Page 19 of Catastrophically Yours
"But what if we could?" Drew interrupted, leaning forward with growing excitement. "What if, instead of you carrying this alone, we figured it out together? You handle the logistics and planning—all that stuff you're scary good at—and I handle the music side?"
"Drew."
"Hear me out. The Blue Moon has that back room they never use. Marcus has been complaining for months about needing more events to draw weekend crowds. And I know every struggling musician in the city—we're all dying for stage time and the chance to play for something meaningful."
Piper was quiet for a long moment, her analytical mind clearly working through the proposal. Drew could almost see her building and discarding scenarios, calculating risks and probabilities.
"Even if we could organize something," Piper said finally, "there are still a dozen ways it could fail. We'd need permits, promotion, enough advance notice for people to plan... And what if nobody shows up? What if we spend weeks working on this and raise fifty dollars?"
"Then we'll have fifty dollars more than we had before." Drew reached across the space between them, covering Piper's restless fingers with her own. "And you'll have proved that you don't have to handle everything by yourself."
Something flickered across Piper's face—vulnerability quickly masked, but not quickly enough. Drew saw it then—the real fear underneath all the practical concerns. It wasn't failurethat terrified Piper; it was the possibility of letting people down, of being the reason things fell apart instead of the person who held them together.
"You really think we could pull this off?" Piper's voice was smaller than usual, missing its confident edge.
"I think you could organize anything if you set your mind to it. And I think there are more people who care about you than you realize." Drew squeezed her hand gently. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"
"We fail spectacularly and I still have to drain my savings account, but now I've also wasted weeks and gotten your hopes up for nothing."
"Or," Drew countered, "we succeed spectacularly and discover that some problems are too big for one person but exactly the right size for two."
Piper was quiet so long that Drew began to worry she'd pushed too hard, asked for too much trust too soon. Then Pickle chose that moment to leap onto the couch between them, purring loudly as he settled across both their laps like a furry bridge.
"Even the cat thinks it's a good idea," Drew said solemnly.
That surprised a laugh out of Piper—the first genuine one Drew had heard from her all day. "Using my own cat against me. That's playing dirty."
"I call it smart strategy," Drew said with a grin. She scratched behind Pickle's ears, earning an even louder purr. "So what do you say? Partners?"
Piper looked down at their hands, still linked across Pickle's contentedly sprawled form, then up at Drew's face. Whatever she saw there seemed to decide her.
"Partners," she agreed, and Drew felt something settle into place between them, deeper than attraction, steadier than chemistry. A foundation they could build on.
NINE
CRISIS AND RESOLUTION
The afternoon light filtered through the blinds in patterns that reminded Drew of guitar fretwork as she spread her notes across the kitchen table. Her laptop displayed a spreadsheet that would make Piper proud—venue contacts, musician availability, equipment needs. Each detail catalogued with the kind of precision she'd never bothered with before.
Her phone pressed against her ear, she scrolled through numbers saved from Blue Moon Café's open mic nights. "Hey Marcus, it's Drew from Tuesday nights. I'm organizing a benefit concert and wondered if you'd be interested in performing..."
The response was immediate enthusiasm. Musicians understood emergencies, understood helping each other out. By the third call, Drew felt the familiar spark of a project coming together.
A crash from the living room interrupted her pitch to Sarah, the folk duo's guitarist.
"Sorry, can I call you back in five?" Drew ended the call and found Piper's carefully sorted mail scattered across the hardwood floor. Bills, bank statements, and what looked like insurance documents formed a paper landscape around Pickle's paws.
"Seriously?" Drew knelt to gather the papers, noting Piper's precise handwriting on several envelopes—due dates, priority rankings, a system for everything. "You know she spent time organizing this."
Pickle fixed her with an unblinking stare, pupils wider than usual. His tail twitched with agitation rather than playfulness.
"What's going on with you lately?" Drew reached for him, but he darted away, leaping onto the coffee table where her sheet music waited in neat stacks. One swipe of his paw sent lead sheets floating like oversized confetti.
The yowling started ten minutes later.
Not Pickle's usual conversational meows or attention-seeking chirps, but deep, guttural sounds that seemed to echo off every surface in the apartment. Drew tried treats—ignored. His favorite feather toy—batted away with genuine irritation. The crinkly ball that usually sent him into playful spins—completely dismissed.
Drew followed his restless circuit from kitchen to living room to hallway, hands raised in supplication. He paused only to scratch at Piper's bedroom door and release another ear-splitting cry.
