Page 63 of Somewhere Along The Line
“That’s the problem, P.” I turn around, and the sight of her makes me want to collapse. She looks so small, like a wounded puppy pleading to be loved instead of kicked.
The threat of vomit rises precariously in my throat but I keep talking. “I care too. I care too damn much. I can’t control myself around you, and it puts you in situations that risk everything you’ve built.
“You worked so hard to climb out of the hole fucking Henry Sierra left you in; I won’t let myself throw you back down there. Fuck, even right now you’re supposed to be working and instead, I’ve got you back here dealing with my shit. You deserve someone who won’t lie to spend time with you, who will return your texts, who won’t ask you to cover up their fucking criminal behavioragain,and who makes you better at your job, not worse. That’s not me. I can’t add the pain of hurting you on top of the pain I already have. I’m at capacity. I can’t take any more.”
“Damn it, James!” She’s crying hard, and I’m not sure how we got here, exchanging my tears for hers. “You’re hurting menow. Can you just listen to me, please?”
“There’s nothing you can say, Piper. This isn’t about you. It’s about me and how I know this will end if we let it begin. I can’t do that to either of us. That’s it.”
I am such an asshole. I want her to know this is for the best, that I’m being an asshole for her sake. There’s no way she can see it like that. Not right now.
Piper nods and pulls her mouth taut, both lips tucked under her teeth. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a deep inhale, sniffing up the wetness from her nose that threatens to drip.
Without another look, she turns and heads back to the driveway where I pray the movers are finishing up. The thought of her sitting captive in the truck is agonizing. She needs to be beyond my reach before I change my mind.
I sit back down on the bench and the weight of the morning pins me lifeless. I knew better than to let myself develop feelings for her. Instead of heeding the warning, I followed my heart instead of my head. It never works.
This is exactly why I don’t engage—so I can avoid feeling like this and avoid hurting others in the process. This is why I stick to known outcomes, A+B=C, because it keeps everything in my control. Clearly, I make a mess of things when they’re not.
Dad comes around the corner and stops at the sight of me. He’s wearing a mask of empathy, but it doesn’t hide his frustration. Seems I’ve missed the whole load-up between my breakdown about Mom and my breakup with Piper.
My guess, though, is that’s not what he’s frustrated about. I steel myself for the conversation to come.
“What the hell, Jamie?” He’s imposing, standing in front of me, and it’s an interesting reversal, him looking down at me while I sit. Like I’m a kid who’s about to be punished. “Why did Piper just sprint across our yard and dive into the truck? She’s crying, James.”
“It’s not your problem, Dad. It’s fine. She’ll be fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He runs his hand through his hair just like I do when I’m stressed. It would be endearing in another circumstance.
“I don’t know what happened here,” he says, “but I can guess it’s more of the same—you pushing people away who try to get close, you believing they’re better off without you, you hurting them before they can hurt you, before they can leave you like Sydney did. Is that what you want for your life, James? To continue to be alone?”
“What if itiswhat I want, Dad? I’m not you. I never learned how to love someone and keep their heart safe. Turns out I can’t manage it for a few weeks, much less decades, and even if I could, I don’t want to invest the time and then lose them.
“That whole saying, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’ Bullshit. It’s better to be alone by choice than to be abandoned without warning. It’s better to have a cold heart than a broken one. Piper deserves to have someone who can love her well. I can’t do that.”
“You’re not incapable, James, you’re scared. You’re pulling this ‘white knight’ act, pretending you’re saving her from yourself and believing it makes you the good guy. That’s what’s bullshit.”
Dad storms back to the front yard and the silence that’s left is suffocating.
Done.I’m done. The anvil on my chest cannot bear another ounce of anyone’s hurt or disappointment. Not today. Maybe not ever.
Slippery tears gush frommy 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.
