I don’t think Penelope thinks about her skin. Or her hair. I don’t think she twirls her ponytail around her fingers because she knows I’m watching. I don’t think she thinks about me looking at her at all—so I try not to. I don’t think she thinks about me liking her . . . So I try not to do that either. I should have told her the truth. All of it. As soon as she offered to help me. Definitely before I got on the plane. I should have known that Penelope was smart enough to crack this—that she’d get to the bottom of my mess before I could come up with a good way to break it to her.
