Somewhere Along The Line

20. James

The sun takes no pity on me this morning, shining daggers into my eyes as I peel them open. Time to face another day hungover, the same routine on repeat for three weeks now. I could fix this by reining in the number of Old Fashioneds I drink nightly, especially on an empty stomach, but I can’t seem to muster the willpower.

I don’t have the fortitude to do anything other than keep myself away from Piper. That task alone is taking every ounce of my strength.

I drag my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the cold hardwood, sitting for a minute to talk myself into the morning routine. The predictability of my life—clothes, tea, shoes, walk, train, work—used to be a comfort. Now it’s a cage, particularly with “walk and train'' removed from the equation.

My arms reach up to stretch and I roll out my neck, taking a deep breath before I make my way to the closet. Gotta throw on another outfit that looks just the same as yesterday and the day before.

I ignore the shoes tucked in the back behind a stack of empty boxes, the ones with the scuff. The leather loafers I choose instead aren’t appropriate for late fall, but I simply don’t care.

Grabbing the keys from the hook in the foyer, I lock up, travel mug of tea in hand, and head to the car. It’s been me and my car every morning since I fucked up my life three weeks ago; I don’t want to violate Piper’s space by taking the train.

I tell myself I’m being kind to her by driving. That I’m not doing it to avoid seeing the hurt on her face, or worse, a lack of hurt. This is about Piper and what’s right for her.

Just like my decision to end things in the first place.

A thin layer of ice covers the windshield, and I groan. Since I lost my scraper, I’ll have to sit inside a de facto ice box while the car heats up. The door handle resists as I pull it open and slide myself in, the cold from the leather seat seeping through my pants as I adjust the dial to blow air on the glass.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself, tapping my head on the steering wheel as cold air blasts around me.

I need the distraction of driving, the diversion of something to do with my hands, my eyes, and my mind because without it, the echoes of Piper in this car creep around me, drawing up memories.

I trade the goosebumps on the back of my neck for the feel of her hand, her warm fingers kneading away the tension that is even tighter now. I see her legs in the passenger seat and my palm resting on her thigh, exactly where I want it, instead of gripping this cold steering wheel. I replace the sound of the defroster with the catch of her breath as I tilt her chin for our first kiss.

I remember the way she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the day we met and had finally found release.

I am such a fucking mess.

I try to shake the images from my head as an opening appears on the windshield, ice slowly retreating under air that’s finally turned to heat. Putting the car in drive, and ignoring the absence of Piper’s hand on mine, I make the commute to work. Today should be mercifully busy given we’re deep in the sale process for one of our companies.

Being completely buried is the goal right now.

The office is quiet when I walk in and slowly unwrap myself from the layers I put on this morning. My coat slips across the back of my chair, scarf gets folded and tucked into my upper right desk drawer, suit jacket hangs in a small cubby for that exact purpose.

I stretch my arms out in front of me with interlaced fingers, resulting in a satisfying crack. Rolling my shoulders back, I drop my hands to my keyboard, an attempt to power-pose myself into a productive day.

The elevator dings and then opens, and I know Kyle has arrived by the sound of his shoes and the weight behind his steps.

What would it be like to know someone else by sound? Someone whose presence floods me with anticipation, who makes my soul perk up when they step into the house?

I never paid attention to what Piper’s presence sounds like. The thought burns like a slap across the face.

“Sup, man!” Kyle rounds the corner to my office. “Still looking like shit, I see.” He gestures in the direction of my face, which, admittedly, is worse for the wear. Especially after nearly a month of hydrating myself with whiskey.

“Thank you, Kyle, I wasn’t aware,” I say with an exaggerated eye roll. “What are you getting into today? More work on the CIM?”

“Hmmm,” his eyes narrow, “you want me to breeze past the fact that you continue to show up here looking like your dog’s died every day? Can’t do it anymore, dude. It’s been almost a month now.”

He leans against the frame of my door, crossing his arms and his legs as he stares at me.

“What do you want me to do? I’m here, I’m working, and I’m getting shit done. Doesn’t matter what I look like. Please focus on the shit on your list instead of my emotional state. Which is fine, by the way.”

I turn to face my monitors and resume typing, though I don’t have a document open. Kyle can’t see that from where he’s standing.

“I’m just saying things were better for all of us when Piper was around. Not just for you. My life was significantly improved when you weren’t such a sad sack and would join me for lunch occasionally. I would appreciate it if you could do me the favor of fixing things with her before I’m forced to blow you myself.”

Kyle is pleased with his last taunt, giving a sly smile as he turns to the door. He lets his fingers tap the top of the frame on the way out.

He’s not wrong that I’ve been lifeless since the donation pick-up at the house. The narrow spectrum of emotion I kept before meeting Piper—the one I’m trying to shove myself back into so that I can feel safe again—is suffocating.

It’s like reverting to black and white after experiencing color. I’m drained of all feeling except for exhaustion.

I open my computer to a spreadsheet that tracks all the tasks related to the sale process, who’s responsible, and each deadline. My name tops column D, and I scan down, noting all the cells missing the letter X. Those blanks represent tasks that need to be done. I settle on one I know my boss Hunter is waiting for, which should keep me occupied for the next six hours if I keep my head down and my ass in this chair. Perfect.

My phone buzzes and I growl, annoyed at the intrusion while trying to numb out with work. The call is from an unknown number with a local area code, so I pick it up. I never know if it’s going to be someone from a project calling to rip me a new one about a number they don’t understand or a report they haven’t received yet.

“James Newhouse?” A woman’s voice lights up the other end of the line, professional but warm.

“This is he,” I reply, leaning back in my chair and scratching at the back of my head while I hold the phone to my ear.

“This is Angela Friedman from the State Attorney’s office. I’d like to speak with you about the incident you witnessed on the train.”

My entire body pauses, every system screeching to a halt at her words. My heart starts beating again but at twice the rate. I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Okay. Am I… being subpoenaed?”

“We’re in discovery now. I need to ask you some questions about your deposition before a decision can be made about whether you will be called to testify.” Her tone is matter of fact, as though her words haven’t created a Grand Canyon-sized pit in my stomach.

I bet she’s reaching out to several witnesses to assess who might best represent their case. My hands turn clammy as I think about Piper having this experience, of picking up the phone and being greeted with the news that a trial is moving forward. Anxiety-by-proxy tightens in my chest.

Ms. Friedman and I agree on a time to meet and she thanks me for my time before hanging up. Presumably, to return to her day without issue. Me, on the other hand? I’m spiraling.

I need to talk to Piper.

My usual seat on the train—or rather, the seat I used to sit in—lures me in as I prepare myself for the heaven or hell that will await me in eleven minutes. That’s when Piper should board this car, at 7:26 a.m. The seconds tick by fervently as I think through how I will greet her, what I will say to her, and how I’ll suggest we move forward given the trial news.

My thoughts swirl like a word cloud, one that promotes the most used word to the biggest font size. PIPER flashes in bold letters across my mind.

I spot her immediately as we roll into Roosevelt. As usual, she appears to have arrived exactly on time, her cheeks flushed and mirroring the red slouchy hat covering her hair and ears. My heart leaps at the sight of her and then falls to my knees. I have no right to be excited by her.

Worse, it’s my own damn fault.

Piper boards the train with her bag tucked between her arm and her side, the strap hanging loosely on her shoulder, and she has no apparent concern about whether she might see me here. I realize, right now, that surprising her after three weeks with no contact might be a huge mistake.

I watch her scan the car for a place to sit, knowing her eyes will venture toward the seat next to me in three, two, one, and she’s here, meeting my gaze. Her expression changes briefly, more shock than surprise, her brown eyes growing wide.

She whips around to find a seat in the front of the car and settles with her back toward me. No second glance at our set of seats or at me sitting in one of them.

Of all the possibilities I played out for this ride, I never considered that Piper might ignore me. I thought I’d get her anger, her hurt, perhaps her confusion or indignant pride. But indifference? I didn’t prepare for that.

I shift in the seat, the hard plastic creaking under the weight of my frame as I balance an elbow on the small ledge beneath the window.

It was a flash of eye contact, two seconds max, before Piper turned away. But she was solid amid her surprise. Unaffected. Intact. No hint of the heartache that’s been destroying me daily.

Without me, Piper’s life has maintained a bloom of color.

Without her, my life has slipped into grayscale.

She is alright. I’m the one who’s not.

Clarity comes swiftly, my dad’s voice echoing in my mind: you push people away who try to get close, you hurt them before they can hurt you .

Maybe I didn’t break things off to protect Piper. Clearly, she didn’t… she doesn’t… need that from me. I did it to protect myself. And it was a fucking futile endeavor because it hasn’t spared me an ounce of pain.

It has only meant I’m hurting alone.

The space next to me stays empty as we hurl toward downtown. I feel her absence from it so acutely, and it’s a small mercy no one else sits beside me. The gentle sway of Piper’s hair taunts me from several rows up, swinging beneath her hat as the train bumps along. I want to run my fingers through it, to stretch my hand along the back of her head, tucking my thumb under her ear.

It’s the sort of touch I took for granted with Piper. When I held her right here as the air filled with smoke, when we kissed in my car, when she straddled me on my couch, when we danced in the parking lot after the gala. Even when I hugged her, recklessly, at my parents’ place. That tenderness is what I miss most.

Those small moments when she felt safe under my touch.

I told her she would be safe with me. I showed her she could trust me when I said it.

And then I made her look like a fool for believing it.

My head taps lightly against the window as I gaze mindlessly, never seeing a thing outside the glass. I consider what I put Piper through, masquerading my baggage as righteousness.

Will I have the chance to tell her that forcing an ending between us was a mistake? Given her reaction when she boarded this morning, I don’t think I’ll get it.

The train slows as it approaches the platform, and I give myself a pep talk for the conversation about to happen. Whether or not I can salvage any semblance of a relationship with Piper is secondary to her right to know the trial is moving forward.

I start walking toward the doors before the train reaches the stop, positioning myself near the exit so everyone from the front of the car will see me as they approach. Piper gathers her things and stands, quickly swiping her hands on the front of her legs before turning in my direction. She doesn’t make eye contact, and it feels purposeful, an intentional decision to leave her eyes on the ground as a more comfortable alternative to my face. My stomach tightens into a knot.

“Hey,” I call softly, hoping to steal her attention without drawing the eyes of the other passengers waiting to unload. “Hey, Piper.” I try a second time, dragging myself against the flow of traffic until I’m in front of her.

My hand reaches for her arm, but I think better of it as she moves to her right to step around me. “Piper, please,” I beg, moving back into her path and blocking the exit. “We need to talk about the trial.”

For the first time all morning, her eyes snap to mine with purpose. They contain a look of confusion mixed with regret that she will have to engage with me. She nods and gestures her head toward the platform, stepping quickly off the train while I follow close behind.

We find a spot away from the throng of people and pause there. Her body language is closed at every possible spot: narrowed eyes, drawn mouth, crossed arms, and rounded shoulders. Maybe she’s not as intact as I thought. I need to start talking before I do something stupid, like wrap my arms around her and pull her to my chest.

“Hey, thank you for taking a second.” My gratitude serves as a peace offering. Piper doesn’t seem to accept it. “I… I got a call from an attorney yesterday. They want to vet me as a possible witness for the trial. It’s happening. Did you get a call as well?”

Her eyes go wide as she shakes her head, a low exhale escaping from her chest. Relief floods through me; I know how much anxiety she’d have if she were called to testify.

“Okay, good. That’s good.” There’s no reason to keep talking to her now that this question about our charade, and whether we’ll need to revive it, has been answered. Still, my mouth keeps moving.

“I’m meeting with their office next week. I don’t know what’s going to happen from here, but I feel in my gut that I’ll be subpoenaed. I’d bet money on it.”

“That’s wild.” Those two words are all she says, and they betray none of her feelings about the matter. Especially paired with an apathetic expression I haven’t seen before.

“I just wanted to check in; I figured if you had gotten a call too, you’d want to talk about it. So glad you didn’t.” Piper nods. I guess that’s it.

She swings her bag from her shoulder and starts rifling through it. This particular bit of movement is so achingly familiar that hope pricks at my heart as I watch her dig. She finds what she’s looking for and brings it up, sliding her blue and yellow Family Fares card into my hand, cold plastic with roughed-up corners poking at the skin of my palm.

“I won’t need this anymore then.” She imitates a soft smile, the kind you give when a stranger enters your elevator. Piper strides past me to go left on the platform, in the direction of her office and the people she serves, the ones whom she loves and who love her back.

I turn the card over in my fingers, studying it, this last piece of evidence that there once was an “us.” Her act of returning it cleaves “us” into a distinct “me” and “you.”

While I debate throwing it away—tossing this token of my fears and failures into some grimy bin with the rest of the city’s refuse—I slide it into my pocket instead. Maybe I’ll tuck it into my scuffed shoe at the back of the closet, a monument to the beginning and end of what was, what could have been, and what wasn’t with Piper Paulson. It might make me feel worse, but at least it’ll remind me what I felt was real and that I’m capable of feeling at all. It’s the only consolation I can find at the moment.