Somewhere Along The Line

19. Piper

Slippery tears gush from my eyes, stinging the raw skin of my cheeks before dripping unceremoniously onto my jeans. Tommy and Jamal, the sizable men who flank me on either side in this too-small front seat, are gracious enough to ignore my sobbing. Jamal shuffles through the radio to find something to fill the silence, to mask my heaves, before settling on something jazzy.

Somehow it makes the seconds tick slower.

I don’t know these guys well enough for any of this—inviting myself on the run today, squeezing between them in the cab, abandoning the loading effort to get broken up with in James’s backyard, and then bawling this entire ride back.

I’d be embarrassed if I had any emotional capacity left.

I try my best to sniff away my tears, taking deep breaths in and releasing loud exhales as we pull onto the highway. The furniture rattles in the back of the truck, reminding me that the Newhouse home is a bit emptier. My heart is emptier still.

It’s a small kindness, the only one I can find right now, that I don’t have to unload this U-Haul later. Seeing the furniture pieces and being aware of all the stories they hold, stories I’ll never get to hear, would rip any remaining composure from my body.

I reach forward and grasp the volume dial, turning it up with shaky fingers until the saxophone is louder than my breathing. It’s only been eight minutes. We have thirty-two to go.

The conversation with James turns circles in my mind and I try to make sense of everything he said. Or any of it, really. How did we go from “I’m glad you’re here” to “I can’t do this” in the span of an hour? Where was the James I know, the one who is supportive and attentive, kind and helpful?

Some other James stood in his place, cold and resigned.

“It’s too much.”

That particular phrase rings in my ears, a painfully familiar refrain on loop. It pounds on my chest in rhythm like CPR, each aggressive pump bruising my ribs and pressing on my aching heart.

What he means is I’m too much—too anxious, too eager, too needy with my requests for favors, too conscious of my meager bank account. The damn bank account that got me into this mess.

I’m always too much.

My brain flickers back to the Fundament office, to the last time I cried in front of a man who told me the same.

“Why couldn’t you leave this alone?” Henry screams, the whites of his eyes bulging as he fences me in with his shaking hands, my back against his desk. “God, Piper, it was always going to be like this, yeah?

“You not being able to be the person I need you to be, not being able to smile and nod, sit still and look pretty. You’re always trying to help, to do more. I should have left you once I realized you’d always be too much—that was years ago, Piper—before your eager-to-please conscience took me down and the company down with it."

Henry’s monologue ripped a fissure somewhere deep in my being, tearing open a wound I’d spent years hiding from. It had exposed nerves, that part of my heart, frayed from decades of never feeling good enough. Henry’s words landed like a hot spark on each one. And while his words seared with pain, they also cauterized the vessels of vulnerability I once had, sealing them shut.

It worked for me. For two years, it worked.

But then I let James pull at the seal. And his tugging was so gentle, so wrapped in care, I didn’t notice the new, tender flesh appearing where the scar once was. I didn’t feel the fissure re-opening, becoming exposed and available for new hurt.

Until today. When James became Henry, another cold and callous banker, just like I feared he would. And I stayed Piper, the woman who always cared too much.

The truck bumps into the parking lot of the office before screeching to a stop. The noise jostles me from my thoughts, having neither heard nor seen anything during the last thirty minutes of the drive. Tommy hops out of the driver’s seat, and I scoot my way across before stepping carefully down to the asphalt.

That I can stand is surprising when my soul has all but collapsed. The ground feels mercifully solid under my feet.

“Thank you both,” I turn toward Jamal, still sitting in the cab, “for letting me join you this morning. You did great work today.” This half-hearted attempt to slip back into my Piper-At-Work persona is all I can manage.

Tommy nods and steps back into the truck, pulling the door closed and entering the address for the next pick-up into his phone. I raise a hand in a weak wave as they pull out, leaving me in the parking lot alone.

Home. I need to go home. I request an Uber, money be damned. I can’t face the train and all the memories that ride it, the ghosts from these past few weeks occupying every seat. Facing the train can wait for another day. Right now, I need to get home.

Sami is waiting when I arrive at the restaurant, laid out between my two favorite chairs, her feet pushing against the opposite seat and swiveling back and forth. I sent her an SOS text the minute I walked in our door, and she didn’t press for details. Just gave me a time (5:30 p.m.), a place (Tempest Tapas), and the promise there’d be a drink waiting for me (white wine).

I’m greeted with the usual sights and sounds of the space as I make my way to Sami. The smell is a familiar comfort, a mix of spiced sauces, alcohol, and a hint of old books from the haunt’s bookstore days.

Somehow, I pull my face together to greet her, wrapping her up in a hug as she squeezes me tight. The tears have stopped for now though they’ll start again soon. I can tell by the way she is hugging me.

I ease down into the seat opposite her, moving slowly as though one sudden move might break my fractured self completely open. Sami hands me a glass of white.

“Alright, lovey,” she starts softly, “tell me everything. But before that, what’s the vibe? Are we hurt tonight? Disappointed? Angry? You let me know and I’ll match it. Personally, I’m pulling for vengeful.”

She takes a sip of her red, and the smile that peeks beyond the glass is everything I need from her.

“Hmm… mostly upset. Sorry to disappoint.” I return her smile, though mine falls as quickly as it appears. The tears spring back to my eyes and they sting the chafed skin at the corners, a parting gift from my afternoon dripping fresh hurt all over our house.

Sami reaches over and grabs my hand, meeting my gaze with gentleness and earnest concern.

I force a swallow through the tension gripping my throat. It presses in on all sides, a thick knot that won’t budge.

“James… we… he ended things today. At his dad’s house. Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m crying!” (Every woman who has ever said this knows exactly why she’s crying.) “It’s not like we were actually dating. Maybe that makes it worse? It’s hard enough getting dumped by a person who used to like you, at least. But being broken up with when you’re not together? That’s a new low, even for me.”

Sami increases the pressure of her grip. “Piper, it was clear James liked you. Whether or not things were defined between you two doesn’t change that,” she says with resolute confidence.

“He made it very clear he cared about you. Don’t believe for a second you misread the situation. James led you down a road toward an obvious outcome until he flipped the script today. You weren’t wrong to believe he wanted you too.”

“The worst part is he said he still does.” I try to blink back some of my tears but it’s a useless endeavor. “He said he cares too much and that’s why he can’t keep seeing me.”

“God, I hate that ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ bullshit. It’s like going into a job interview and saying your worst trait is being a perfectionist. It’s a total cop-out.” Sami rolls her eyes, indulging for a moment in her building anger before resuming a stance of patient listening.

“I don’t think it was an excuse, Sam. I really believe he’s too scared of hurting me, and himself, to risk putting our hearts on the line.” My teeth scrape against my bottom lip as I think about what he could be doing right now, whether he’s as much of a mess as I am.

“ That’s the reason he started backing off, not because he was busy. James was trying to figure out how to move forward and keep us both from getting hurt. And what did I do with his request for distance? I bulldozed through it. I leaned as far in as he leaned out, removing every ounce of breathing room between us.

“I showed up at his fucking dad’s house , Sam. James told me he needed space, and I backed him into a corner. Of course, he felt like it was too much. That I’m too much.”

“Did he say that? That you’re too much?” Sami asks this question tentatively, knowing this is the most tender spot in the conversation. The most painful part of my heart.

“Basically.” I think through bits and pieces of the exchange, trying to isolate James’s words. All I hear in his voice is I don’t want you .

“You’re not too much, Piper. You don’t need to shrink down to fit into someone else’s life. The thing about love—friendship, family, partnered—is it's meant to make your life bigger. It’s supposed to give you more of what’s good. Love expands and multiplies and grows in the nurture of it. Anyone who can’t embrace everything you bring, all the big that you are and are ready to give, can find less. It’s not your job to carve yourself into their size.”

This is the pep talk I knew I would get from Sami, and she delivers it flawlessly. It’s an honest gift wrapped in compassion with a compliment on top. My brain agrees that she’s right though my heart rebels. My heart wants to become whatever James says he can handle, even if it’s just a fraction of who I want to be for him.

My heart would accept scraps at the moment.

Sami won’t let that happen.

The next concern springs up in my throat, stealing my breath as I consider how this break-up affects our stupid charade. “Okay, but Sam—what if the trial goes forward? We didn’t stop our fight to consider that we may still need to act fucking married in front of a judge. Can you imagine?” I put on my best dopey James impression:

“ Sorry to be dumping you in my parents’ backyard. I can’t keep seeing you but leave your phone on in case we need to pretend again.”

The thought makes me want to die.

“If the trial happens, you’ll deal with it,” Sami says. “Be cordial, play the part, let him put his hand on your back or whatever else. You wouldn’t need to act lovesick. Plenty of married people aren’t happy to be together. Besides, this whole trial thing is still hypothetical; don’t stress about it until you know it’s on the books.”

“And what do I do until then?” I ask, peering into my swiftly disappearing wine as I raise it to my lips for another swallow.

“Whatever you want. Don’t think about James or what he wants or needs or cares about. Figure out what makes you feel good, what keeps your world spinning, and lean in there. Let yourself cry or be angry or burn anything that he touched. And then dig into the things that fill your heart that have nothing to do with him. This is what we always do, yeah? After Henry, certainly, and after my series of revolving-door Hinge guys. We’ll do it again now.”

I set my glass on the table and slide my hands under my eyes, the cold, soft pads of my fingers soothing the puffy skin and wiping away wetness. Sami walks over and perches herself on the arm of my chair so we’re sitting side by side, her arm draped around me and her head full of curly hair resting at my crown.

What a treasure it is to have a friend like this. To have someone who senses when I’m anxious and knows to greet my nerves with pressure, leaning the weight of her skull against mine.

“We’ll do it again.” I repeat it a few times, more to myself than to Sami. I’ll just have to do it again.