Page 65 of Somewhere Along The Line
“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’sthe 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 fuckingdad’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 isI 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.
“Whateveryouwant. 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.
The sun takes nopity 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.
