jeans. Phone stayed in my pocket. The baristas chatted and chilled, leaning against the counter. The steamer quiet. Blender cleaned and opened, ready for the next customer.

Mid-morning had a tiny pause between morning and noon rush. I stared at the empty chair across from me. The soft leather sunk in the middle; the color chipped, revealing white patches on the side.

Sugar would've sat there.

If I invited her. If we were hanging out . . . if she reached out to me.

Instead I was here for another reason. A reason I wished to disappear. One I needed to tell her.

To put an end to the "what if" possibilities. The half-open iron gate that had been left to rust, orange and black dents, vines twirled and grew on top of the hypothetical gate. A resolution. I wiped my hand over my face, right leg bounced up and down, waiting to complete this.

This coffee shop recently opened,

Sugar would like this place.

The open space, rectangular walls protruding in a step shape – the second step held the creamers and condiments. Wooden sticks stuck out the tin can. Color sweetener packets organized in a vertical row by rainbow flow within a container.

"I'm glad you're here," a voice said while a deep, dull noise occurred when she pulled the chair out.

Penelope wore a white nylon shirt sleeves ruffled, tiny pearls glued on the ruffles in bubble gum style, and black dress pants with no ounce of hair clinging to it. She frowned at the chipped chair material. She grabbed a napkin, where the dispenser was wedged in between a cloth flower and ceramic coasters, and laid the paper material on the spot. She plopped down.

"Oh," she glanced at my coffee cup, "You already got yourself something – let me go order – do you want anything else?"

She was already out of her seat. She leaned over the table, pointing her finger at me. Blonde hair followed her movement, a few strands caught on her eyelashes. Her full lips opened as if she continued to speak.

"I'm good." I answered too fast.

I reached over to pick up one of the coasters. Animated hearts, cursive writing saying where the heart is, is where home is. I avoided her finger pointing, no contact. Space was key.

She hummed. "I'll be back."

I placed the coaster near my side, then hovered my sixteen-ounce drink over it.

Good.

I sipped my coffee. Warmth tingled my tongue. My fingers wrapped around the cup, placing it back down; my thumb grazed over the cardboard logo sleeve.

I should rip the metaphorical sticker off. There will be remnants left. She'll get over it.

I turned, gaining more room to place my right ankle on my left knee.

Penelope stood next to the pick-up station. The pants enhanced her figure, tall legs and what I used to call, 'bubble butt,' when I competed on Champion. I rubbed my face.

"Here you go." Her hand arranged a saran wrapped carrot cake next to my coffee. Her fingers lingered. "It's your favorite one, right?"

No.

That was her favorite.

I gulped my coffee. It was halfway full.

"I knew you'd want to meet up," Penelope declared, sitting in her spot, not without making sure the napkin was still there. "To talk about finishing up the mini-series. And other things."

Her eyes shot up at me. She brought her lips to the cup, drank, keeping eye-contact.

This is driving me crazy.

"Certainly," I said, "First off, why?"

She finished her sip, before placing it down on the table.

"Why what?"

"You know why," I gripped the end of the table, "all of this."

Penelope leaned against the chair's backing. Her lips pursed. "Your voicemails for starters."

Crap.

The day I got fourth place. I called. Ten or so times. Throughout that week, where security stated I couldn't be there. At Penelope's trailer. I needed – actually wanted to speak to her. Overtime, I forgot. With the help of whiskey, I pretended I never left those pathetic, begging, hateful, and then pleading for forgiveness messages.

"Y-You've kept those?" I took another sip of my coffee.

"To remind myself."

"Of what?"

"What we had," she said. "To the promise I made you."

"Promise?" I hunched over the table, my jaw clenched. My molars grind. Lips set in a thin line. "Which one? You made a lot of promises, Penelope."

Her eyes wavered. One second. Then she stared right back at me. Not blinking.

"Why don't you enlighten me - no," I brought my index finger to my lips, "Let me tell you."

My arms now propped up on the table's edge, the horizontal line created a barrier: defense and protection.

"The first day on the Champion set, I took the last cheesecake. When I had reached for the plate it was on, your fork was in the cake. We looked at each other. Gosh – how long was it until we decided to split the treat? Good ten minutes? It felt like a half hour. We kept talking. I was shaky. My fingers couldn't stop moving – you were the first contestant I ran into. You said something daring. 'You're going to win.' I thought you were making up stuff. I pushed it off. You made me say, 'I'm a winner.' My voice caught in my throat. I repeated what you said, I almost believed it. You smiled. Patting me on the shoulder. 'See confidence. That's what you need, and I have plenty of it. Let's form a team. We'll balance each other out.'"

I paused.

My face burned up. The memories came back.

Too much. I wanted to spat out what all I squished down within myself, crushing and pressing into a small concentrated stress ball.

Penelope opened her mouth.

I continued, "I had a mentor, who for some reason is still by my side. He warned me. How on the first day, I'll meet contestants who desire to gain alliance. He advised me to wait. Wait, until I saw them for who they are. Not what they presented, an image or character. And yet. I didn't listen. I stared. And stared. Thinking why would she want to talk to me? She could have chosen to go after another. I felt . . . appreciated. I was trying to decline, but," I took a sip from my coffee, "you made a promise. If we're a team, we'll be the last ones to make it. Your plan: gain fake alliance with the others. I could take care of the other half. We'd slowly take them down."

"Gus-"

"I came in fourth." I stared at her. "I don't give a rat's ass about the placement. What I'm furious about is the fact you left me. You lied to me. The entire five months. Actually, six months. On and off the cameras. When I would rub your feet. When I invited you to stay with me. You'd use my soap when your vanilla scent was done. You'd leave the drawers open, mixing your clothes in with mine. You never cared about me."

Penelope looked up. She brought her cup to her lips.

"I only have one question, Penelope."

Her eyes transfixed on me.

"Are you happy?" My voice raised.

Penelope was in a mid-sip, she leaned a little forward, almost spitting her organic lavender and pomegranate tea. "I'm sorry – what did you ask?"

I relaxed my shoulders.

"Are," I focused on keeping my words in the same tone, "you happy?"

She blinked.

"Are you happy with Charles? Are you happy taking over this project? Are you happy with yourself?!"

People stared, ignoring their previous conversations and activities. My loudness drew their attention. I resituated in my seat, closing my eyes before I talked.

"Did you get what you want?" I whispered.

Don't you dare cry. I'm not letting her enjoy my reaction.

I glared. At her. Not at her eyes though because it would make me cry. Instead I glared at her nose. In the middle of her face. I hoped my look transferred my emotions and pain.

"No."

What –

"I'm not happy." She sighed. Holding her cup once more, she rotated the edges, "I wonder if they sell alcohol. It's never too early."

A chuckle. A half smile appeared on her lips. Too soon, it was replaced with a frown.

"I kept the voicemails because it's one of the most genuine things I've heard," Penelope said. "You were honest with your emotions. The stuttering. Pauses."

She enjoyed it?!

I opened my mouth, but Penelope continued.

"I don't regret my decision. Charles and I knew each other before we were chosen. We met during the auditions. I approached him. He listened and soaked in my plan. The rest, I repeated with other contestants. But," she placed her hand on the table, fingers extending out. Her gaze was on her hand, "you followed me like a damn puppy. It annoyed me. I wanted you gone so quickly, however, Charles convinced me not to. We needed to gain your trust. It worked. On you. And on me. Your puppy qualities – your smile, laughter, service – buying me a sequel to the next book series I mentioned in brief conversations, writing little notes. You got to me."

She looked up at me. " 'He has to be faking it.' I kept telling myself. He wouldn't be this open-hearted. This is a competition. To acquire a salary – he wouldn't put it all on the line."

She licked her lips. "When you were entitled fourth place, your reaction. It was real. It was behind and in front of the cameras. I followed my plan. And that's what happened."

"The producers thought it would be spectacular if Charles and I would be dating. Press and all. Make it appear we both were winners. Not just me. I agreed to it. Now that," she made a smacking sound with her lips, "I regretted. I tried to back out. It grew into something more, the company wanted more. Engagement. Break off the engagement. Drama, drama, drama. I'm relieved of the end result, don't get me wrong. It's just-"

"Never mind, it doesn't matter." She cut herself off. Smiling. The kind of smile that split the lips, eyes appeared large to give a sense of joy. I saw through it.

Pulling her purse from her hip, she propped it on her lap. Finger twirled on the purse's strap.

She's been used too in a different way. Just, ugh, this is -

"I didn't fake it, Penelope," I mumbled, "I loved you. Not because some producer told me to. Or because the hairdresser lied and told me you loved me. Those six months, I enjoyed it."

She smiled, tilting her head. "I enjoyed it too, Gus."

There she goes again. The happy, bubbly, flirty Penelope.

"Let me make something clear," I stated, moving my right foot back on the ground, "It's in the past. I – no – we can't go back. No flirting. No friendship. Nothing."

Penelope stayed quiet.

She reached over into my space, red alarms screamed. She took the carrot cake and brought it over on her side. She unwrapped it and started eating.

What is she going to say?

I observed her moment. The saran wrapper folded inside on itself. A small ball. She ate her gift to me. Crumbs stuck to her lips.

"Agreed."

She agreed –

"Pen-"

She got up, pushing her chair in; the legs scratched on the tile floor. Holding onto her purse strap, she grinned. "You've changed."

At that moment, I realized how imperfect we both were.

"So have you."

She smirked. "Good luck with that Lollipop. She's not like us - she messes up her lines, but follows her heart."

She didn't have any lines to say in our shootings – it was all open – wait -

I stared at her. "You were there."

Her fingers moved up and down the chair's backing.

"At the first shooting," I realized.

She knew.

"You released -"

Penelope leaned over, her hand grazed mine on the table.

"I needed your attention," she smiled, "one last time, Gus."

I shook my head. Pulling away as if she was a hot stove. A burn. Losing sense of touch. I knew this was the end.

"I'll tell the crew, it's a 'no.' You don't want to do the reunion," she said, before heading out the door.

She left the wrapper and tea behind.

"Thank God, it's done," I said, letting out all the air.

I wiped my eyes. Shoulder muscles relaxed.

I'm free.

Dialogue! Dialogue!

What do you think? 😃 😃

I feel bad for Penelope and August. Both went through a ton of experience.

Will this be the last time we see Penelope??

We have five chapters left! I'm getting really emotional. I love this story.

Thank you so much for your support! All because of you, dear reader.

Love you. 😘