9. Piper
Monday arrives and with it my nerves. Ever since our evening in the park, the thought of seeing James makes my pulse climb. It’s not that I’m anxious about him, really—he’s clearly in control of himself—I’m worried about me, about how I felt holding his hand on Friday.
Something stirred in my chest when he wove his fingers through mine, and I’ve been trying to name it since. The bad news? It wasn’t the safe indifference I’m trying to maintain.
The front steps of the main house are cold under my legs while I wait for him to show up. I slide my hands over my skirt and tap my knees as I think, forcing myself into positive self-talk that would make Dr. Browne proud:
It’ll just be a few hours.
We can pretend to be married.
I can give the police my statement.
Hopefully we can make this field trip quick—go in, say the things, and get out. There is so much to do before the fundraising gala next week; I wouldn’t be able to extend the morning with James even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
I watch him turn the corner and unfortunately, he looks as handsome as ever. Tailored pants, fitted button-down shirt, open pea coat, bag hung effortlessly on his shoulder and styled hair. James is a beacon of put-together perfection. I wonder if he gets tired of it, looking this pretty.
I wouldn’t.
“Hey, Banker Man!”
James breaks into a grin at my shout. If he’s sticking with a nickname, so will I.
“You ready for this?” I brush dirt off my butt as I stand and walk down to the sidewalk.
“Absolutely!” He picks me up in a hug and twirls me around, my feet floating through the air before I can protest. It makes me laugh, this gesture, and I’m surprised by how much I like it—both his hug and my laughing.
“Are you ready for this?” James tilts his head to catch my eyes, and he looks different than I’ve seen him before. Lighter, less stressed.
Thank God because my nerves will go further through the roof today and one of us needs to stay calm.
“I can be ready,” I reply, nudging his side with my shoulder. I feel around in my tote and grab his bag of sausage balls. I already stress-ate my own on the stoop. Tossing them his way, I watch as he grabs the bag and holds it to his heart before tucking it in the pocket of his coat.
Strangely, I’ve never seen him actually eat one. I want to believe him when he tells me he saves them for lunch. Given we’re together this morning because of a mutual lie, though, maybe I shouldn’t presume honesty.
We walk toward the station in lockstep, not to my usual Roosevelt stop but further west to Monroe where we’ll catch the F Line. It feels easy between us as we make our way over, nothing substantial by way of conversation but enough to keep my mind busy as we stroll. We take the stairs up to the platform and swipe our fare cards—evidence of our ruse that we tuck in our pockets—and we wait.
After riding the train together for weeks, this moment feels different. James and I aren’t riding together as two individuals in a shared space, we’re taking the train together as two people in a unit. It feels strange, different, but good.
James finds us seats as we enter the third car (because we’re creatures of habit), and we settle in for the ride. “You okay?” he asks after noticing that my leg is bouncing faster than a metronome.
“Yep, I’m fine,” I choke out, the least convincing affirmative that has ever been uttered.
He takes his left hand and steadies my right knee, splaying his fingers across my thigh with just enough pressure.
“Breathe, Piper,” James instructs, and I take a deep inhale and release a long exhale as his thumb slides back and forth, his pinky finger slipping occasionally to graze between my thighs.
I’m not sure if distraction was James’s plan all along, but I’m distracted all right. My heart rate ticks up instead of down, which may defeat the purpose of this meditative exercise, but I’d rather be wound up with want than anxiety.
We sit just like this, his hand steadying my leg as we stare out the window and comment on landmarks, favorite restaurants, and the old metro post office James visited on a field trip as a kid. The thought of a tiny James Newhouse in a turn-of-the-century government building fills me with delight. I’m sure he was the cutest first-grader alive, likely attentive and curious too. I like hearing his version of the world we’re seeing outside.
The train screeches to a stop, much sooner than I’d like, as we pull into the main terminal. We join the huddle near the doors and the overwhelming urge to offer a one-liner in our usual style appears in my throat. Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything—how rude of my brain to abandon me this way.
“After you, my dear.”
James says this with a cheeky grin as he guides me onto the platform. For the first time, we both turn right after leaving the train, making our way to the stairwell and down the steps to the street together.
He circles around to position himself nearest the traffic, grabbing my hand as we weave through the morning’s commuters. It’s a six-minute walk from here to the station, and James decides it’s time for a pep talk.
“Alright, P, the hardest part is over.”
Is it though?? I give him the side-eye as he continues.
“That’s what they say, right? The first step is the hardest, and we’ve already made it through steps one and two, the walk and the ride.”
He’s so endearing with this encouragement that I’m almost tempted to believe him. Almost.
“I’m pretty sure the hardest part will be living a lie in front of a few police officers but please, go on.” It’s a snarky comment, I know, but James doesn’t care.
“It’ll be simple. We’ll go in, I’ll introduce both of us, and I’ll state that we’re here to give witness statements. We’ll sit in a waiting room and they’ll call us back, probably separately, to give our account of the day. Your only job is to tell the officer what happened on the train that morning. You don’t have to volunteer details that aren’t relevant, like why you have a different last name, for example.”
“Lots of married women keep their last names!” I interject, willfully missing his point. He levels me with a look. “Okay, fine. I’ll try to stick to the facts.” I smile, but it’s not convincing.
We arrive at the door and he pulls it open, letting me duck under his arm to enter the station. Our first stop is a set of metal detectors where an officer searches my bag. Nothing in there but a few notebooks, empty snack wrappers, and a card I meant to mail two months ago.
The officer decides I’m not a threat and I wait for James to walk through so we can approach the desk together. I’m standing, fidgeting, as he comes up behind me, wrapping his arms across my chest and lowering his mouth to my ear.
“Time to be married, P.”
The whisper leaves goosebumps on my neck, tiny artifacts that he kisses away with light brushes of his lips near the start of my jaw. I tally another point for this man’s distraction game because whatever I was worried about three seconds ago? It escapes me completely. The only thing on my mind is the tickle of his breath and the softness of his mouth against my skin.
“We’re here to give statements for the smoke bomb incident?” He moves himself to my right and drops an arm to my waist, pulling me tightly against him as he signs us in. “Piper and James Newhouse.”
I don’t miss his purposeful arrangement of our names—how he interjects his first name to separate mine from his last.
The officer gestures for us to sit down and we claim two seats under a window on the far wall. I realize I have no idea how else a person might end up in a police station waiting room or what sort of people may join us this morning. My body scooches closer to James.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, the heat behind his words warming the side of my face. He nudges his nose into the hollow of my cheek. “Keep it up.”
Do I have a thing for praise? Apparently I do because my stomach tumbles to my feet. James moves his arm to my shoulder and gives it a squeeze before rubbing his hand up and down tenderly, stopping to knead the muscle at points before resuming his path.
“Why is this so easy for you?” I whisper, in awe of the way he exists in this space, his confidence and deftness in contrast with our environment.
“Because, Piper, pretending to be into you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” The chuckle that accompanies this statement surprises me. Is it because he just made a joke or because the answer is so obvious he can’t believe he had to say it?
“James Newhouse?” An officer appears at a door in the corner of the room with a clipboard in hand. James stands, pulling his hand from my arm and leaving me strikingly aware of its absence.
“Please come with me.” The officer glances down at his notes before turning my way. “Ma’am, my partner, Officer Wyndham, will be with you shortly. Giving your statements should take thirty minutes tops and then you can be on your way.”
James bends down and presses a kiss to my cheek, his hand sliding behind my ear as he grips my jaw gently. “See you soon, P. You’re going to be fine.”
And with that, he disappears and takes every bit of distraction with him.
Was it always this cold in the waiting room? That must be the reason for my shaking hands—not my nerves.
Officer Wyndham approaches the door two minutes later and leads me back to a small room, barren except for a table in the center. She pulls out a chair and I take a seat, grateful I’m not here to defend myself. I’d fold in a second.
My mind pulls up the image of James in the other room, undoubtedly sitting back and talking calmly like he’s a guest on a late-night show. I try to channel his energy, and it helps slightly.
“Alright, can you confirm your name?”
Shit. “Piper Paulson.”
The officer writes it on the form and doesn’t glance up, unconcerned or unknowledgeable about my supposed union. “Can you tell me about the events of Thursday, September twenty-eighth in your own words?”
Her eyes search mine as I talk. She nods and writes between glances at my face.
The whole story spills out in one breath, about boarding the train, taking a seat, talking with James, how normal it all felt, how nothing seemed weird until the ear-splitting noise and the smoke. I don’t know how helpful this account will be given I spent the rest of the ride curled up in a ball with my eyes closed.
I affirm that I didn’t notice any movement in the car after the smoke deployed and that nothing of mine was missing when I took stock of my bag.
Officer Wyndham asks a few questions about other people on the train that morning, and I couldn’t remotely have less information for her. My focus was on James the entire ride, both before and after the incident.
When we’re done ( !!!! ), I sign to attest that the information provided is true and the officer thanks me for my time. The waiting area is empty when I return, understandably so given James (who was not pseudo-paralyzed during the incident) likely has more to say than I did.
He emerges ten minutes later and greets me with a soft smile before mouthing the words, “You did it,” and grabbing my hand to pull me up from my seat. Our fingers stay linked as we sign out and leave the station.
A rush of endorphins buzzes beneath my skin—the kind, I imagine, a runner experiences when they finish a marathon. Frankly, I also feel like I could collapse on the sidewalk right now, so the analogy tracks.
While the weather is threatening, dark clouds cluttering the sky, it doesn't dampen my mood. James knew I could handle giving a statement this morning and I did. Pride expands to all corners of my limbs.
“And that, Mrs. Newhouse, is how it’s done.” He smirks as he unhooks our hands and wraps his arm around my waist. My stomach flutters beneath his fingertips.
While I’ll never believe omitting the truth about our ruse was an ethical choice, I’m glad we decided to go for it.
What else could I do if I had the guts to try versus letting my anxiety talk me out of it before I begin? I’m not saying the ends justify the means (we did commit fare evasion, after all), but I’m thankful to have stretched myself this way regardless.
“I know we should get to work but… what if we stopped for coffee?” James points to a coffee shop ahead on the left, and it looks as warm and nice as I currently feel. “Like when you get ice cream as a kid after a flu shot, but this time it’s coffee as a reward because we’re adults?”
I should say no. Tell him I’m too busy. That a possible promotion hinges on my performance at a fundraising event next week and I need to get to work to focus on it.
“But what if,” I ponder aloud instead, “I put ice cream in my coffee? Would I still be an adult?”
“Yes, and you’d also be Italian. It’s called an affogato.” He says this like it’s common knowledge.
“When did you become a coffee connoisseur? Was it the same time as the whiskey?”
He nods without a hint of irony, missing my sarcasm. “Yep. I took a year after high school and studied in Florence. Had the time of my life. Drank lots of coffee and whiskey that year.”
This man is full of surprises today, and I relish that he’s letting me in a little deeper than he did at the park.
“I need to know way, way more about this gap year but… Italy isn’t known for whiskey. Unless you’re referring to Rome, Kentucky?” I laugh.
“Italians care immensely about their spirits, in fact. I did a whole lot of drinking that year; the coffee in the morning was a necessity to pull me out of the stupor from the whiskey the night before.”
The door chimes as we enter the shop, the scent of coffee and cinnamon wrapping me up like a hug. We mosey over to the counter and I study the menu posted on the wall as though I’m not already certain about what I want. James gestures at me to order first.
“Hi, I’ll take a hot coffee with oat milk and two pumps of hazelnut. Thanks so much!” Does this drink make me basic? I don’t care if it does.
James raises his eyebrows in my direction before turning to place his order. “Hmm, I’ll have a medium coffee, dark roast, no cream or sugar.” He turns to walk toward the register, but I stop him with both hands pressed firmly on his pecs, eyes wild.
“JAMES NEWHOUSE, how dare you ?” My expression contorts, angry and offended, and James is buying it. A look of confusion settles over his features before morphing to concern.
“I’m sorry?” he says earnestly, and I know he has no idea what he’s sorry about. Still, I can appreciate the impulse to apologize first and sort out the details later.
“I told you, the first day I sat next to you on the train, that you drink black coffee. You told me I was wrong, and if I’m not mistaken based on your order just now, I was right about you.”
I crack a smile and watch relief flood his face as he grips his hands over mine, keeping them planted on his chest.
“See, there’s where you’re wrong, P. I had black tea that day. I never said I don’t like black coffee.”
He can’t contain his grin as he walks me backward to the register before peeling my fingers off his torso as he turns to pay. We keep one set of hands connected as he signs the receipt; I don’t offer to pay and he doesn’t ask.
A table near the window calls us to sit, the warmth from my mug spreading from my hands to my arms, offsetting the cold wafting from the glass pane.
“Thanks for the drink,” I say as I raise my mug for a “cheers” and James taps his gently on the rim. He takes a long sip of his coffee, pleasure apparent on his face as he swallows.
It makes me wonder what he looks like doing other pleasurable things, this man who is usually so measured. I wonder what it would take to put the expression there myself.
I’m lost in the thought, my cup millimeters from the table when James slides his hand under it, gripping the base.
“ Shit, Pipes! ”
The outburst snaps me to attention as I try to make sense of what’s happening.
“You need to take a drink. You can’t toast and then put your cup on the table.” James is emphatic like this near miss is echelons worse than being a victim of a crime, which we have been. He keeps his hand under my drink until I lift it dramatically and take a sip.
“Better?” I smirk. “I didn’t take you for the superstitious type.” I lick a bit of foam from my top lip, his eyes lingering on my mouth as I do it.
“Better. And I’m generally not superstitious—I don’t care about black cats or broken mirrors or bad luck. What I do care about is not sentencing you to seven years of bad sex. That’s what’ll happen if you toast and don’t drink after.”
He chuckles before raising his mug for another sip, and I’m almost certain there’s a flush creeping up his neck.
“Gotcha. And now that you’ve stopped the curse, good sex is guaranteed?” Tomorrow’s Piper—heck, even Later-Today’s Piper—will regret playing this game, but I can’t help myself. I want to stay in this bubble a bit longer, the one where we pretend we’re the kind of couple who gets coffee together on a dreary morning and teases each other across the table.
James sets his mug down and rotates it under his fingers. He’s got something to say—I can tell because he’s pulling his bottom lip through his teeth at the corner of his mouth—and he’s trying to decide whether to say it.
I shoot him a narrow-eyed glance and he nods, leaving his cup on the table to stretch an arm across the back of his chair.
“It is if I have anything to do with it.”
My entire body turns feverish as James sits across from me, comfortable and unfazed, bringing an ankle to rest on his opposite knee. I remove my hand from my mug to diffuse some of the heat prickling across my skin. My cheeks turn pink as James holds my gaze.
“Good to know,” is all I can muster.
A rumble of thunder breaks the tension, and I startle in my seat, my arms almost knocking over my coffee in the process. The rain starts, just a drizzle, but James and I both know it’ll pick up soon. It’s time to get moving.
“We should’ve taken my car,” James says, studying the raindrops slipping down the window with regret.
“You have a car?!” I reply. This is shocking news. No way would I take the train every morning if I had the option to drive.
“I do, though I don’t use it much. It’s not worth the cost to park at the office.” He shrugs and then stands, this new piece of information hanging in the air. A thought crosses my mind.
“So, I know this whole thing was supposed to wrap up today…” I’m careful not to define “thing” because I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what is happening between us, “but is there any chance that you and your car could do me a small favor?”
I give James my sweetest smile and throw in some batted eyelashes for good measure.
“I need to pick up a few items for our fundraising gala next weekend and I could do it in half the time, maybe a third, if I wasn’t canvassing the city by train.”
“Are you asking me to run errands with you?” James eyes me curiously, amusement fluttering across his face as he considers the request.
“Just one errand! But if it makes the task more compelling, I can bring sausage balls and promise not to criticize whatever classic rock you play while you’re driving.”
He takes both of our mugs and reaches to place them in the dish container on the counter behind him. I’m frozen as I wait for his answer.
“I could go with you on Friday. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
I hadn’t considered asking him to take time off work for this escapade, but if he wants to keep his weekend free, that’s fine by me.
“You are the BEST, James. Thank you, thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.” He likely will regret it but there’s no sense in telling him now.
His arm wraps around my shoulder and we step from the coffee shop onto the sidewalk, turning toward the B Line stop about half a mile ahead. The financial district isn’t far—he could head to his office from here—but I like that he wants to walk with me anyway. Especially since it’s really starting to spit.
I drop off at the station entrance and head up the stairs before pivoting to give him a wave and a smile. “See you Friday!” I shout, though he interjects before I can finish the sentence.
“See you tomorrow, P, since you’re not planning to walk to work.” James laughs with enough force that I can hear it clearly from my perch. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and Wednesday, and Thursday on the B Line.”
He throws up a hand before turning down the street, crossing diagonally at the intersection and heading toward his building, quickening his pace to get out of the rain.
It’s always a treat to catch a glimpse of James from behind, but the view doesn’t obscure the sting of something sharp twisting in my chest as I board the train alone.
Today was meant to be the end of… whatever this is between us… and I was confident being done was the right call for both of us. But is it really so bad if he helps me with gala prep? Spending another morning together won’t hurt, will it?
I don’t let myself linger on the question. I don’t want to consider the answer.