CHAPTER THREE
P IPER
“Piper, do you want these in the walk-in or out front?”
The voice of my employee, Jerrica, jolts me out of concentration. I’ve been skulking near the front windows, tucking myself behind the mossy drapes, as I spy on the developments next door.
“Uh…walk-in’s good.” I toss her a bright smile, but she looks concerned as she heads for the back room with a tray of marshmallows.
Jerrica has been helping me for the past year, once it became obvious that I couldn’t open, close, prep for bulk orders and remember to feed myself while running this operation on my own.
Jerrica’s in college and helps out super part time, which is about the extent of how much help I’ll allow at this point.
I barely let myself take on an employee until my mother reminded me a little sternly that it was normal for businesses to have employees and this wasn’t a sign of my failing.
That advice was in direct contrast to the loud chorus of opinions coming from my brothers, who have something to say about every single decision I do or don’t make.
Most times, I find it easier to just avoid certain situations at all costs.
Until the decision to not hire someone started costing me my health. And even now, it makes me skittish.
The pleasant murmur of the Cloud Nine patrons settles over me, temporarily relaxing me. Until I spot Mr. New Landlord strutting out his front door, followed by a camera crew. I stiffen, a few sensations warring within me.
First of all, I’m disgruntled by the fact that he is so hot.
The one-night-stand of my dreams seems to have bulked up since I last used his body as a playground.
His biceps damn near doubled as a chin-up bar in Cleveland, and now?
Whoo boy. I can’t really think too long about it because I’m in public and someone is sure to ask me why my cheeks are pink.
And secondly, what in the actual fuck is happening over there?
He’s not just the new owner of the building, he has a camera crew.
What sort of sociopath both blocks a curb cut and hires people to follow him around, documenting his every move?
I never got narcissist vibes last month, but maybe I’d been too drunk to notice.
I always thought I’d be able to sniff out a narcissist despite how many peanut butter and jelly shots I’d consumed.
“He’s the guy from that reality TV show.” A customer has materialized beside me—Mikey—jerking his chin toward my new neighbor as he addresses the cameras on the sidewalk. He’s got a mic on, I notice now. I nod slowly.
“That explains the cord coming out of his pants,” I mutter. Then I straighten, turning back toward the shop. So much for lurking in the moss drapes. “What show was he on?”
“That food truck show.” Mikey stuffs his hands into his pockets, rattling change. “The one with the Daly kid.”
“Oh, right.” I straighten up the nearest table and chairs, fiddling with the centerpiece as though that’s what I was intending to do all along. Really, I’m just counseling myself to not stare out the window again. “I remember that show. I never watched it, but I heard about it.”
“It was great. The Daly kid won, and he opened up his own food truck in Cleveland. With that guy, I think.” Mikey’s brows form a line and then he shuffles back to his table where he’d been sipping a hot cocoa and reading the newspaper. “Or maybe it was in Columbus.”
“It was in Cleveland,” another regular, Kaci, pipes up. She comes damn near five days a week for my homemade rice crispy treats.
“This is all very interesting.” I try to sound bright and unaffected, but really I can’t stop thinking about the way I’d felt in my new landlord’s arms, the possessive way he’d bitten my neck that night, the way he’d tossed me around and filled me and—
“Piper, are you okay?” Jerrica touches my arm as I come around behind the front counter. “You’re so flushed.”
“Yeah, I’m—” Horny. Unable to stop thinking about my new neighbor’s dick. Remembering all the different places that man kissed me a month ago. “Just thirsty. I need some water. I might be coming down with something.”
Yeah, coming down with dickstalgia.
Nostalgia for that man’s dick.
“I hope you’re not getting sick! I saw your calendar back there—you’ve got a busy week of bulk orders."
"That I do." I draw a deep breath, some of the anxiety about the workload replacing my anxiety about the new neighbor.
“Do you want me to come in a few extra hours this weekend?”
“I think I’ll be able to manage it,” I tell her, though deep inside, I’m not sure I can. Still, I’m eager to prove to myself that I can be Superwoman. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”
Jerrica is going to close tonight so that I can escape a couple hours early.
She’s the closer on Wednesdays specifically so that I can attend my weekly family dinner.
My mom, older brothers, and I have this family tradition where we get together on hump day as a mid-week check-in to eat together, play together, and laugh together.
Instead of Live, Laugh, Love our family motto is Eat, Laugh, Play Euchre.
My older brothers are absolute assholes when it comes to euchre, but it awakens the euchre asshole in me as well, so I’m powerless to resist.
This week, I’m gunning for first place. Brothers be damned.
“You better get going,” Jerrica prompts. I check the wall clock—four p.m. She’s right. She’ll be closing up at six, when I’ll be five cards deep into taking the throne in this week’s euchre tourney.
“Thanks for your help, Jerrica.” I untie my apron, my gaze sliding back toward the front windows, where I can just barely see one of the guys in the camera crew.
“Let me know if anything crops up during closing. And those other marshmallows trays back there you can stick in the freezer. And all of the leftover brownies—”
“I know, plastic wrap and fridge.” She’s shooing me toward the back door.
Separating me from my business is akin to separating a mother from her newborn—at least, I imagine it would be.
I don’t trust anyone to look after it or intuit its needs as well as I do.
And it definitely needs milk every few hours.
I barely get out a bye before she pushes me out the back door with a quick, “Now go enjoy your time off!” I’m left waving at the closed steel door.
For a moment I look around awkwardly. It always hurts to detach from my baby.
But my mom will be mad if I don’t make time for the family once a week, and I’m not trying to piss off my mom.
I run upstairs to my apartment, cooing hello to all my beautiful potted plants, fixing the throw blanket on the corner of the sofa, picking up my backpack for the bike ride to my mom’s.
I change out of my work leggings and into my leisure leggings.
I’m a woman who likes leggings, dammit. After tossing on a nice slouchy sweater, I pop on my backpack and thump back down the exterior staircase.
The early evening air is crisp. It’s still warm enough to bike across town without a jacket, but I can feel the promise of true autumn in the air. I love it.
I unlock my bike from the bottom spire of the staircase railing and hop on.
It’s a quick ride to my mom’s house across town, but I like to take the long way.
I’m just one block from Briggs Bay and the boardwalk that traverses the width of the shoreline, and I need the scenic distraction today.
I take in big gulps of freshwater air, listening to the caws of seagulls and the excited shouts of small children walking with their parents as I zoom down the path.
Briggs Bay sparkles in the early-evening sunlight, and further out I can see where it opens up to Lake Erie.
On the horizon, Kelley’s Island glitters.
I smile into the warm sunlight, trying to quiet a small voice at the back of my head that keeps getting louder these days.
Everything feels perfectly fine…as long as I ignore the nagging sensation that I’m keeping myself in a box so that I don’t rock the family boat.
I force those thoughts out of my head. I don’t like entertaining anything less than wild satisfaction.
Everything is great, dammit. I shouldn’t want more than this.
I have an amazing life. I’m a business owner at twenty-eight.
I have a good relationship with all of my siblings.
I love my mom. Having lost my father at a young age, I know the preciousness of life.
I need to gulp it all down, take it all in, savor every second.
The nagging feeling like I’m missing something? Like somehow a romantic relationship might be a wise addition to my life? Like maybe I should take some risks and see if I can chew more than I’ve already bitten off? I don’t have time for that.
I’m dating my marshmallow shop and men are perfectly good as siblings or friends, the end.
I zoom into the tree-shaded neighborhood where my brothers and I grew up.
The leaves are just beginning to turn yellow and orange at the tips, but plenty of trees are still hanging on to summer green.
In a few weeks this whole street will be ablaze with autumnal glory, and I cannot wait.
By the time I pedal up to the garage door of my mom’s house, I’m barely breaking a sweat.
I pop the kickstand and leave my bike in front of my brother Jett’s car.
I can tell by the cars that everyone is here already, and I can already anticipate how loud it is inside.
The front door showcases Mom’s new fall wreath—an excessive amount of fake leaves and a big burlap bow—and I push inside, the familiar scents of home washing over me, warm wood mixed with the lingering aroma of her lavender diffuser.
The clamor of voices pulls me deeper into the house.
Once I hit the dining room, it’s Keegan time.