Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Piper
The harsh lights of Chicago General's post-op ward blind my tired eyes with their familiar six-forty-five a.m. symphony.
I'm back in my scrubs, hair smoothed into its regulation nurse-bun, diamond studs catching the overhead glare.
Nothing about this Monday morning should feel different.
Except everything does.
"Piper, bed three needs you." Zoe, the new nurse who still flinches at every alarm, catches me at the station. Her eyes are wide with that particular brand of panic that screams I'm drowning and trying not to show it.
"Good morning, Zoe," I say kindly, smiling because I can see she needs the warmth of a Stone River morning greeting.
She sighs and shakes her head. "Sorry. Yes, good morning. How are you?"
Tired. Sore. Confused.
"I'm good, thanks. Let's check out bed three."
I follow her into the post-op room where Mr. Williams, a sixty-something, hip replacement patient writhes against his pillows. His daughter stands frozen by the window, hands twisting together with panic in her eyes.
The scene pulls me forward on instinct.
I move to his bedside, hands checking lines, his IV placement, the pump timing. "Mr. Williams, I'm Piper Whitman. I need you to look at me."
His eyes are clouded with pain and fear.
I crouch so we're level. "We're going to fix this together, okay? But first, I need you to breathe with me."
"Can't—breathe—hurts—"
"I know it does." My voice comes out soft. Stone River soft. "But you can do hard things. In for four counts, out for six. Slow, like you're watching a sunrise you want to savor forever."
I demonstrate, one hand on his wrist to ground him, the other resting lightly on his shoulder.
I close my eyes, and I'm sitting on the rocks by Silver Falls, watching the sun rise for yet another new day in paradise.
I hear Mr. Williams try, but he stutters.
"Keep going," I whisper, still picturing the best view I've ever seen.
He tries again with me.
"That's it. You're doing great." I open my eyes, then glance at the pain med schedule, then up at Zoe hovering in the doorway. "Zoe, can you grab an ice pack and elevate his leg another two inches? I'll talk him through the exhale."
She moves, grateful for direction that's hard to come by in this busy environment. It's not like the slow pace of a small town.
From the second you walk in that door, it's go-go-go into action.
I guide Mr. Williams through another breath cycle, watching his jaw unclench slowly. After a minute, his shoulders drop. "Feels… better."
"That's you being a badass, sir."
His daughter lets out a shaky laugh.
Our senior staff, Dr. Richardson strides in, all gruff attending energy and zero patience for sentiment.
I stand, presenting updates in the clipped, efficient cadence he prefers, then add, "I'd like to adjust his pain protocol. Add a muscle relaxant to the rotation. He's compensating with his lower back."
Richardson's eyebrows lift. "Breath coaching now, Whitman?"
"Whatever works for the patient, doc."
He grunts, scribbles on the chart and then looks at me. "Do it."
He gives me a gentle nod, which in his language, means: Respect.
I catch Zoe's wide-eyed stare as Dr. Richardson leaves. She whispers, "How did you learn that?"
I can't help the grin, remembering Chase talking me through some breathing techniques while we picnicked at the Falls. "Just something mountain rescue taught me."
The shift blurs after that, despite the ache in my body from a severe lack of sleep.
I do my med rounds, complete discharge paperwork, a post-surgical check that goes smoother than expected. But something's shifted inside me, like a frequency I've been tuned to my whole life has finally dialed to a clearer station.
Same skillset. New softness.
Chase, without meaning to, taught me that gentle is still strong.
I think about him in the hot tub, voice raw as he admitted washing out of basic military training. He thinks he's not enough because he couldn't survive a system designed to break people down from being human, and rebuild them into soldiers.
But he's the strongest man I know.
By the end of my day, I'm slumped, completely exhausted at the nurses' station. The regular courier drops a small box with my name on it, and suddenly, I'm wide awake.
My heart trips, seeing Chase's handwriting on the label.
I tear into the packaging and find all my favorite treats from the mountain, and a note in Chase's messy scrawl:
You can take the girl from the mountain, but you can't take the mountain from the girl. From, Your Forever Friday
I press the note to my chest, blinking hard against the sting behind my eyes.
Zoe peers over. "Boyfriend?"
"Not exactly."
I pour the awful break-room coffee into the thermos anyway. It tastes better than usual, maybe because he's touched the vessel holding it all together.
He's sent me a piece of Stone River to carry through the week. That's what this is. Just like we talked about.
My shift ends at three, and I grab my coat, the thermos tucked carefully in my bag, and head down to the café on the corner.
It's a regular habit that's become routine now. But today, I notice how the barista barely grunts as he slides my usual across the counter. He's already glancing at the clock like he's counting down to freedom.
My phone vibrates against my hip as I wait for the coffee.
Reminder: Dress fitting, 4 PM. Mom will meet you there.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. Right. The gala. No, not that one. The other one. The one I'd conveniently shoved to the back of my mind while wrapped in Chase's flannel.
I'd been planning to curl up with the wildflower guide tonight, memorize a few species so I could casually identify purple lupine or Indian paintbrush on our next hike. Watch Chase's face light up when I point one out before he does.
Instead, I get society gossip and my mother's critical eye.
The barista slides my latte across the counter without a word, already checking the clock again. Forty-seven long-ass minutes until his shift ends, if I'm reading that longing glance correctly.
"How's your day been?" I ask, bright and genuine.
He blinks at me like I've asked him to solve world hunger. "Busy."
That's it. One word. No smile. He's already turning to the next customer.
I grab my cup and head for the door, holding it open for a dad wrestling a stroller through the narrow frame. "Cute baby," I offer.
He grunts and doesn't look up.
A woman in a gorgeous silk scarf brushes past. "Love your scarf," I tell her.
She doesn't even break stride.
Copy that, Stone River this is not.
At Bear Paw Café, Betty would've asked about my weekend, offered me cherry pie, and somehow known I needed extra whipped cream before I did. Etta and Mabel would've stopped me on the street to ask about Chase, eyes twinkling with matchmaking glee.
Here, in this enormous city, I can bring the warmth—I can be the warmth—but it doesn't echo back.
It just gets swallowed by the noise and the rush and the thousand people too busy checking their phones to see each other.
I fish in my bag for the mini packet of gummy bears Chase tucked into my suitcase. There are only three left. I've been trying to ration them like a survivalist hoarding supplies, but failing miserably.
One red bear sits in my palm, translucent and perfect.
I almost pop it in my mouth, then pause. No. I'll save this one for after the fitting.
If I survive.
I tuck it back into the bag's inner pocket, zip it carefully, and square my shoulders.
"Right. Big girl boots on and social boundaries up. Gown fitting next."
I take my latte and head down the block toward the boutique where Mom's already waiting, my chin up, smile ready, and spine stiffened.
Just like the perfect Whitman daughter should be.
"You're late," Mom says without looking up from her phone.
I check my watch. I'm three minutes early.
"Traffic," I lie smoothly, because that's what we do in this family. Smooth lies that keep the peace.
"Let's get inside. Monique is waiting." Mom gestures toward the seamstress, a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair and warm brown eyes. She actually smiles when we walk in.
The boutique smells like roses, and soft instrumental music plays at a volume designed to soothe wealthy nerves while emptying their wallets.
Mom moves quickly to claim the largest fitting room. She stands beside a rolling rack draped with a garment bag, scrolling through her phone with one perfectly manicured hand, pointing her orders with the other.
"We'll do the Valentino. I want her hair up for the gala—classic chignon, nothing trendy. Minimalist jewelry. Diamond studs, simple bracelet to complement. Escort colors are TBD, but I'm working on it."
"Mother—"
"Maxwell has expressed interest in attending with you, but I told him you'd need to confirm your schedule." She finally glances up, her gaze sweeping over me for the first time. "Oh, Piper. You look ghastly. Are you getting enough sleep?"
Only when I'm wrapped around a mountain man who just made me scream his name.
"I'm fine."
"Hmm." The sound drips with doubt. "Well. The dress will help you feel good... on the inside at least." She clicks her fingers in the air. "Monique, if you would?"
Monique unzips the garment bag, and I have to admit… the gown is stunning.
Dark red silk, with a neckline that's elegant without being prudish. A long, flowing skirt that flutters like romantic poetry is written between the threads. It's the kind of dress that makes photographers salivate at events I'm all too used to. Events that make society pages swoon.
It's also the kind of dress that now feels like armor.
I step behind the privacy screen and shimmy out of the jeans and sweater I swapped from my scrubs after work. The Valentino slides over my skin easily.
When I emerge, Mom's assistant—a young woman whose name I've never learned despite seeing her at every event—steps forward with a tablet.
"Approved hair inspiration ideas," she murmurs, showing me a gallery of sleek updos.