Chapter 73: The Final Month - Part 1
"Power's still working."
Penny's examining the Italian restaurant with suspicion. We're back where our first date imploded. Different table, same establishment.
"I called ahead. Confirmed the transformer's been replaced."
"That's not romantic. Romance is leaving it to chance."
"Romance is not sitting in the dark eating cold pasta."
"That was our thing."
"Our thing was laughing about disasters. This time we're preventing them."
The waiter brings menus. Penny's still looking around like the lights might fail any second.
"You made a list," she observes.
I pull out my phone. Show her the note.
LAST MONTH BUCKET LIST:
First date restaurant (with power)Karaoke revengeSuccessfully cook somethingGriffith ObservatorySanta Monica PierEvery place we said we'd go "eventually"Make it count
"We have three weeks," I say. "I want to do this right."
"This is—" She's getting emotional. "—very organized for heartbreak."
"Organized heartbreak is still heartbreak. Just with better scheduling."
She laughs. Cries. Both.
"Okay. Let's do the list."
Saturday. Karaoke bar. Same place we murdered Journey.
"We're doing it again," Penny announces.
"We're terrible at this."
"That's the point. We're terrible together. That's our legacy."
The DJ looks pained when we request "Don't Stop Believin'" again.
"You two sure?"
"Positive."
We're worse this time. More off-key. More laughing. Less actual singing.
The bar loves it anyway. Everyone's singing along. Cheering. We bow dramatically.
Walking back to the car, Penny's glowing.
"That was perfect."
"That was objectively terrible."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
"Stuart." She stops. Takes my hand. "Thank you. For making this fun instead of tragic."
"It can be both."
"I know. But I'd rather remember the fun."
"Me too."
Sunday. My penthouse kitchen.
"We're actually doing this," Penny says, tying an apron.
"We're attempting this. Success not guaranteed."
"What are we making?"
"Pasta carbonara. Simple. Hard to screw up."
"We screwed up toast."
"This is different. This is our last culinary attempt. We're either succeeding or burning down the building."
An hour later: perfect carbonara.
We're both staring at it.
"Did we just cook?" Penny asks.
"I think we did."
"Real cooking. With heat and ingredients and everything."
"Maybe we just needed proper motivation."
"Motivation called impending separation."
"Whatever works."
We eat on the couch. The carbonara's actually good. We did something right for once.
"We should have tried harder earlier," Penny observes.
"We were busy failing at other things."
"True. Our failure was very time-consuming."
Monday. Penny shows up with a camera.
"Where'd you get this?"
"You bought it for me. Remember? Christmas?"
"I meant why do you have it now."
"Because." She starts photographing. The penthouse. The view. My face. "I'm documenting everything. Our last month together deserves documentation."
"That's—"
"Sad? Pathetic? Desperate?"
"I was going to say sweet."
"Oh." She lowers the camera. "Then yes. It's sweet. And I'm doing it anyway."
She photographs everything. The shops. Game night. Walks around Pasadena. The gang doing their thing.
Everyone plays along. Poses. Makes faces. Creates memories with her.
"You'll have a thousand pictures by the time you leave," Leonard observes.
"That's the point. When I'm in New York missing everyone, I'll have proof this was real."
"It's real," he says quietly. "You don't need proof."
"I need it anyway."
Friday. The gang's hosting dinner at 4A.
"To Penny," Leonard toasts. "And her Off-Broadway adventure."
Everyone raises glasses. Penny's crying. Again. She cries a lot now.
"I'm going to miss you guys."
"We'll visit," Bernadette promises.
"I'll calculate optimal visit scheduling to minimize disruption while maximizing social contact," Sheldon offers.
"That's—actually helpful. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Howard's uncharacteristically serious. "You better come back. The group's not the same without you."
"I'll come back. It's only six months."
"And then?" Raj asks.
"And then—" She looks at me. "—we'll see."
The unspoken thing. She's coming back. To LA. Eventually.
But not to me.
That part's over.
Everyone knows it. Nobody says it.
After dinner, cleaning up, Leonard pulls me aside.
"You doing okay?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
"I'm handling it."
"Stuart—"
"Leonard. I appreciate the concern. But I need to get through this without falling apart. Okay?"
"Okay." He sets down dishes. "But after she leaves. When you need someone. I'm here."
"Thanks man."
"That's what friends do."
Week one ends.
Penny's camera roll has 300+ photos. My phone has 200+.
We've hit four items on the bucket list. Made memories. Laughed more than cried.
But three weeks are now two weeks.
The end's approaching.
And there's nothing I can do to stop it.
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