Somewhere Along The Line

16. James

Sombreros is not where I want to be right now but then again, it never is. And yet I’m here, listening to Kyle talk about the game this weekend, the bet he plans to win, and his ideas for the prize money.

I smile and nod, waiting for my fajitas and wondering if Piper will text to ask why I missed the train this morning. With a father-son date in the suburbs after work, it made sense for me to drive today. She doesn’t know that though.

“Dude, are you with me right now?” Kyle waves a hand in front of my face, and I refocus my eyes until I’m present.

“Sorry, was just in the zone,” I reply, blinking as I take a drink of water and wishing it was a margarita with a Casamigos floater.

“What’s got you so distracted today? Are you trying to figure out how to increase cash flow for the Athena project?” He smiles as he says it, knowing that’s not what’s on my mind.

“If only that was something I could do,” I say with a laugh, swirling the straw in my glass. While I still maintain that Kyle is not my friend, per se—we’ve never once seen each other outside of work hours—he’s the closest thing I’ve got. He is also the only person besides my dad who knows about Piper.

Pressure builds tight between my teeth as I clench my jaw, steeling myself to share.

“It’s Piper.” I lean back in the booth, the peeling plastic sticking to my blazer and groaning as I shift my weight. “I’m not sure what’s going on with us. We had a great night last Monday with a terrible morning after, and then an amazing time on Saturday with a weird, awkward ending. I haven’t heard from her since. It’s two steps forward, one step back—sometimes two steps back—with her.”

“Gotcha.” Kyle nods, eyes narrowed seriously. “That doesn’t sound like a problem, though, since you swore nothing was going to happen between you two.”

“Hmm, I did say that didn’t I?” I reply, twisting my neck in a stretch. “Guess I’m not just a hard-ass but also a liar.”

The words come out with a huff, my trademark self-deprecation firmly in place to keep Kyle from getting too close. He sees through my bullshit and gives me a look, raising an eyebrow and leaning forward on the table as if to say, “Really, man?”

I can appreciate that Kyle isn’t ribbing me right now. He seems genuinely interested in talking this out, and while it may be a ploy to avoid the analysis awaiting us back at the office, I’m grateful nonetheless.

“So, what’s the issue then? That you like her?”

“Yes, I like her, but it’s also… more complicated than that.”

“Seems pretty binary to me.” Kyle’s shoulders shrug. “You either like someone or you don’t. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

A puff of air fills my cheeks before I push it out slowly through puckered lips. “Remember the last time we came to Sombreros? The day when I was flustered after talking to Piper on the train? I wasn’t… I wasn’t totally honest with you about the interaction we had.”

He nods with a curious expression, waiting for me to continue.

“It’s hard to explain—I promise there’s a lot of missing context here—but we decided to sign up for a Family Fares pass so she could save money on her commute. I added her as my wife on a joint account.”

A panoramic view of Kyle’s teeth assaults my eyes, his jaw dropping to his chest.

“It was supposed to be no big deal, a small fib on paper, but then the smoke bomb incident happened. The police started asking questions and they referenced my MTA account as they were building a passenger manifest. They expected us to give witness statements as a ‘married couple’ because that’s how we appear in the portal.”

My fingers add air quotes around “married couple.” Kyle’s jaw is still on the floor.

“Piper and I decided to lean into the charade in an attempt to avoid being outed for fraud. It’s been… complicated ever since.”

“Holy shit, dude. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? This is wild.”

“You haven’t even heard the wildest part, Kyle—we may be called to testify if the case against the attacker goes to trial. Under oath.”

The skin at my hairline tickles as I recount this scenario. It feels like someone is breathing down my neck and not in a metaphorical sense.

“So, we’ve been spending time together, getting to know one another, in case we need to pull off this ‘married’ act in front of a judge. It started low-key, sharing stories and trading quips, and we successfully gave our depositions at the downtown station. None of the officers seemed to suspect anything.

“But after a while, seeing Piper stopped feeling like the means to an end. Somewhere along the line, it started to feel like a beginning.”

My stomach twists as I say the words, admitting them aloud, and also to myself, for the first time. A wave of nausea tumbles through me as Kyle and I stare at each other, two emotionally stunted men trying to talk feelings over cheap Mexican food.

Kyle leans back in the booth, stretching an arm over the curved back. “Okay. I agree this is a complicated situation.”

“Told you.”

“But I still don’t understand why having feelings for her is a problem. So what if your make-believe relationship turns real? Sounds like it might make things easier.”

“It’s a problem because I’m not good for her. I keep telling myself I could be—that if I’m helpful enough or attentive enough she won’t realize I’m just like the ex that destroyed her a few years back. Do you remember Henry Sierra? The guy from Fundament who was caught embezzling money?”

Kyle’s eyes grow wide as he starts piecing the story together.

“Yeah, him. He dated Piper for years thinking she’d cover for him because she’s nothing but heart. When the whole scheme blew up, after she found the error in the books and reported it, Henry berated her in front of the whole team and then left her. She never went back to work after that.”

Kyle is incredulous, his body perfectly still as I relay this story. Pressure rises in my chest, pressing angrily against my sternum. If the bastard walked in right now, I would deck him in a heartbeat.

“Okay but listen,” Kyle says. “It’s not like you’re going to use her, shame her publicly, and dump her like Sierra did. You have integrity. You might hurt Piper at some point, sure, but we all hurt people we care about, even unintentionally. You’re nothing like that asshat.”

Kyle smiles sheepishly at the waitress who appears with our food, the word “asshat” hanging in the air as we all exchange glances. We thank her profusely.

“While I appreciate the compliment, this whole scenario feels too close for comfort.” I pick at the fajitas with my fork, pushing around limp slices of bell pepper as I talk.

“Her life fell apart because a guy pretended to be something to her, knowing it could impact her heart and her job, and he did it anyway. Sound familiar? I’m pretending to be something to her. I’m risking her heart. And now it’s clear I’m impacting her job.

“I made her late for an important meeting last week because she slept over at my place. And Saturday? One of her donors said something about us that wasn’t true and the discomfort it caused her cast a shadow over an otherwise wonderful night.”

It would be wise to give Kyle a chance to speak if only so I can shovel some of this food into my mouth, but I can’t stop myself from continuing.

“When I’m around Piper I can’t control myself. I say and do things based on what I want at that moment while ignoring every possible consequence for her. I thought I’d be able to keep myself in check, let this arrangement be fun without anyone getting hurt. I don't think that's possible anymore.”

I bring my hands to my head and massage my temples, my fingers kneading out some of the tension that’s been building for days.

“So, now what?” Kyle mumbles the words around the piece of enchilada occupying his cheek, sauce threatening to drip off his chin.

“I don’t know, man. She hasn't reached out since Saturday. Maybe I’ll text her that I’m busy this week—I’m driving up to visit my dad later—and that I’ll see her on the train. Try to pull myself back so I stop putting her in situations where she risks a bad outcome on account of my influence. I can’t keep doing that to her.”

My lunch is as cold and disappointing as expected when I finally take a bite.

The day is drearier as we head back to the office twenty minutes later, gray clouds hovering in the sky and threatening rain. My phone buzzes the minute we reach the lobby, and I know before I look it’s a text from Piper. It’s a standard vibration, the one for all notifications, but I swear I can feel a difference when a message arrives from her.

“Hey man, I’m going to hit up the restroom real quick.” Kyle doesn’t blink given this is a common stop after Sombreros. “I’ll meet you upstairs in a few.”

Instead, I duck around the corner to an armchair off the lobby and take out my phone.

A pain twists in my chest, radiating outward until it prickles my skin. I missed Piper this morning too. I’ve missed her since the moment we met, I think—an anticipatory ache born from the knowledge that she will never be close enough.

Because I won’t let her.

My fingers type something breezy instead, something that sounds nothing like the words I’d like to say.

Something about the text feels like a lie even though it’s not.

I leave the response emoji-less. I wait for a few seconds while she’s typing, three dots fluttering occasionally at the end of our thread.

She ends the sentence without punctuation like it’s a suggestion and not an ask, an open-ended thought that doesn’t need a specific answer.

I want to see her this week.

I want to see her in my bed every morning for the rest of my life.

I heave out a loud exhale before sucking in another deep breath.

The typing bubble appears again and then stops. It’s back for a second and then it’s gone. Piper wants to say something but decides not to, settling for a thumbs up on my message to end our exchange.

Shit. That’s what I feel like (and it’s not just the fajitas). Putting some distance between us is the right call, I know that, but it doesn’t stop sinking dread from settling in my gut.

I can’t let myself get further down this road knowing how I feel about Piper versus how I should. She deserves someone who will do what’s best for her, and what’s best for her is not me.

And who knows, perhaps I can circle back after I get my head and my dick in line. That little thread of hope is all I have at the moment.

I turn into the driveway and fill my lungs with air, psyching myself up for the evening ahead. While it’s nice to spend time with Dad, it’s hard being back at the house. This place is full of things that haven’t been touched in a year—belongings that are where they are because that’s where Mom left them. The thought of packing them up to sell or donate heightens the lingering nausea I’ve felt all afternoon.

Dad comes out to greet me in the driveway and for once, he looks good. Not quite so sullen. Is he starting to find his footing?

“Hey, James!” He shouts like my car is soundproof and he’s determined to break through.

“I can hear you, Dad!” I gather my wallet and phone from the center console and step out of the car, stretching my legs before approaching him for a hug.

No one talks about how weird it is being taller than your parents. It's a reversal of the natural order.

“How’ve you been?” I ask, pulling away to study him. His face has more color and is a little fuller, a roundness starting to grow in his cheeks. I wonder if he’s cooking for himself these days.

“Better now,” he answers with a slap on my back. “Come on in, we’ve got a lot of planning to do before the donation pick-up.”

We meander inside, slipping into the same routine we’ve had for years—my shoes cluttering the entryway with my jacket lying on top, his footsteps marching toward the kitchen where he’ll sit at the head of the table, and I’ll take the seat adjacent. A+B=C.

The routine is a welcome relief.

“You called the organization about a pick-up?” I ask. I’m pleasantly surprised. When I gave him the postcard that showed up at my apartment, I assumed it would sit untouched for months.

“I did, and they’re coming next Saturday.” Dad’s eyes roam over my face to read my expression; he wants encouragement that this is a good idea, and I’m careful to give it to him. He shouldn’t witness any of the grief that lives alongside my pride in him taking this step.

“That’s amazing, Dad. In that case, we do have a lot to work through.” I drum my fingers on the table as I think about the best way to sort through Mom’s stuff. “How about we go room by room and tag items with masking tape that we… that can be donated?”

I had started to say, “... that we want to donate,” but neither of us wants this. We want Mom here to continue to use her things for another two decades. It’s a matter of need, not want.

"Sounds fine, Jamie. I’ve already got some ideas.” He stands and makes his way to the junk drawer to grab a roll of masking tape and a permanent marker.

We’re really doing this.

“Should we start here?” My hands gesture toward the kitchen and end with a slap on the table where I currently sit. The apartment Dad’s eyeing in the city can’t hold a piece this large.

“Sold!” He cheers, writing DONATE on a piece of tape and smoothing it on the table. "The chairs should go too,” he says, adding labels to each of the five chairs surrounding me and the one I’m occupying.

I try not to think about my memories at this table: working with my dad on middle school math homework, my mom attaching a boutonniere to my suit before prom, Christmas dinners and Easter brunches, opening my college acceptance letters, and the other pieces of my life that existed right here.

I hope whoever gets this table makes fond memories with it.

“What about the hutch?” I ask. The large antique sits on the far wall, holding my parents’ wedding china and a collection of honeycomb goblets. We never use any of it.

“It should go,” Dad replies, glancing over to the hutch longingly but with conviction.

This process is unexpectedly seamless. No need, thus far, to discuss the improbability of stuffing a home’s-worth of furniture into a one-bedroom city apartment.

Dad and I continue throughout the first floor, tagging furniture pieces and discussing happy memories as we go. It feels light, the way it did when we used to pull weeds when I was a kid, working and talking and spending time together. The only thing missing is the dirt under my fingernails.

“So, James,” Dad says while tagging the armchair that sits in the corner of their— his —bedroom, “what’s the latest with that woman, Piper? Did you listen to my advice, or did you ignore it as usual?”

My eyes roll before the question leaves his mouth. Dad knows I’m captive; of course he’s using this time to follow up on my dating life. “I’ve seen her a few times since we last talked.”

On the train, in my car, at work, naked on my couch. I’ve seen the look on her face when she comes, and the memory dumps adrenaline straight into my veins. I’ve seen a lot of Piper these past few weeks, and it hasn’t been nearly enough.

“And?” Dad asks eagerly, as though I've been holding out this whole evening and now I’m going to confess we’re in love.

“And I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” I reply, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth at the corner. His face falls, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Dad, I told you not to get your hopes up. I told you when we talked that I couldn’t pursue her. I know I told you that.”

“I guess I thought you’d change your mind. I’m sorry you didn’t.” He moves to the nightstand at Mom’s side of the bed and rolls a clean piece of tape over the top.

If only he knew that I did change my mind, or maybe she changed my heart, and that’s the crux of the issue.

“I’m just trying to stay focused, and you should too,” I reply. “Let’s make it through this process with the house and get you settled downtown and then we’ll talk. You could be my wingman at the bar; I have a feeling the ladies would love you.”

The sentence hurts as it comes out of my mouth, pain rising from the depths and stinging my lips as the words leave. I meant young ladies would love him, the kind he could set up with his hopeless, heartless son. I didn’t specify this, though, and the insinuation was that he could find another lady.

It’s too soon to talk about that.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter with quiet sheepishness, not meeting his gaze. “I just meant I have a lot on my plate, and it isn’t the right time to get wrapped up in a new relationship. That’s all.”

He nods and walks over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You know, James, that’s the funny thing. Fate doesn't care if it’s the right time.”

He’s implying something about Piper, but I don’t push. Enough of today’s energy has been spent thinking and talking about the woman I’m trying to ignore.

I give Dad a tired nod and he gets the hint, changing the subject to his rumbling stomach and musing about dinner options. It’s a welcome distraction—from Piper, yes—but also from the emotional work of tagging things to donate.

My back rests against the dresser while I take in the tape-covered space. It already looks so different than it used to. It’s going to be bizarre seeing the house almost empty next week, watching this stuff go out the door as a last goodbye to Mom.

Dad will need me to be here for it. I think I’ll need him too.

“Hey, Jamie?” Dad’s voice breaks through my daze. “Think you could bring me to that pizza place in town?” A smile breaks out on his face as he sets the tape and marker on his bedside table. He acts like “that pizza place” isn’t the restaurant we’ve frequented twice a week since 1996.

“You mean Antonio’s?” I joke back, straightening from the dresser and nodding my head toward the door. “We should definitely go to Antonio’s.”

Dad walks my way, and I swing an arm over his shoulder, a physical acknowledgment that we did good work today since neither of us will say it.

“You think there’ll be any ladies there tonight I can charm for you?” He needles a finger into my side, prompting a yelp as I twist away from him. He’s joking about my slip earlier. I’m glad he didn’t take it to heart.

“Hmm, at this rate I’m not sure you’ll find out. Maybe I should leave you here and go alone.” I grab my keys from my pocket and spin the keyring around on my finger. Dad rolls his eyes and I smile softly as we continue our march to the car, still linked shoulder-to-shoulder.

We never wanted it to be this way, the two of us instead of the three of us. Even so, there’s something beautiful about what we’ve become this last year and a half.

We may not know what we’re doing, but the Newhouse men are alright.