Penelope stared at the invitation for what seemed like ever. When she realized what she was doing, she stuffed it beneath a cushion on the sofa and sat on it. That only made it worse, because now she was thinking about it independently of holding the invitation, so she pulled it back out and openly stared at it. She hadn't heard from him in months. Why would she? The best explanation for this, she reasoned, was the guest-list included box seats holders and/or acquaintances. The worst, she suspected, was him taunting her. When Dianna caught her and pried it out of her guiltily tense grip, she decreed it an irresistibly romantic gesture she was honour-bound to return, which Penelope stewed over the following days. It could be closure, she finally decided. Closure was good.
That evening, Dianna
laced her up, fluffed her hair, drawn on a face, and lectured her on how to behave and what to do. Mingle, but play hard to get. She then detailed the plan of attack, saying do a little of this, but not too much of that, and
absolutely refrain from doing… something. Amidst her internal dialog of panic, Penelope lost some of her friend's coaching. She hoped it wasn't important.
Coming very late and lurking in the hall even later, she remembered with the nauseating gallop in heartbeat how poorly she fared with parties. It seemed as though she'd been making leaps and bounds in progress, but there was nothing like the prospect of being a writhing sardine in a tin to realize that wasn't true. She hadn't been in such a crowded room since… Since the summer, in fact. It was funny the way things came full circle. Taking a deep breath, she only hugged the walls and talked herself into approaching another person for a quarter of an hour before finding an old teammate of her brother's she liked. People were surprisingly friendly, but already keyed up for even being here, the bodies in close proximity, the darkness interspersed with the flashing light, and the heat quickly had Penelope's senses overloading.
Pushing past the man she'd been trapped in conversation with without a word, she murmured, "Need air." There had to be a terrace. Or perhaps what she needed was the exit. Whichever came first, she reasoned, as she groped blindly along the wall for a door that would lead her somewhere that was not here. Grasping a handle, she pushed open and gulped greedily at the cold, sharp air of the black London night. The palpitating stopped, the blood settled, the roaring in her ears faded, but still she slapped angrily at the wall by the door, because the panic never stopped eating away at her, never eased up so she could control it herself. Penelope sighed and looked up at the murky sky, knowing when to admit defeat. She'd quiet herself and leave. It was a vain mistake to come, she knew that now, but at least she tried. Turning toward the balcony, she noticed someone else there for the first time in her agitation.
"Sorry!" she said, feeling her cheeks heat. "I just—" her voice died in her throat.
