Somewhere Along The Line

13. Piper

I burst into the building and take the stairs two at a time to the second floor. I’m late, of course, but I’m also disheveled. Yesterday’s clothes hang on my body, my tangled hair is in a messy bun, and the remnants of last night’s mascara are smudged beneath my eyes.

This is not how I’d like to present myself for work any day, but today? This is the worst-case scenario. Byron Cargill of the Cargills, one of the city’s wealthiest families, has an appointment with me for 8:30 a.m.

He’s already seated at the table when I swing open the conference room door.

“Mr. Cargill! Thank you for being here. Piper Paulson, great to meet you.” I stick out my hand, hoping it’s not sweaty from running up the stairs or from my nerves. Of course, it is.

He rises to take it and gives me a quick shake before sitting back down in his seat. His eyes scan me curiously as he raps a pen on the table.

“So sorry I’m late, I’m normally more organized. I appreciate your patience.” I smile weakly as I grab my notebook from my bag, desperately wishing it was my laptop but unwilling to waste the time it would take to retrieve it from my office. “I heard from your assistant that you’re interested in learning more about the scholarship program?” I finally sit my butt in a chair.

He nods, leaning back in his seat. “I am,” he says, his mustache rustling as he talks. He looks to be mid-sixties, and he’d remind me of my dad if my dad was frivolously wealthy and incredibly intimidating.

“Honestly, though,” he pauses briefly, “I’d like to get to know you first. There are thousands of organizations that have ideas about how to use my money, and the how is less important to me than the who .”

I take a big inhale. I could talk about the scholarship fund and why it’s important for hours. But to talk about myself? I’ve never been overly articulate that way.

“Of course,” I start, trying to keep my voice steady. “We always want our donors to feel like a partner in this work. It’s natural to want to know the kind of partner you’d be getting in bed with.”

The second the words are out of my mouth I want to stuff them back in. This is a business meeting, for God’s sake. Plus, the unfortunate phrasing brings up memories of last night. I push them out of my brain with superhuman strength.

Get it together, Piper.

Mr. Cargill shifts in his seat. I’m not sure if he wants to ask questions or if I should offer up information. I decide on the latter.

“As I mentioned, my name is Piper Paulson. I work at Hope First as the program director overseeing after-school classes, events—like our upcoming gala—and our new scholarship fund.

“I have a corporate background but began working here six months ago after starting as a volunteer with the lower and middle-grades painting classes. We use a lot of art therapy techniques to help the kids we work with. I’d like to complete a master’s degree in social work someday so I can counsel our clients directly.”

The words are coming a mile a minute. I need to cool it, but I can’t seem to cut the gas to my mouth.

“We work with roughly a hundred and fifty single-parent families in the city right now, though we’re hoping to increase this number to two hundred by year’s end. Our funding comes primarily through individual donors like yourself… if you’re interested, of course… and via grants from local foundations. We help families with financial management, accessing available government support programs, getting their GED or associate degree, and with childcare expenses. It’s really life-changing for them.”

I suck in a breath, and he continues to sit silently, tapping his pen and squinting at me.

“Is there anything in particular I can answer for you?” Giving him the floor allows me a moment to compose myself.

“This is all very interesting, Ms. Paulson. Can I ask what you know about our family and the types of programs we support?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. The answer is in his prospective donor file—the one I planned to review meticulously before this meeting and which is sitting, unread, in the bottom left drawer of my desk.

“I'm aware you support a variety of programs throughout the city, as well as nationally, and your family has been instrumental in funding…” I think carefully as I have no idea what I’m about to say but it needs to sound legitimate, “... organizations that serve vulnerable populations.”

I rest my chin on my fist, my elbow on the table as he takes in my words. It was a vague statement, certainly, but it wasn’t incorrect. It could be true of any donor in the world, but that doesn’t mean it’s untrue of Mr. Cargill.

He nods before rising to stand. We’re only ten minutes into our thirty-minute meeting, and that’s counting the three I made him wait before I arrived.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Paulson, but I’m going to pass at this time. Please reach out in the future when you have a better sense of our family’s values and how they may fit with your programming. I’d also consider another appointment if I could speak with someone better able to articulate how our financial partnership with Hope First would benefit all parties.”

Mr. Cargill doesn’t look stern or disappointed, just matter of fact. He nods in my direction like he’s tipping an imaginary hat. I sit frozen at the table, dumbfounded.

“Of course, thank you for your time. Have a wonderful rest of your day.” The words eke out of my mouth as I watch him slip through the door and down the stairs to the lobby.

He’s out of sight when my body moves without conscious thought, slithering down my chair until I land with a thud on the scratchy jute rug beneath the table. I may spend the rest of the day here. Maybe the rest of my life.

How can I show my face to the team after fumbling the biggest donor in the city? Tears breach the barricade of my closed eyes and spill down my cheeks, dripping onto the fabric of yesterday’s skirt.

I’m still wearing yesterday’s skirt.

Air enters my lungs in short and shallow gasps as the thoughts that have haunted me for years, the ones I’ve tried so hard to replace with positive self-talk and therapy, come flooding through my brain.

You’re the world’s biggest idiot. The idiots of all idiots. Purveyor of the most idiotic idiocy that ever was and ever will be.

You can’t do anything right.

Of course, this would be the result of opening yourself up. You should’ve known better.

You’re always a disappointment.

I can’t even argue with them. Here I am, twenty-eight years old, crying under a conference table to avoid a walk of shame to my desk.

If there was a literal hole I could crawl into to die right now, I would.

The fact that I let this happen, that I let myself be distracted by a man who I knew from the start I shouldn’t get involved with? It’s proof I’m no better than I was two years ago. Two entire years I’ve dedicated to putting my life back together—blood, sweat, and tears shed to dig myself out of a Fundament-shaped hole—only to risk it all for another banker.

All because he was nice to me and I liked the weight of his hand on my leg.

The worst is that it’s not just my life I put on the line. There are women with kids who won’t receive scholarship money because I fucked up this meeting on account of fucking James.

I’m the most terrible person alive.

The list of my sins yesterday plays on loop in my mind, stopping only to let me beat myself up over each one:

I let the chance of a trial (which may or may not happen weeks in the future) make me stressed.

I went over to James’s house on a work night.

I told him to touch me.

I fell asleep on his couch.

I forgot to set my alarm.

I let myself believe I was different, that James was different, that this thing growing between us could be something special.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I consider everything before last night too, namely, the foolishness to accept his asinine Family Fares offer to save a few bucks. A few bucks which cost Hope First ten thousand this morning. Likely more.

The heels of my palms press into my cheeks in an attempt to stop more tears while I take out my phone to text James. Boundaries are needed now so this never happens again. It can never happen again.

And while I’m pissed at James for being charming and persuasive and so handsome I want to eat him whole, I also want him to know this shitshow of a morning isn’t his fault. This is on me, not him.

My fingers tap open the thread and I wince at our last exchange, playful and light with no hint of the ache that's squeezing my heart like a vice.

I’m not sure what to type that will communicate, “Hey, really grateful for the amazing sex last night, but it turns out I cannot have both you and a job, so I’m picking my job, no hard feelings! (And also I’m dying inside.) (But that’s not your fault.)”

I decide to go with something more understated.

The desire to add a grimacing emoji itches under my thumbs but I ignore it. I wait for his reply but continue when none comes.

I know the exclamation point I used is too much, but I don’t have the energy to edit myself. The traditional smiley face at the end stands in stark contrast to my crying face still tucked under this table.

His message comes ten seconds later, and I hate how it makes my heart leap to feel the vibration in my hand and see the message from James.

My head falls between my knees, a sniffle escaping my nose as I think about what to say. I don’t want to lie to him. I can’t tell him the truth.

Is it because I don’t want him to feel bad? Or because I don’t want him to know I’m a failure? I’m sure it’s both.

I hope he reads into a lightheartedness that I don’t currently feel.

He sends a gif of Shia LeBeouf flexing and it makes me smile for a brief second.

(I am decidedly not fine.)

The screen goes dark and I turn my phone over on the carpet. James’s words are tumbling through my mind like my stomach is tumbling to my toes. Fake husband. Not real. Bogus. An imitation, a counterfeit, a sham. F-A-K-E.

I should remind myself of this constantly, have it tattooed on my forearm or maybe my forehead. A fake relationship can’t mess up my very real life; I won’t allow it.

I grip the skin at my cheeks and pull, hoping it brings some color there to distract from the pink in my eyes. Lifting my head out from under the table, I sneak a glance to ensure no one is around before I heave myself back into the chair, sitting for a few seconds to gather my composure.

Swiveling toward the door, I stand, throwing my shoulders back as I head toward my desk. It’s an act I put on for everyone in the office, but it’s also for me, to distract from my nausea—undoubtedly the result of skipping dinner last night and having no time for breakfast this morning.

It’s not from the gnawing ache of having to pull back from James.

I wave at Sadye and Jenny, both of whom are pouring over a guest list or a vendor contract and I retreat into my space with a sigh. It’s barely 9 a.m. and the whole day is still ahead of me. If I can knock out a bunch of tasks for Saturday maybe I won't be so stressed. At the very least, it’ll keep me from thinking about James.