Chapter 5
Five
Griffin
I lean back against the balcony railing, elbows resting on the cold metal, a drink sweating in my hand. I’m ten floors up, and the coastal town glitters below.
There’s a solid breeze coming off the water. After the week I’ve had, the air feels good.
I got in late. Too late for the rehearsal dinner, too wired to sleep, and too tired to be good company for anyone with a pulse. So I found the nearest outdoor space, ordered something strong, and stood in the dark.
The balcony wraps around the side of the building. From here, I can see the warm, orange glow of the event space. Muffled noise from the party drifts over.
I’d almost tuned it out until I spotted the sign.
It’s massive. Floor-to-ceiling, flanked by floral arrangements that look more appropriate for a state funeral than a party. In the center, a photo of Piper and Ezra, enlarged to a size that feels less like a celebration and more like a memorial.
I stare at it. Then from somewhere inside, a string quartet starts a song that sounds like it belongs at an open-casket viewing.
Huh.
Here’s the thing about Piper: People who don’t know her think she’s quiet. They mistake her stillness for shyness, or her pauses for a lack of thought.
Those people have never been on the receiving end of a Piper Callahan opinion. If you’ve earned the version of her that exists under the composure, she’s got plenty to say. She just waits until the words actually mean something.
In my experience, that’s more than most people manage.
I’ve only been back home for a couple of months, and I’ve met Ezra twice. I didn’t like him either time. He has that kind of calculated charm that makes my internal alarm bells go off. He’s not good enough for her. Not even close.
But then again, I’ve been gone for five years. What do I really know? She’s marrying him. She looks at him and stays. She clearly loves him.
Maybe she’s changed that much. Maybe I don’t know her the way I thought I did.
I don’t get the chance to overthink it because my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Tell me something good,” I say when I answer.
“How about we got the Meridian contract?” Dominic Kane’s voice is thick with a grin.
I push off the railing. “You’re serious.”
“Signed, sealed, delivered. We’re in, brother.”
I press my free hand to the back of my neck.
Something in my chest that’s been clenched for six months finally releases.
Dom and I are pragmatists. Five years of bad coffee and driving each other crazy in whatever city we were in led to this—moving the whole operation west, betting on ourselves in a city that doesn’t hand out favors.
Meridian is the win. It’s the you-were-right-to-come-home card.
This contract means security. It means the risk wasn’t stupid.
“So,” Dom says, “you at the wedding now?”
“Arrived an hour ago.”
“Drink. Relax. Snag a bridesmaid.”
“The bridesmaids are like my sisters.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs. “Just enjoy your vacation. You’re overdue some time off. Don’t screw it up.”
“Yeah, thanks, I guess.”
“See you in two weeks.”
And that’s it. The call ends. Dom has never seen the point in small talk. He gets to the point which I appreciate.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and lean against the railing again, the metal cool through my shirt. I don’t have anything planned after this. I took the time off because the wedding was coming up, and it made sense to stack things efficiently.
Efficient feels like the right word.
I’m still staring at Piper’s colorless portrait when the balcony door creaks open.
I glance over my shoulder to see her standing there.
She doesn’t see me. She steps out with her face tilted toward the sky, as if trying to drink in the air. Her eyes are closed. She looks like she’s been holding her breath for three hours and finally found some space.
Then she opens her eyes, sees me, and jumps. Her hand flies to her chest. “Griffin.” It’s half-laugh, half-gasp. “Jesus. You scared me.”
I raise my glass. “Sorry.”
She looks at me for a second, then a genuine smile appears. It’s the kind that lights up her eyes before her mouth even shifts.
There she is.
She’s in a cream dress that fits perfectly and looks like something she’d never choose for herself.
“When did you get in?” she asks, walking toward me.
“An hour ago. I would have come by, but—”
“You’ll be there tomorrow,” she says, waving it off. “That’s what matters.” She steps to the railing, looking out at the town. “I haven’t seen you much since you came back.”
“We’ve both been busy.”
“True.” She tilts her head and begins tugging at the hem of her dress, making small, restless adjustments as if she can’t get it to sit right on her skin.
“What are you doing out here, Pipes?”
She glances over. “Needed a minute.”
“You want to sit?” I ask. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The breathing thing. The one you do when you’re about ten seconds away from a panic attack.”
A surprised laugh breaks out of her. “I don’t have a breathing thing.”
“Piper, you’ve had a breathing thing since you were ten.”
“That’s extremely invasive of you to retain,” she mutters.
“Guilty.” I nod toward the table in the corner. “Come on.”
She tucks one foot under her in the chair and looks more like herself in ten seconds on this balcony than in that ten-foot portrait inside.
I nod toward the event space. “I saw the sign.”
She makes a face. “It’s enormous.”
“I thought I’d walked into a wake. Then I heard the music.”
She groans. “Not you too. His mother chose the music.”
“Did his mother choose it for a rehearsal dinner or for an open-casket viewing?”
Piper doubles over with a full, head-back laugh that shakes her shoulders. “It’s so bad.”
But then the laugh fades, and she falls silent, her eyes lost somewhere as she gazes at the town lights.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” she says, rearranging her face. “Nerves.”
“That’s allowed.”
She tugs at the dress again. “Is it?”
“You need a getaway driver? Just say the word.”
“Yeah? What car did you bring?”
“The Camaro.”
Her eyes go wide. “Shit. That’s a really good getaway car.”
“I know.”
She offers me a wobbly smile and inhales.
“You’ll be alright, Piper.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I always am,” she breathes. It doesn’t sound like reassurance. It sounds like a prison sentence.
“There you are.”
We both turn to see Ezra in the doorway. He clocks me, then her, and his expression transforms for a fraction of a second into something sharp.
Piper is already up, already apologizing. The shift in her is so fast it makes my head spin.
Ezra crosses the balcony.
“Good to see you again,” I say, standing and extending my hand.
He shakes it with a grip that feels practiced. “You should come in and join the party.”
“I’ll celebrate with you tomorrow. It’s getting late.”
He nods before wrapping an arm around Piper’s shoulders. “Come back inside. People are asking where you’ve gotten to.”
Piper glances back. The smile she gives me is tiny. “Goodnight, Griffin.”
“Goodnight, Pipes.”
I stay in the dark. Through the glass, I watch Ezra stop her. He turns her to face him, his hands moving to her hair, smoothing it, adjusting her neckline, fixing her like she’s a display in a window. He’s talking, but I can’t hear him.
I watch her face assemble itself. The smile lands on her lips, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.
I finish my drink and look at that portrait one more time. I try to find the girl I used to know.
It takes me a lot longer than it should.