10. Piper
TEN
Piper
ONE PIPER PINING
Christmas
“ Pipah! Quit starin’ at yer phone and take a picture of me and Waltah by the mantle. With my nutcrackah dolls! Chop-chop, so we can watch the movie!” My great-aunt Mel gives me her point-and-shoot camera and shuffles over to her gas fireplace, fluffing up her hair and stepping carefully over the train set that’s chugging around the tree. She’s wearing a red-and-green crushed velvet tracksuit with her Rudolph slippers and dangly elf earrings that are the size of actual elves. “ Waltah . Waltah . WALTAH! ”
Walter is my great-aunt Mel’s new boyfriend. He lives two blocks away, but they met on a cruise. “For cryin’ out loud. Where’s the fire, woman? I’m talkin’ to your brother-in-law over here about snowblowers.”
“Well, excuse me, mistah , but I happen to think that conversation could be an email. Come over here by the mantle for a picture, arright ?”
“Good thing I love it when she bosses me around,” he mutters, grinning as he winks at me. Walter looks like a cross between Channing Tatum and Larry David, which shouldn’t be a thing, but it’s a thing.
“Oh, you think I don’t know what you like, mistah ? Get over here and spoon me for the camera.” It is alarming how much energy she has after all the roast chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, and frozen chocolate pie with Cool Whip she’s eaten. But she’s so excited to host the whole family and her boyfriend for Christmas this year—it’s sweet.
It’s getting pretty crowded in her little house on Staten Island. My grandparents, my parents, me and my brother, Aunt Maddie and Uncle Declan, their kids—Ciara and Kieran. Walter. And all twelve thousand of Mel’s bargain-priced Christmas decorations.
Walter stands behind Mel with his arms around her waist, and they pose like for a prom photo. I don’t think they’re even doing it ironically. It’s very cute. I get a landscape shot of Mel’s and Walter’s smiling faces, most of Mel’s hair, some of the pre-lit frosted faux-spruce garland, a pair of craft store angels, and three out of nine of her nutcracker dolls.
My collection of Christmas pipers has grown again, thanks to her. This year she got me a mouse standing in front of eleven organ pipes. Honestly? The hand-painted face on that mouse will give me nightmares for the rest of my life. But it’s from a limited-edition Twelve Days of Christmas collection that Mel is very proud of, so I will treasure it while keeping it face down in a box at the back of a closet forever.
“Hey, mistah !” she calls out to Declan. “ Remembah the first time you came to my house and brought me this doll? I knew right then. I said to my sistah —that man is gonna be one of us. I knew the way you know a good bagel just from lookin’ at the crust. And now look at us. We got three more beautiful people in our family, and I got nine nutcrackah dolls. Nine. A fancy collection that a fancy lawyer started for me, la-di-da! Thirty dollahs I paid for that green-and-gold one, would you believe? I must think I’m a Kardashian, but I tell you, I just had to have him.”
Declan and my dad are moving the extra folding chairs from around the dinner table to the living room area for the TV-watching portion of tonight’s festivities. “I think about that night very often, Mel,” he says, grinning. “Fondly.” He shares a look with Maddie, and I know he’s talking about their infamous ferry ride home that evening more than the time he spent here with the family.
But I remember that Christmas dinner like it was yesterday—when I encouraged Declan to join us so he could be with Maddie. I was so good at texting him from Maddie’s phone that they are now a family of four, and this year I’m helping someone I don’t even like get together with my celebrity crush. And she doesn’t even like him. Why can’t I do this for myself?!
Looking around, I realize that I am the only person here over the age of ten who is single. And Ben even has a girl that he likes to spar with in karate class. How is it possible that I, the greatest champion of Love and Romance, am still boyfriendless? Should I go on a cruise?
I haven’t heard from Journal Guy since I told him I don’t have a boyfriend two nights ago. Maybe I seemed too eager—who knows. I hope I have time to get back to the Wishing Wall before I leave town. In addition to selling a script, meeting Holden face-to-face, and having my First Time within the next year with someone who really cares about me, I want to add a new wish: Meet Journal Guy face-to-face.
I think.
I don’t even know which one I’d choose if I found myself in the amazing predicament of having to choose between two guys: one guy whose identity I know; one who could be anyone, really. But then again, this not-knowing has its charms, as Tom Hanks said in You’ve Got Mail .
My Backroom chats with Holden have been sporadic since I got to New York but pretty flirtatious. I get this tingly thrill every time he texts me back, and then I remember he thinks I’m Shay and I kind of pull away. And then he’ll text me just to make sure I’m still into him, probably. Because guys really do like it when they have to chase you, I guess.
Still, there’s something very satisfying about texting Holden as Shay. There’s no real fear of rejection. I can share a side of myself that I probably wouldn’t if I were texting him as me—at least not this early on in the textual relationship. This Backroom space holds some kind of magic. The app is like a portal to another dimension where my soul can mingle with Holden Archer’s. The romantic in me kind of loves the idea of never actually meeting him. It’s like living in the moment right before two people’s lips touch when they kiss.
The virgin in me wants to hold out for Holden for my First Time—because I’ve waited this long, why not wait for Holden Archer? But also…I can’t wait forever. And it already feels like I’ve been waiting forever.
I sent Holden a Backroom text, as Shay, wishing him a merry Christmas a little while ago, and he wrote back You too. And that’s it. It’s a little weird. But also fine. Like I said, I would not be heartbroken if he ends up rejecting me as Shay. I might be heartbroken if the opposite happens, even though it’s been my job to make the opposite happen.
I take a seat in one of the folding chairs and pull my laptop out of my backpack. No one is more shocked than me that I would rather open up my PiperThanFiction Gmail account than focus on Love Actually for the twentieth time, but here we are. I scan the last email chain with Journal Guy, about to email him again when I get a new message request in Google Chat.
From Journal Guy!
I gasp so loudly my dad looks over from the sofa. “Everythin’ okay, sweet pea?”
“Yes! Yes. Just an email from a friend.”
My heart is racing even faster than the first time I saw Colin Firth and the Portuguese lady jump into the lake to retrieve Colin Firth’s manuscript pages.
I count to ten, very quickly, before accepting the chat invitation.
JOURNAL GUY: Hey. I was just about to email you, but I figured this would be easier.
ME: Hey! I was just about to email you too, actually. I was wondering if you ended up getting your sister more presents.
JOURNAL GUY: I got her what you recommended, and she loved them. Thanks again. What are you up to?
ME: I’m at my great aunt’s house on Staten Island with my fam. We just started watching Love Actually, even though I campaigned for You’ve Got Mail. But Love Actually has become kind of a tradition.
JOURNAL GUY: Yeah. The worst kind of tradition, like hazing.
ME: Oh boy. Another one.
JOURNAL GUY: Another what?
ME: Another male human who hates Love Actually.
JOURNAL GUY: Pretty unoriginal, huh? To be clear, I don’t only hate Love Actually. I also detest all romantic comedies. So many coincidences. Always so illogical. Meg Ryan goes to meet the guy she’s been emailing with, but she doesn’t even know his name? Please. Tom Hanks never wonders if the lady he saw at the airport who almost got hit by a car right in front of his house the next day was some psycho stalker? Even though he specifically states that Fatal Attraction scared the crap out of him? And we’re supposed to buy this because there’s an upbeat jazz standard playing under everything?
ME: Well, we’re supposed to buy it because they’re rom-coms. Nobody’s trying to sell them as documentaries.
JOURNAL GUY: Fair. That was very well said.
ME: Thank you.
JOURNAL GUY: Except why didn’t Tom Hanks just tell Meg Ryan he’s the guy she’s been emailing with once they started getting along in real life?
ME: Well, it isn’t as romantic if there’s no surprise.
JOURNAL GUY: You know what would have been an even bigger surprise?
ME: If he stabbed her?
JOURNAL GUY: LOL yeah. Well, I am glad he didn’t. Sorry if I’m being an asshole today. My family is eating a lot of everything, and I’m…not.
ME: Oh no, why not?!
JOURNAL GUY: Just limiting my calorie intake—not a big deal. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for the gift suggestions.
“Who’s Journal Guy?” my mom asks in a quiet, singsong voice from right behind me.
I minimize the browser window. “Oh my God. This isn’t my diary, Mom. This is a private conversation that’s actually private.” It’s only when I say this out loud that I realize I haven’t been writing in my diary at all about texting with Holden or Journal Guy. In any of my diaries.
“Okay, okay.” She strokes the back of my head. “You look so happy—that’s all. Are you?”
“I am. Thank you.” I flick my hand at her, shooing her away, and wait for my mother to return to the good sofa and take a seat between my dad and Grandma Carly. She hands my dad a mug of hot chocolate, and he gives her leg a squeeze, just above her knee, like he always does. And now I feel bad for shooing her away. I wait for her to glance back at me, which she does. And I smile at her. She furrows her brow at me, as if wondering if she’s hallucinating or if I’m having a stroke or something. I shake my head, rolling my eyes, and that seems to assuage her.
As I open up the chat window again, I wonder: Am I happy? I am. I like Journal Guy. I can’t seem to picture him as anyone other than Holden Archer, but I also don’t want to picture anyone other than Holden.
ME: You’re so welcome. And I would just like to say that I find it very endearing how thoroughly you seem to have watched these movies you claim to hate!
If you really want to blow your sister’s mind you should watch a rom-com with her ;) If I had an older brother, that would be the best present I could think of.
JOURNAL GUY: That is…a nice idea. I’m already in such a good mood—why not?!
JOURNAL GUY: In return for your excellent advice, I will offer you this to give to your little brother.
“Knock knock.”
(He’ll probably roll his eyes and say, “Who’s there?”)
You say: “The chicken who crossed the road because he farted.”
That’s it. Killed every time when I was eight.
ME: Wow. A crossover joke!
I’m about to send a laughing-face emoji when I get four back-to-back text notifications from Shay Nicholls.
My boss.
My boss who’s at a spa resort in Sedona instead of spending Christmas with her family.
Maybe she’s having some kind of aromatherapy-massage emergency.
So I close the Google Chat to read the texts, because God forbid she fire me and I can’t continue to deceive my favorite hot-guy movie star for her.
SHAY: Hi.
SHAY: Can you talk RN?
SHAY: Lots to talk about!
SHAY: On the phone, I mean! Actual phone call.
ME: Sure. Let me just go to another room.
I shut my laptop and take my phone with me to the guest room, closing the door. I don’t turn on the overhead light because this room, like all the others in this house, is lit by strings of Christmas lights. I text Shay to let her know I can talk now and immediately get a call from her.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I finished reading How We Got Here while I was in the infrared sauna today. Here is my Christmas present to you: I loved it. I loved your script.”
“Oh wow.”
“Love the dialogue. Oh my God—the banter! Love the concept. So romantic. Love the twists. I have some ideas about the lead characters. We can address that in the rewrite—which I will pay you for as per WGA standard minimums contract. But congratulations! I’ll talk to my agent about this in the new year.”
“Wow.” That’s the only word my brain is letting me use right now. I’m happy. I think I’m happy. “Wow.”
“I know! Seriously, I am so excited. Believe it or not, I’m getting tired of getting cast as the hot mean girl. My agent says we have to develop our own passion projects if I want to show people what I’m capable of. And this is a perfect vehicle for me. I feel so lucky you wanted me to read this.”
I don’t think that’s how it went, but… “Wow.”
“I know. And also—no one can hear you right now, right?”
“No. I mean, right. I don’t have you on speakerphone.”
“Okay, so I talked to Holden today and I need to catch you up.”
“ Talked to him? You mean on the phone? Today?”
“Yes. Not through the app. On the phone. With my phone number. It was urgent. Anyway, I got a reminder that I had booked a cabin at Big Bear Lake for New Year’s. I reserved it for me and Jonathan a couple of months ago, but he’s going to Mexico like an idiot. So I invited Holden.”
“You invited him where?”
“To the cabin. For New Year’s.”
“With you? Just you and him? Or, like, for a party?”
“Just us. It’s super cute and remote, and it’s so nice out there.”
My heart is sinking. Sinking. Like when Meg Ryan was about to go introduce herself to Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle and the woman she thought was the ho who laughs like a hyena ran over to hug him. “But…I thought you didn’t even like Holden.”
I can hear her laughing at me through her nostrils. “It’s just sex, Piper. I mean, he’s hot. What am I gonna do, not have sex with him just because I’m still hung up on my ex? I have needs. I cannot even wait for Jonathan to see the pics I’m going to post. He will lose his mind. Here’s the thing—Holden didn’t say yes exactly. I got a soft maybe. I mean, I’ll probably go up there anyway, just to decompress before Sundance.”
“But haven’t you been decompressing in Sedona?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been going to spas here. Big Bear decompression is a totally different kind of decompressing. I need to do a lot of different types of self-care before Sundance. I mean, I’d probably just go on New Year’s Day if it’s just me. But I’d rather go with him. I need you to get him to give me a firm yes to the cabin… Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you still visiting your family?”
“Well, it is still Christmas, yes. I’m flying home on the thirtieth.”
“Okay. Cutting it close. I need a yes from Holden by then, so do what you can in Backroom. Are we on the same page?”
“Got it.” Wait. Am I on her page? Is she saying she wants me to get even flirtier with him?
“I’m saying pull out the big text guns. Text only. If he doesn’t agree to go to Big Bear with me, I doubt he’ll take me to the Riders premiere, so…I don’t know if any of this will work out. I still have a few scripts to read while I’m here, so…” I can picture her shrugging like a mean girl. “My massage therapist’s here—I have to go. Byeeee.”
I hang up before saying, “Byyyyeeeeeeuuuugggghhhhhh.”
I can’t believe Holden even gave her a soft maybe. Or am I glad? Because maybe the maybe part is because of the texts with me. The soft part is because of the times he’s talked to her. Or maybe he’s just a guy who likes pretty actresses and he’s weighing his options.
I plop down onto the guest bed. It’s covered with coats, and I lucked out because I’m lying on top of Declan’s wool trench coat. I can tell it’s his because it smells like a cool breeze on an Italian coast if you roll down the window of a really expensive minivan with two kids in it and lean your head out as you drive past a cigar store. I stare up at the ceiling lamp. There’s plastic mistletoe hanging from the finial. That’s a weird place for it. But I guess it’s a sign that I should try texting Holden again. I wonder what he smells like. A hike through a forest on a rainy day, finding shelter in an amber cave, and flipping through the pages of a well-preserved first edition of The Great Gatsby .
I guess I’ll send him one of those charming random musings like from the beginning of You’ve Got Mail . But PG-13. To start.
I open up the Backroom app on my phone, sit up, and just start typing, like a journal-writing exercise.
ShayAnything.83: Do you ever wonder what Zephyr and Ember would be doing right now? Like for Christmas? They’d probably be together, just the two of them. Watching Miracle on 34th Wing. Or How to Train Your Dragon Lover.
HoldUp.76: Ha. Fifty Shades of Prey.
ShayAnything.83: The Dragon Wears Nada.
ShayAnything.83: I’m wearing nada right now, actually. Waiting for a massage therapist to come to my room. To massage my body. Deep tissue. Really deep. If you know what I mean.
OMG, I have no idea what I mean.
HoldUp.76: Nice. You tense?
ShayAnything.83: Yeah. Soooo tense. I noticed you have big, strong hands…
HoldUp.76: I do. I’m good with them.
ShayAnything.83: I wish you were here. I’m soooo tight.
HoldUp.76: Well. Good thing you’re staying at a spa.
ShayAnything.83: Right! Guess my massage therapist is running late. Dragon his feet. LOL.
Crickets. I don’t know what else to say. Finally, after around a hundred and infinity seconds, I see moving dots.
HoldUp.76: Okay, well. Merry Christmas again.
ShayAnything.83: You too!
Phew.
Well. I tried.
I get a text from Lainey.
LAINEY: Hey! I heard from Shay. She told me about Big Bear. How are we feeling?
ME: confused face emoji Conflicted?
ME: Why is this so hard? It’s always been easy and kind of fun with your guys.
LAINEY: Because you never had any kind of attachment to the guys you were texting for me. Obvi. And because I’m not a wretched B-face like my sister. I can’t believe she isn’t even here with us for Christmas. What a twatnugget.
LAINEY: But it’s great that she loves your script!
LAINEY: As much as I don’t recommend spending time with her, she really is a good actress and when she decides she wants something, like getting a movie made, watch out. She will get ’er done. I’m so excited for you!
ME: Thank you.
ME: I can’t believe this is all happening. I mean, NONE of it is happening in a way that I ever imagined it would. But it’s happening.
LAINEY: Yeah. And you’re a hopeful romantic, remember? This all just means you’re on the right path and that path is leading you to someone even better than Holden Archer.
LAINEY: I can’t believe I’m the one who just wrote that sentence and not you.
ME: You’re right. Sigh. It’s crazy that I’m not just happy to be on the same path as Holden Archer at all, even for a minute. Even as your sister.
LAINEY: Atta girl. Merry Christmas. Love ya.
ME: Love ya.
When I walk out of the guest room, Ben is trudging down the hall from the bathroom. He tilts his head when he looks at me. “What’s your problem, dork? Roast chicken farts got you down?”
“We should probably open some windows, now that you mention it.” I muss up his hair. “Hey,” I whisper, tugging on his sweater. “Hang on. I’ve got a joke for you.”
He crosses his arms in front of his chest, assembling a mask of preemptive boredom.
“Knock knock.”
He rolls his eyes. “Who’s there, dork face?”
I wait a beat and then deliver this gem, with a straight dork face, “The chicken who crossed the street because he farted.”
A flicker of surprise darts across his features. Fascinated, I watch as emotions play out over his face in rapid succession. His eyebrows lift slightly. His eyes widen. The tight line of his mouth softens, one corner twitching upward. Then a moment of confusion sets in, his brow furrowing as if he’s annoyed. I can hear Liam Neeson and the little boy chatting on-screen in the living room. Ben’s head tilts slightly, then suddenly, he smiles so widely, shaking his head, like a wet golden retriever. His eyes have lit up and his mouth forms an O of surprise and a snort of laughter escapes. His arms fall to his side, his shoulders shake. The laughter bubbles up, like freshly-poured sparkling cider. He punches my arm and snorts again.
“Awesome” is all he says. He punches my arm again. “Awesome.”
And I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow to thank Journal Guy for this moment, because my brother laughs even harder and then something amazing happens.