Page 66 of Somewhere Along The Line
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 presencesoundslike. 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.Mylife 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 domethe 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.
