Chapter 26
PIPER
Saturday afternoon at Dora's is always hectic, but today felt especially long.
Eight hours of refilling coffee, dodging Marco's mood swings, and pretending I don't notice when customers leave shitty tips.
My feet ache, my hair smells like fryer oil, and all I want is to collapse on my couch and maybe text Ethan.
God, when did I become someone who misses a person after two days?
Thursday's tutoring session keeps replaying in my mind. The way he made me reclaim that bench. How he listened without judgment when I half-confessed about Miles. The promise of patience in his eyes.
And how I almost told him about the review.
I've been running through scenarios all shift. What if I'd actually said it? “I'm ButterBoi69.” He would have been hurt, maybe angry, but we could have worked through it, right?
Except his showcase is in three weeks. The senior presentation that determines his final grade, his portfolio, his entire future in game design.
He's been stressed about it for months, barely sleeping, running on energy drinks and anxiety.
His dad's been breathing down his neck about having a “backup plan.”
Telling him now that I'm the reviewer who gave him two stars would destroy his confidence right before the most important presentation of his life.
He'd spend the next three weeks spiraling, doubting his work, maybe even changing things that don't need changing because he'd think I secretly hate his game.
No. I'll tell him after the showcase. When the pressure's off, when his grade is secure, when he's gotten the validation he deserves from professors and industry people. Then, we can deal with this truth without it affecting his future.
It's the kind thing to do, really. The protective thing.
You're such a fucking coward, a voice in my head whispers. You're just afraid he'll leave you.
But that's not it. Or not entirely. I genuinely don't want to sabotage his success. He's worked too hard, come too far. What kind of person would I be if I dropped this bomb on him now?
The kind who's honest, the voice replies. The kind he asked you to be.
I check my phone as I leave the diner. Nothing since his “good morning, happy Saturday” text at 9 AM. It's now 4:30.
Not that I'm counting.
I trudge home, overthinking every possible reason for radio silence. Maybe he's busy working on his presentation. Maybe he's with friends. Maybe he's already bored of me now that the chase is over.
Or maybe some part of him senses I'm keeping something from him. Maybe he knows something's off but can't place what.
Stop it, I tell myself. But my brain's already spiraling.
But I can't risk his showcase. I won't be the reason he fails. Even if it means carrying this guilt for three more weeks.
After the showcase, I tell myself again, like a mantra. Everything will be fine after the showcase.
I'm unlocking my apartment door when my phone finally buzzes.
Ethan
You home? Greg has separation anxiety. Also I may have acquired too much Thai food for one person.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by annoyance at myself for feeling relieved.
Just got off work. I smell like a deep fryer
Perfect, I love that eau de french fry scent. Be there in 20?
Only if you’re bringing pad thai
I’m bringing the entire left side of the menu
I shower quickly, trying not to think about why I’m putting on my nice leggings and the shirt that makes my boobs look good. It’s just Ethan. Just my boyfriend. Or sort of. I don’t know if we’re using labels. Just the guy I’ve been thinking about constantly for two days.
Shit.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock. I open the door to find Ethan juggling Greg, two massive bags of takeout, and a huge bag of popcorn.
“Hi,” he says, and his whole face lights up. “Missed you.”
“It’s been two days,” I point out, but I’m already reaching for Greg to help him inside.
“Longest two days ever.” He follows me in, setting the food on my coffee table. “How was work?”
“Exhausting. How was... whatever you did today?”
“Helped Troy practice his interview skills. Watched Freddie fail at making pancakes. Thought about you approximately every five minutes.” He says it casually, like it’s not making my heart race.
“Oh, and I brought popcorn. I thought we could watch a movie. Since you’ve criminally never seen Ready Player One. Best video game movie ever.”
“That’s not criminal, that’s just—”
“Inconceivable!” He grins at my blank look. “See? Cultural education starts now.”
We settle on the couch with containers spread between us. I try not to notice how he automatically sits close enough that our knees touch. Try not to think about how natural this feels already.
“Sorry I didn’t text much today,” he says, passing me chopsticks. “Troy had a full meltdown about his interview Monday and I was playing therapist.”
All my earlier anxiety feels stupid now. Of course, he was just being a good friend.
“It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have to text constantly.”
“I wanted to though.” He bumps my shoulder. “Kept thinking of things to tell you. Like how Freddie tried to flip a pancake and it stuck to the ceiling. Or how this squirrel stole someone’s sandwich in the quad and the guy chased it for ten minutes.”
“Thrilling updates.”
“Right? You missed out.” He opens a container of rice “Oh, and I finally got all the beta feedback on my game. Been reworking it all week based on the critiques.”
My chopsticks freeze halfway to my mouth. “How’s that going?”
“Honestly? The feedback was mixed. Some people loved it, others...” He shrugs. “One reviewer absolutely destroyed my ending. Called it unearned and manipulative.”
I should tell him. Right now. Just say it
“That was me, I’m ButterBoi69, I wrote that review.”
The words sit right there on my tongue.
“That sounds harsh,” I manage instead.
“It was. But also, kind of brilliant? They broke down exactly why it didn’t work, what was missing.
” He’s getting animated now, the way he does when he talks about things he cares about.
“I was pissed at first, but then I realized they were right. I was so focused on the shock value that I forgot to make it meaningful.”
Tell him. Tell him now while he’s being understanding about it.
“So you’re changing it?”
“Already am. I’ve got a few ideas.” He grins. “It’s actually way better. Sometimes, brutal honesty is exactly what you need, you know?”
The irony makes my throat tight. He’s sitting here praising my critique while I’m too scared to admit it was mine. But what if telling him ruins this?
“Some of it was pretty harsh though,” he continues. “They gave me a 2 out of 5 initially. That stung.”
I stare at my food, unable to form words. The silence stretches.
“But anyway, you’re fixing it, which is good.” I blurt out, desperate to change topics.
He opens a container of pad Thai. “How was the diner? You seem tired.”
“Just the usual Saturday mayhem. Woman complained her eggs were ‘too eggy.’ Man tried to pay with a check from 1987. Marco threatened to quit twice.”
“So, a normal day.”
“Pretty much.” I steal a dumpling from his plate. “I kept thinking about Thursday though. About... everything.”
His expression softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I never thanked you properly. For being patient with my whole Miles mess.”
“You don’t need to thank me for that.”
“Still.” I focus on my food, suddenly nervous. “I’m not used to someone being so... understanding. Usually guys want the short version of baggage, not the director’s cut.”
“I like director’s cuts. Extended editions. Bonus features.” He sets down his chopsticks, turns to face me properly. “I meant what I said. I’m here for all of it, whenever you’re ready.”
“What if I’m never ready? What if some stories are too messy to tell?”
“Then they stay yours.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering. “But I hope eventually you’ll trust me enough to share them. Even the messy ones. Especially those.”
I catch his hand, hold it against my cheek. “I do trust you. It’s just...”
“Complicated?”
“Complicated.”
We stay like that for a moment, his palm warm against my face. Then my stomach growls loudly, breaking the tension.
“Eat,” he orders, pulling back. “Can’t have you fainting during the movie. You’ll miss all the good parts.”
“There are good parts?”
“It’s all good parts. Prepare to have your mind blown.”
We relocate to the couch properly after eating, Ethan loading the movie while I clear containers. When I come back, he’s arranged himself against the arm of the couch, one leg stretched out.
“Come here,” he says, patting the space between his legs.
“Presumptuous.”
“Efficient. Optimal movie-watching position.” He grins. “Plus Greg wants to see too.”
Greg is indeed positioned on the coffee table with a clear view of the TV.
I settle against Ethan’s chest, trying not to melt when his arms come around me. He smells like his usual cedar cologne mixed with something else—laundry detergent maybe, clean and comfortable.
“Comfy?” His voice rumbles through his chest.
“Yeah,” I manage.
The movie starts, but I can barely focus. Every time he laughs, I feel it. His fingers trace absent patterns on my arm. When I shift slightly, he adjusts automatically, pulling me closer.
“You’re not watching,” he murmurs during a car race scene.
“I’m watching.”
“You’re thinking too loud.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “Sorry. I’m not good at just... being.”
“Practice makes perfect.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “Besides, I like your busy brain.”
“Even when it’s overthinking everything?”
“Especially then.”
We watch in silence for a while, but the tension is building. His thumb strokes along my wrist. I shift again, accidentally pressing back against him, and feel his breath catch.
“Pip,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You’re very distracting.”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”