Chapter 18 #2
And I've never been brave enough to do that.
We pull up to departures, and Chase puts the truck in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"Chase, can we—"
"Have a safe flight, Piper." His hands grip the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, tears streaming down my face now. "Please don't leave it like this. Please…"
He gets out, grabs my bag from the back, and sets it on the curb. I follow him, my boots—the ones he bought me—treading heavy on the pavement.
"I'm sorry." The words are useless now, but I say them anyway. "I'm so sorry. I know I should have told you earlier."
He just shrugs those big round shoulders that have been burdened with too much already, then pulls me into a hug.
I feel my heart shatter, because… it feels different this time. Tighter. More desperate. Like he's trying to memorize the shape of me.
I bury my face in his chest and breathe him in. I want to stay here forever.
"Forever Friday, right?" I pull back, trying to smile through the tears. "I'll see you next—"
"Goodbye, Piper. Travel safe."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't crack a joke. Doesn't give me the easy grin that usually makes everything okay. The Chase-ness is gone. The light in his eyes. The enthusiasm that makes him him.
I broke him.
I grab my bag with shaking hands, and I want to scream. Want to throw the bag down and tell him I'm staying. Want to call my mother and tell her I won't be at the gala, won't be playing perfect daughter anymore, won't be choosing her approval over my own happiness.
But I don't.
Because I'm Piper Whitman, and Piper Whitman always does what she's told.
I walk through the automatic doors, and I don't look back.
***
The alarm goes off at four-thirty, but I'm already awake.
I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching shadows shift across the bland white paint, replaying Chase's face at the airport on an endless loop.
The way he stepped back. The way the light went out of his eyes.
"You either choose this, or you choose Chicago."
I silence the alarm and wearily walk to the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. Everything in this penthouse is cold. The floors, the granite countertops, the stainless steel appliances that gleam like operating room equipment.
Even the fucking coffee maker is programmable. I press the button and watch dark liquid stream into a porcelain cup that's as bland and boring as the rest of the place.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
I wrap my hands around the cup and walk to the balcony, sliding the glass door open.
Chicago spreads out below me, steel and glass and concrete. The sky is that particular shade of pre-dawn grey that makes everything look washed out. Lifeless.
In Stone River, the sunrise paints the mountains gold, turning the surrounding nature into a painting. The air smells like pine and oozes freshness that cleanses.
Chase would be waking up about now, probably making terrible instant coffee in that chipped mug with the faded rescue logo.
Shit. I'm thinking about him.
I wonder if he's thinking about me.
I wonder if he hates me.
The wind on the balcony whips my hair across my face. I'm wearing his hoodie—the one he gave me at the cook-off, with Rescue Sweetheart embroidered on the back.
It's too big, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, and it smells like him.
I pull it tighter and whisper to the wind, "Are you happy? Good question, Mr. Morrison."
The city doesn't answer either. Just like I didn't.
But I'm not happy. I'm not even close to happy.
I'm standing on a balcony thirty floors up, drinking overpriced coffee in a penthouse I didn't choose, wearing the only thing that makes me feel real, and I can't remember the last time I laughed.
I pull out my phone and angle it to catch the sunrise—what little of it breaks through the surrounding buildings. The hoodie is visible in the frame, the Stone River Mountain Rescue logo bright against the grey morning.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
Miss you.
Wish you were here.
I'm sorry I'm such a coward.
I don't send it.
Instead, I save the photo to a folder I've titled Forever Friday's and shove the phone in the hoodie pocket.
Back inside, the penthouse is exactly as I left it on Friday afternoon. Spotless. Organized. Every surface gleaming, every pillow perfectly placed, every piece of art carefully selected to project success and sophistication.
Except…
I turn slowly, cataloguing the invasion.
The wildflower guide sits on the coffee table, the compass bookmark Chase bought me sticking out at an angle. I'd been reading about alpine forget-me-nots before bed again last night, memorizing details to share with him the next weekend I visit.
If there is a next weekend.
The care package box is still on the kitchen counter, too precious to throw away. An empty gummy bear wrapper sits on the end table. My hiking boots are by the door, mud still clinging to the treads because I couldn't bring myself to clean them.
They look ridiculous next to my row of designer heels, like a rebellion that doesn't quite have the courage to follow through.
But my favorite part… is the flannel shirt is draped over the back of the sofa. I'd worn it to bed last night and woken up clutching it like a security blanket.
The shirt I wore on our first morning together. The walk-of-shame Chase convinced me to take with him. Where we ate breakfast, laughed and smiled at each other, and signed that fucking napkin.
Dammit. That damn napkin.
But looking around my penthouse, in this pristine, perfect space that my parents bought and decorated and approved, these are the only things that feel real.
These are the only things that are mine.
I release a long, heavy sigh, and as I prepare to actually start my day, something white catches my eye under the door.
I cross the room and pick up the envelope, recognizing Mom's preferred stationery immediately. It's heavy, cream-colored, and embossed with the Whitman crest.
Like we're goddamn royalty.
It must have been delivered yesterday while I was flying back, and when I got back home I was too ruined to even see it.
I tear it open, and read my mom's scribbled note.
Piper,
Considering you can't answer your own calls now, I hope this reaches you in time. The final fitting is today at 2 PM. Do not be late.
We then have a hair and makeup trial at 4 PM.
Gown pickup will be Thursday.
Maxwell will collect you at 6:30 for the gala on Saturday, 7 PM sharp.
Do wear the Louboutins. And for God's sake, don't even think about wearing those boots again.
—Mother
I stare at the note, then at the boots by the door.
No 'love.' No 'looking forward to seeing you.' Just commands and criticism, wrapped in expensive paper.
At the fitting last week, I'd stood on that platform in my hiking boots, mud-streaked and defiant, and told Monique to hem the gown for them instead of heels.
I'd felt powerful. Brave. Like maybe I could actually choose myself for once.
Then I came home and agreed to attend the gala anyway.
Coward.
In Stone River, I hiked to waterfalls and jumped off the cliff. I learned to identify wildflowers and competed in a chili cook-off and cared too much that we lost.
I slept under the stars wrapped in Chase's arms, feeling more at home on a thin blanket on the rocks than I've ever felt in this penthouse.
In Stone River, I laughed. I was messy. I was real.
In Chicago, I'm perfect.
And I'm dying.
I'm dying.