7. Piper
The events of the morning replay in my head as I walk to work, the scenes flipping through my brain like cards in a toy View-Master:
The mixture of surprise and eagerness on James’s face when I sat down in the seat beside him on the train.
The way he grabbed the bag of sausage balls from my grasp, immediately opening them and stealing a smell.
His hand resting timidly on top of my leg as he asked for my eyes, and the electricity sparking under his fingers.
The ear-splitting POP! and my immediate belief that I wouldn’t live long enough to leave the train.
My dive to the floor, James catching me in his arms and tucking me into his chest as I buried my face in his shirt.
His whispers in my ear, his hands smoothing my hair and then tracing circles on my back as I sat frozen.
The heat of him as I lay surrounded, James’s heart beating a steady thrum I worked to emulate.
How safe I felt during such a scary moment simply because James was with me.
I let my mind dwell there for a while, lingering in the warmth of the memory as I cut across the street. It’s outrageous to feel any positive emotion about the day’s events, I know that, but I can’t help it. I’m so used to taking care of myself (and frankly, everyone else) that being so intentionally, tenderly cared for by James has me floating.
The pitchy blare of a car horn brings me down to Earth.
Is something wrong with me? Maybe I hit my head when I ducked down. Although this new endearment toward James might be a normal reaction—the logical result of having a near-death experience together.
That’s why they make the people on The Bachelor do those bungee jumping dates, right? Getting through something scary with another person makes you feel bonded.
Stupid dopamine response .
Once this high wears off, I am sure I’ll float back down to the realization that nothing has changed between us. No cocktail of brain chemicals could convince my right mind that any real relationship with James Newhouse is a good idea.
I glance at my phone, slowing my steps briefly on the sidewalk to note the time: 10:25 a.m. Nearly two and a half hours after I typically start work.
No one knows where I am or what happened, and by the look of my notifications, people are concerned. If this morning’s incident has hit social media, much less the news, it would explain why I have seventeen missed calls.
I pick up my pace, willing my feet to move faster so I can get to my desk and start letting folks know I’m safe. Our building’s lobby is empty as I slip inside and up the stairs unnoticed. Praise the Lord I don’t have to give the whole team a play-by-play yet. I need to call Mom first.
“PIPER?!” The yell almost ruptures my eardrum as Mom’s voice bounces off the walls of my office. She’s not even on speakerphone.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick all morning. I heard what happened. You know I know you take the train every day. I understand that you’re busy, but how hard would it be to send your mom a quick text to say you weren’t in that train car?”
She’s talking a mile a minute, and while I feel her exasperation, I smile at my own frantic cadence echoed in my ear.
“Actually, Mom,” I take my bag from my shoulder and drop it near my feet, “I was in that train car. I just got to my office. It was a crazy morning, but I’m okay. Really, I’m fine. It was just some smoke, that’s all.”
“This is absolutely not fine! Do you need me to come up there? I can load up the car now and be at your house by dinner. I can’t believe this. I knew you moving back to the city was a bad idea. I talked to your sister the other day and she said you never even called her back last week…”
I stretch the phone several inches from my ear, filling my lungs with a deep breath before I re-engage.
“I hear you Mom, I do. Everything is okay; you don’t need to drive up here. Promise. Hey, I’ve gotta go. I need to let everyone else know I’m okay. Love you!” I end the call before Mom has a chance to argue.
I plop down in my rolling desk chair to scroll through my notifications and send the required texts—to Sami, my sister Gemma, a friend from high school who also works in the city, my brother Kent, my grandpa Bud, and the lady who does my hair who knows I ride the B Line.
They all want the full story, but I don’t have it in me to tell it just yet. They’ll have to settle for knowing I’m safe.
There’s one more message I need to write, my eyes lingering on the screen as I consider it. James said this was my call—that I could choose how we address the issue of our relationship (or rather, our “relationship”)—but that doesn’t feel right.
We both agreed to this fake-marriage-for-benefits thing; we should also agree on how to deal with it in the aftermath of today’s events. Besides, I can’t risk he rats me out Prisoner’s Dilemma-style when we go to the station to give our statements.
We need to get our stories straight.
I type James’s number directly in the text message’s “to” field, ignoring the option to create a contact card. A contact card implies repeated contact… which is not going to happen.
James and I will talk, we’ll figure out a plan, and then we’ll go back to exchanging soft smiles on the train each morning. The endearment I felt toward James on the walk to the office is my signal to back away. I can’t risk drifting from the path I’ve painstakingly rebuilt solely because this man comforted me this morning.
I add no emojis or exclamation points and hit send. This text is all business, a farce now that I know the smell of his aftershave and can feel the ghost of his fingers on my back.
He replies almost immediately.
Obviously…
Is it just me, or is there a shocking level of emotional intelligence and self-awareness in these few texted lines? Hats off, Banker Man.
I pause for a second, weighing which direction to take this conversation. Meeting in person is a bad idea. It’ll feel like a date whether I want it to or not, and the fact that I do want it to is a red flag.
That said, James and I might be able to wrap this up in an hour over drinks while a series of emails or texts could last for days. I’d rather make the decision tonight. The butterflies in my stomach at the thought of having a drink with James have nothing to do with it.
I exit the thread and turn my phone face down on the desk as I mull over his words. “Thanks for reaching out.” Didn’t have much of a choice given we may need to show up as spouses at the police station soon, but I appreciate his graciousness.
“Piper! I heard what happened!” Jenny, Hope First’s development coordinator, spots me through the window next to my desk and makes a beeline for my office. “You have to get out here, this thing on the train is all anyone has been talking about. Are you okay? What was it like? Did you think you were going to die? I would’ve been losing my shit!”
My stomach cartwheels at being put on the spot like this. I’m not ready to answer these questions, but a crowd gathers at my door regardless.
Wiping my damp hands on my skirt, I stand up from my workspace and follow everyone to the lobby—a large landing at the bottom of the stairs with two armchairs. My coworkers gather around like first graders ready for story time, sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor as I lord above them from my seat, their eyes attentive and eager.
“Is it true that everyone huddled together in the back of the car? I heard you were packed like sardines in there!” Sadye, twenty years old and our newest intern, may be the most eager of all.
“Well, I mean, it was crowded because it’s the train. When the incident happened, everyone kind of stuffed themselves between the rows, the seat backs promising a bit of protection. I wouldn’t say people were huddled though, everyone stayed spread out.”
This is a version of the truth I'm comfortable sharing. She didn’t ask if I, specifically, was huddled together with someone. We can stick to the broader facts here.
The friendly interrogation goes on too long before I shoo everyone back to their respective desks. I’ve got eight hours of work to fit into four with a hard stop at 6:35 p.m. All other burning questions will have to wait.
The train drops me at my stop, and I’m jittery with nerves as I head across the outdoor platform and down to the sidewalk. I’m not sure why I’m anxious; I basically spooned with James Newhouse for an hour this morning and whatever happens tonight will certainly be less awkward.
Except, of course, that the spooning didn’t feel awkward at all. Which is concerning.
I lengthen my stride as I approach Tempest Tapas, a coffeehouse-turned-bookstore-turned small plates joint I frequent with my sister when she comes to town. It’s a small comfort knowing this meeting will take place on my turf. I may not be at ease in James’s presence, but at least I’ll be in a familiar swivel chair that presses in on all sides.
I turn the corner and there he is: Banker Man in all his glory. It’s easy to forget how tall he is since I usually see him sitting on the train. He has his knee-length pea coat atop his outfit, but it’s unbuttoned so his blue oxford shirt peeks out when he moves. His hands are tucked in his pockets until he sees me and pulls one out for a wave.
James looks exactly like the kind of guy I could fall for, the kind of guy I have fallen for, all lean muscle and careful hair with a business school vocabulary and a penchant for stealing the check.
If the first step in fixing a problem is to admit you have one, pass me on to step two. I know this guy, I know his type, and I know the damage a smile like his can inflict.
I won’t be fooled twice.
“Hey, thanks for meeting me.” Again, he leads with gratitude, and it catches me off-guard.
“Oh. Yeah! Thanks for the suggestion.” Should I go in for a hug or a handshake? A high-five? If a standard protocol exists for greeting your week-old fake husband, I haven’t learned it yet. My shoulders settle for a small shrug.
“This place is one of my favorites,” I say. “I typically come here with my sister, but I suppose you will have to do. There are some chairs near the front in a reading nook-type area. Could be a nice place for us to talk.”
He nods, opening the door and then gesturing for me to walk in ahead of him. His familiar scent—the one I learned this morning—greets me as I pass.
“Piper’s got a sister. Noted.”
I swivel around to ask what the hell that means and while I’ve stopped moving for a second, James hasn’t. In an instant my face meets his chest, his hands catching my hips to steady me. He presses in softly, anchoring me to the floor as I regain my balance.
There can’t be more than an inch between us. It’s shameful how much my lower half wants to close the gap.
“Wow,” I blurt, as usual, because apparently I can only conjure up one single word when it comes to this man. “I mean, thanks. Sorry. What were you saying about my sister?”
I step back and turn forward as we walk in tandem to my favorite chairs. We keep two feet of distance until we’re safely seated.
“I was just saying,” he adjusts himself in his pants, “that I didn’t know you have a sister. Felt like something important to note.”
“How so?”
“Well, if we have to pretend to be married, we should at least know the basics of each other’s lives. If we decide to go forward with this thing, I mean.”
My cheeks flush, and I hope the light is dim enough that he doesn’t notice. “Gotcha,” I choke out, concerned he mentioned marriage and I’m already losing my resolve to stay casual. Has it even been five minutes? “Let’s talk about it then.”
“Let’s.” James swivels his chair my way and leans forward, dropping his hands between his knees. If he could be more of an ogre, this conversation would be easier.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” I say. “We have two choices, really, and they both come with risks. Choice number one is to come clean at the station when we give our statements. We try to get ahead of our lie—to go on the offensive, if you will.”
I don’t know if James cares about sports. I also don’t know if I’m using this sports-sounding word correctly, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing.
“We tell them we shouldn’t be on the same Family Fares account and that we don’t want to go further in this process without being honest about the nature of our association.”
He nods and presses his fingers together, stretching them toward the back of his hands. His knuckles crack with the pressure.
“With this option, we wouldn’t have to lie—even by omission—to a bunch of officers and/or the State if we are called to testify. But we’d have to walk into the police station and literally confess to a crime, which is horrifying.”
My anxiety is rising rapidly, and with it, the propensity for words to pour out of my mouth. “Do you know the potential consequences of fare evasion? I researched it today and wow , it’s way worse than I expected. We’re talking fines, community service hours, restitution, suspended riding privileges, even arrest or jail time.
“Why didn’t we look into this before signing up together? We really should have because I don’t have the money to pay a fine, I won’t be able to keep my job if I'm barred from public transit, and we both know I’d be a hot commodity in prison.”
James breaks into a laugh, and I get the sense he’s picturing me in an orange jumpsuit, bartering with a seasoned inmate for a pen to turn into a shiv.
“ I’m serious, James! I’d be hard-pressed to become a social worker someday if I have a criminal record!” He seems to note the social work info, tucking it alongside the fact about my sister. I throw myself back in the chair and it rocks under the force of my stress.
“And option two,” James picks up where I’ve left off, “is we go down to the station, we give our statements, and we let them think what they already think. A ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ sort of deal.”
“And the risk,” I reply with a huff, “is we get busted, and I end up in jail anyway, probably with some additional hard time for misleading a police officer and lying under oath.”
It’s a funny thing, James’s expression just now. He’s amused, but it’s not at my expense. He’s appraising down-the-rabbit-hole-Piper and appears to think it’s delightful and not terrifying. Huh.
“Listen,” James continues, “I feel strongly that neither of us will end up in prison. There is also no guarantee that this theft case will go to trial. Even if it does, they won’t ask us to state the nature of our relationship on the stand. Lawyers only care about details that can help them win. Our marriage, or lack thereof, wouldn’t be one of them.”
His tone projects confidence like he’s given this some thought and is comfortable with his answer.
“My suggestion is we not make waves,” he says. “We do what the officers ask us to do, and we let them believe what they want to believe. Their job isn't to suss out if we’re secretly hiding something. Their focus will be on finding today’s thief and recovering the stolen property. We can help them with that.” He taps his fingers on the top of his thighs as he waits for my thoughts.
James makes a good point. I may be overthinking this. My ability to catastrophize knows no bounds.
“Okay, I hear that, and you may be right. But I see two more risks you failed to mention and they’re worth discussing.”
His face lights up at the suggestion and he resumes his listening posture, his hands between his knees as he leans in with curious eyes.
“You’ve seen me when I’m nervous or under pressure. I panic, I talk too fast, I can’t control my limbs. The words spill out before I can put together complete sentences. Either that, or I freeze and hyperventilate. Is it really a smart idea to trust me to not make waves if this scenario escalates to a trial?”
It pains me to bare my faults like this, especially when he might agree I am an unpredictable mess.
“First, I do think you’re trustworthy. You made good on your promise to bring me sausage balls, remember? Second, we can consider today a dry run of Piper-under-pressure. So what if you showed me what you consider to be your worst attributes? I showed that I can handle you.”
My soul exits my body as the words come out of his mouth. I sit, slack-jawed, as James speaks, wishing I could scoot closer.
Wishing I could release some of this tension that’s been building in my center since he bumped into me in the foyer.
“So that was your first concern, yeah?”
I nod. He has no idea I want to crawl out of my skin, or rather, to crawl straight into his lap.
“What is your second concern?”
“You’re right that we should get to know each other, at least a bit, in case this thing goes beyond a station visit.”
A smile turns up at the corners of his mouth that lifts his cheeks slightly.
“But what if we agree to this and you realize, in a week or two, that I’m much, much more than you signed up for? What if you regret being stuck with me? By then, it’ll be too late.”
James tilts back in his seat, letting out a gruff laugh until he catches my expression and notes my concern. It’s like he can’t possibly conceptualize the scenario I just described.
“Not a fucking chance, Piper. I can promise you that.” He doesn’t break eye contact as he says it.
Well, okay then.
“So, we’re really doing this?” I ask, craving one more nudge of encouragement before this decision is finalized.
“Yes, we’re doing it, and it’s going to be fine.” He calls the waiter over and orders an Old Fashioned. I'm protective over this haunt of mine, and I wonder how he’ll rate his drink against The Velvet Stool. He motions for me to order, and I pause for a moment.
Is drinking a good idea when I’m feeling the way I am? James is so self-assured, like he knows exactly what he wants at all times, while I’m winging my whole life based on vibes and my available cash.
“I’ll have a glass of the house white,” I say, ignoring my conviction I’d make better decisions sober.
He gives a soft nod like he’s adding my drink order to his list. “Sister, social work, chardonnay.” He swivels his chair again to face mine. “Fear of public speaking. Convinced I’ll run. What else, Pipes?”
“ Pipes?! ” I screech. “You can’t be serious. I take it back; I want a fake divorce from this fake marriage. Where do I fake sign? Certainly, someone has a pen around here…” I lean to my left and right, making a show of looking for an escape route.
“Seems I hit a nerve?” James smiles, ducking his head so we’re at eye level and looking at me like he wants nothing more than to watch me explain myself.
“I hate nicknames! Hate them with a passion. If I wanted someone to call me something other than Piper, I’d introduce myself that way.”
“Gotcha, so Pipes it is then.” He smirks and throws me a wink. I cannot stand this man, and I also cannot stand that I want to climb him like a tree.
“I just told you I hate nicknames. What, in that very clear sentence, made you think doubling down on ‘Pipes’ was the right call?”
“Piper, we’re supposed to be married. What is marriage if not an excuse to do the things that annoy another person without consequence?” I hate to admit he’s got me there. “Be thankful I didn’t choose Pipsqueak.”
I grab the pillow from behind my lower back and toss it at him roughly, the move admittedly losing effect when he catches it with one hand.
“Okay then, Banker Man, enough about me. What should I know about you?” I’m as eager to peel back his layers (figuratively… mostly figuratively) as I am to remove myself from the hot seat.
“I’m not complicated,” he replies, his arms stretched comfortably across the back of the chair, legs splayed wide. “I work a lot. Occasionally sleep. I like whiskey. No siblings; I’m an only child. I’m close to my dad. I enter into morally-gray arrangements with strangers on the train. Nothing crazy.”
There’s a difference between sharing facts and letting someone in, and James is sticking with the former. I appreciate the wisdom and vow to do the same. While we’ve made things official tonight, in one sense of the word. This is a relationship based on a lie, and it’s a relationship that will end when the need to lie does.
I can’t forget that.
Our drinks arrive and we shoot the shit for a while, talking about the weather and the “joy” of public transit, our theories about what the thief did with the stuff he stole this morning and whether he’ll end up in jail.
James swirls his Old Fashioned as he talks, alternately attentive to me and to the glass in his hand which he acknowledges is pretty good “for a spot like this.” I don’t press him on what he means and choose not to be defensive.
Watching him as he talks, I try to piece together all the versions of James I’ve met into a cohesive whole. Aloof James, Protective James, Tender James, Funny James, Keeps-Me-At-Arm’s-Length James… I hate that there are more to uncover, and I hate that I want to be the one who finds them.
“It’s getting late," I say when I finish my drink and the awareness sinks in that I’ve enjoyed the evening too much. “Where do we go from here?”
“How about this.” James sets his empty glass on the table beside him and motions to the waiter for the check. “I’ll text you tomorrow and we can set a time to get into the nitty gritty before our visit to the station. We should do it in the next day or two since we don’t know when they’ll call us down.”
I nod, interested to know what he means by “nitty gritty” but willing to let the question keep me company in the meantime.
“That would be great,” I reply. “Can I Venmo you for my wine?” I slide my eyes to his and he raises his eyebrows in return, reminding me silently that he's aware I’m broke. My poor financial state is why we’re in this mess, after all.
“Let me get it, Pipes.” The name makes me cringe, but I like the look of it leaving his lips. “And let me walk you home. You don’t need to begin and end your day as the victim of a crime.”
“No need, I’m perfectly fine.” What I am is both giddy and offended by the suggestion. “I walk from the train to my house every night, and it’s further than the walk from here.”
James rises from his seat and walks toward my chair, spinning it toward the entrance as he hands two twenties to our server.
“I’m not saying you need me to walk you home, Piper.” He waits for me to stand and then leads me toward the door, his hand resting on the small of my back. It prompts a line of goosebumps to erupt along my spine.
“I’m saying that I want to.”