Chapter 22 Piper #2
“That’s important.” Casey taps her pen against her desk.
“Look, Piper, I want you back. But you need to be sure this is what you want. We’re a community hospital.
You could be working with Marie, and you’re bound to see Dr. Carlson in the halls or the cafeteria.
Dealing with the stress of this job and the long hours while pregnant is no joke. You know that.”
“I also need to stand on my own two feet,” I tell her, echoing the phrase that’s been running through my head like a mantra. “For myself and my baby. I can’t rely on other people to take care of me.”
Casey’s expression turns thoughtful as she studies me.
“I have no doubt you’re going to be a good mother, but being independent doesn’t mean doing everything alone.
The best thing you can do for your child is build a strong community around both of you.
You have options, Piper, and accepting help doesn’t translate to weakness. You know that, right?”
Her words land in the vicinity of my heart, lodging there like a splinter I can’t remove, because I don’t know anything of the sort.
“I appreciate you reminding me,” I say finally. “Can I think about things and let you know by the end of the week?”
“Of course. There’s always a place for you here. Whatever you decide, I’m rooting for you.”
I thank her and leave the office before the tears stinging the backs of my eyes can make an appearance. I’m halfway down the hall when I see him.
Bradley Carlson is handsome in a polished, bland way that photographs well but makes him look like a generic toothpaste commercial model in real life.
In his white doctor’s coat, tablet tucked under one arm, there’s that familiar look of mild superiority on his face.
I used to mistake it for confidence, fool that I was.
Fool that I am, thinking I’d be safe from running into him, given my short visit to the hospital today.
What the hell is an orthopedic surgeon doing in the peds unit anyway? Oh, right. His wife works here.
He’s alone—praise the Lord—but spots me before I can duck into a stairwell. “Hey there, Piper. I heard you might be coming back.”
“News travels fast,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
He studies me in the way that always made me feel like I was being graded but could never earn an A. “Running away didn’t work out so great, huh?”
The comment stings, as I’m sure it was meant to, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. “I needed a break. But Skylark is my home, and I’m a kick-ass nurse.”
“Right.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you decide to come back, you’ll have plenty of chances to get to know Marie. Everyone loves her. My mother certainly does.”
“Lucky Marie,” I mutter. I don’t need the reminder of Mrs. Carlson’s thinly veiled disdain for me, or to know that Marie fits into Bradley’s family in a way I never did.
My life might be more questions than answers at the moment, but I know for sure I dodged a bullet when my future mother-in-law put that shrimp-laced sauce on the rehearsal dinner menu.
I might have gone through with marrying the douche canoe standing in front of me if it hadn’t been for that.
“Oh, and you’ll see us both at Christy’s wedding next weekend,” Bradley continues, like he’s doing me a favor by sharing his social calendar. “Marie and Christy go to the same yoga studio in town. They’ve gotten really close.”
“You’ve been back less than a month.”
He shrugs. “Marie has that effect on people. You wouldn’t understand. Are you bringing a date?”
The question catches me off guard, and I answer without thinking. “No.”
“I’m surprised.” Bradley’s laugh is laced with a layer of judgment that lands like a calculated cut. Just as he intended. “I thought you would have found someone else to take care of you by now. I guess Sadie’s still stuck in that role.”
Right. Because I’m the helpless little sister who can’t manage her own life, incapable of standing on my own.
The worst part is that a piece of me believes he’s right.
My stomach lurches suddenly, and I’m not sure if it’s morning sickness or just an innate physical reaction to Bradley and the mistake I almost made. The nausea builds into the uncomfortable roll I’ve been dealing with for weeks now.
“I need to go,” I manage and walk away as quickly as I can without actually running. No need to give the asshat more ammunition about my inability to handle things like an adult.
I make it to a bathroom near the stairwell and lock myself in a stall, breathing through the nausea and trying very hard not to think about how much that conversation encapsulated all my worst fears.
I’m not capable. I need constant rescuing.
I’m going to spend my entire life being taken care of because I can’t manage it on my own.
By the time the nausea passes, my eyes are burning with unshed tears, and I’m pressing my palms hard to the metal on either side of the stall like it’s closing in on me.
I cannot be the girl who falls apart in a hospital bathroom because her douchebag ex-fiancé makes a snide comment.
I’m carrying a little life inside me. I’m going to be responsible for an entire tiny human who deserves a mother who has her shit together.
I need to prove I can do this alone.
The drive back to my house—not “our house,” not “the house where Felix is staying,” MY house—takes fifteen minutes, and I spend the entire time alternating between anger at Bradley and disappointment in myself for letting him get under my skin. Again.
My phone buzzes as I pull into the driveway.
Felix: Did you kill it? We’re at Ian’s. Riva’s back from her mom’s and was dying to meet Ellie. Come over when you’re done.
I can picture Felix and Ian in the living room while Ellie and Riva play, probably with Beast and whatever other dogs my sister’s watching as part of the mix.
Sadie will be prepping snacks and generally being the perfect hostess.
The whole thing will feel welcoming and easy, the way things with my sister always are.
And that’s exactly why I can’t go.
Me: Have fun and tell Riva I said hi. I’m actually pretty tired. Going to rest for a bit.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then drop the phone in my purse like it might bite me if I look at it too long.
The house is quiet when I let myself in, which shouldn’t feel wrong because this is how it was before Felix showed up at the cabin with Ellie. I lived here with only Max as company for months, and I liked having the space to myself without having to account for anyone else’s needs.
But now, instead of peaceful, the silence feels heavy. The living room looks empty with Ellie’s toys all tucked away. And the kitchen feels too big without Felix taking up space at the counter, kneading bread dough with those massive hands.
I sink onto the couch and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them in a gesture that’s more a defense mechanism than a comfort stance.
Max’s old dog bed is still in the corner, even though he’s been gone for over a month now.
I should get rid of it, along with a lot of things that don’t serve any purpose except to make me feel anchored to a past that wasn’t that great to begin with.
Maybe what I need is a fresh start that doesn’t involve depending on anyone else to make me feel whole.
My phone buzzes again in my purse, but I ignore it. This is what standing on my own two feet means, right? I need to get comfortable with being alone.
I don’t need Felix and Ellie to make my house feel like a home.
So why does it feel like I’m punishing myself instead of proving something?
As I sit in the too-quiet living room of my childhood home, one hand drifts to rest on my stomach, and I try very hard to convince myself that this is what independence looks like.
I’m not afraid of accepting help like Casey suggested.
But I’m terrified of depending on someone who might leave the moment things get hard.
My father did exactly that before I was even born, and Bradley couldn’t handle it when I finally stood up for myself.
So what will Felix do when he realizes that obligatory proposals and playing house in a mountain cabin are very different from the actual work of building a life together?
The quiet house doesn’t seem to have any more answers than I do, so I close my eyes and try to figure out if what I’m doing is strength, or just the fear wearing a different mask.