Page 73 of Somewhere Along The Line
“But, James, you’re the one who broke it off when your feelings became too real. Why should I believe you won’t do it again?”
If only I could crack open my chest and show her that her name is branded on my heart. While I’m trying to convey this with my words, they’re two-dimensional. My love for her isn’t, and therefore the words feel insufficient. I need to try them anyway.
“I’ve seen what life is like without you, Piper, and it’s no safer. Turns out there’s no protecting myself from you because you pulverized every wall I built. My guess is I did the same for you. The question isn’t whether I’m all in; you have my heart either way, P. The question is whether you’ll take it.”
“James, these words, they’re what I needed to hear two months ago. Not now, not after I’ve tried my damnedest to envision a life without you. To convince myself a life without you could still be good.”
Her words tighten the ache behind my ribs, sharpen it, push it deeper. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m two months too late. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to try to make it up to you, to try this thing again. To show you I won’t run.”
Her eyes hold mine and they’re full of every emotion I tried so hard, for so long, to avoid. But this time, they’re not threatening. They tell me I have a chance.
“Can you give me a few days? This is a lot. This whole morning, it’s just… it’s a lot. I need to think about it.”
“I’m here, P. I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll show you.”
I’m two tons lighter as I make the walk from the sandwich shop to work. The hearing is over, and with it, the concern about whether we’ll get caught. Even better, Piper finally knows how I feel about her and what I want.
Not even the bitter cold can dampen the warmth that’s radiating from my core; a growing hope starts to overshadow the fear she might say I’m too late.
I pull out my phone as I wait for the WALK sign to flash at the intersection, cars rolling by in stops and starts, occasionally laying on their horns.
My thread with Dad sits near the very top of my text messages, ready and waiting for my report.
I don’t need to say more. He knows what this means because he’s had to listen to me sulk for nearly three months (and because he’s the one who told me what an idiot I was for letting Piper go in the first place).
His reply comes quickly and without fuss.
Three dots flutter across the screen as I wait for the rest of his message.
I can’t make myway home from the restaurant fast enough, grateful I took the entire day off and not just the morning.
My feelings bounce around my head, each one a pinball that ricochets off the obstacles I erected to prevent myself from being hurt again. They bump up against these bits of rationality, testing them to see if they’re firm.
Some aren’t as sturdy as I thought.
I walk through the door and drape myself over the couch, sliding down the back cushions toward the seat like molten lava. My phone rings, and I answer the call without looking at the screen, setting it on speaker as I stare at the ceiling.
“Piper! I didn’t expect you to answer; I figured you’d be at work this afternoon.” Mom’s cheerful voice echoes in the room and I can’t decide if I’m glad for this distraction or desperate to be alone with my thoughts.
“I’m actually at home; I took the day off after the hearing. Didn’t know how I’d feel—whether it would be draining to relive the incident in that way.” My eyes fixate on the spiky popcorn on the ceiling. I look for patterns, wondering if I can spot an animal or a flower amid the dots like a child looking for shapes in the clouds.
“And how was it? That’s why I’m calling—to make sure you’re okay.” Margaret Paulson is nothing if not concerned for the well-being of her children. It’s a blessing and a curse.
“I’m okay. It was… a lot. I’m still trying to process it, to be honest.”
She nods, which I can tell through the phone, a feat that should seem impossible but is not if you know Mom.
“What was it like seeing James?” she asks tenderly. She’s curious but won’t be pushy. While she’d love for me to bear my entire soul over 4G this morning—she hasn’t let up with her questions since I told her about him, the ruse, and the break-up—she knows my heart can’t take it today.
“That was the hard part,” I answer. “We went to lunch after his testimony, and I hadn’t expected or planned to have any real interaction with him at all, much less a meal. He… he apologized for the way he ended things, for hurting me the way he did. He also asked if we could start over… if he could take me out and we could see what it’s like to care about each other without having to pretend.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“It changes by the second. I'm angry he couldn’t figure this out weeks ago. I’m scared I’ll get hurt, that he’ll run away when things get complicated, and I’ll be splayed out on the couch crying again.”
“And?” God, moms always know, don’t they?
“And I wanted to tell him right then that I’d like to start over too. That I’d start tomorrow if we could.”
