Page 56 of Somewhere Along The Line
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 Icancircle 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.
