Chapter 24 Piper
The Italian place on Oak was packed for a Friday night.
Warm lighting, checkered tablecloths, the smell of garlic and fresh bread heavy in the air. The conversations hummed around us, the sound of it like a blanket of sound.
Daniel had gotten us a table by the window. He was already there when I arrived seven minutes late, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up from his shift. He'd ordered a bottle of Chianti that sat breathing on the table between us.
"Did you manage it?"
"Close enough that she cried happy tears, so yes."
He smiled, that easy smile that had made me feel safe when we first started dating. "That's my girl."
Except I wasn't, was I? Not really. Not in the way that mattered.
The waiter appeared and handed us menus.
We ordered breadsticks, made small talk while we pretended to read about pasta options we'd both seen a dozen times.
His shift this week had been brutal—three car accidents, one cardiac arrest. My new hires were working out well, but one of them kept forgetting to check the oven timer.
The weather was turning colder. We might get frost next week.
Easy conversation. The kind you had when you knew someone well enough to fill silence without effort.
I reached for a breadstick and tore off a piece, letting the steam escape. I should have been enjoying this—the food, the company, the Friday night date we'd been trying to schedule for weeks.
Instead, I couldn't stop thinking about the pool.
It had been a week since I'd seen Liam. Seven days, and I'd replayed that encounter so many times I could see it frame by frame.
The water streaming down his face. The careful way he'd looked at me—or hadn't looked at me.
The apology for interrupting my workout.
The way he'd pulled himself out of the pool and walked away without hesitation, without looking back.
He was giving me space, respecting what I'd asked of him.
I should have been relieved.
Instead, I felt like something had shifted and I couldn't figure out how to shift it back.
"Piper?"
I looked up. Daniel was watching me, wine glass halfway to his mouth, that patient expression settling over his features.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted to split the calamari." He set down his glass. "But you're not here, are you?"
My chest tightened. "I'm here."
"You're sitting across from me. That's not the same thing." He wasn't angry. Just... observant. That's who Daniel was: steady, perceptive, unfailingly kind.
He folded his hands on the table, fingers laced together. "I need to tell you something."
My stomach dropped.
Oh god. This was it. He was going to say something romantic or propose we move in together or ask where this was going, and I was going to have to tell him I didn't know. That I'd been checked out for weeks. That I'd been lying to both of us by pretending everything was fine.
I set down the breadstick. "Daniel—"
"It's not what you're thinking," he said, and there was something almost amused in his voice. "I can see it on your face. You look like you're about to bolt. No, it's not that."
I exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Okay."
"I got a job offer." He picked up his wine glass, took a sip. "Portland. Better pay, better benefits, chance to work with a trauma team I've been following for years."
He paused, watching my face. His thumb traced the stem of the wine glass, a nervous habit I'd noticed before when he wasn't sure how something would land.
"I took it."
Portland.
He was moving to Portland.
I should have felt something. Maybe sadness, surprise, or the sharp sting of abandonment. Instead, what bubbled up was relief so profound it made my chest loosen.
"When?" I asked.
"Six weeks. They want me to start as soon as I can.” He was still watching me, reading my reaction like he'd read so many patients in the back of his ambulance. "I had my eyes on this team for a long time. Since before…” He gestured vaguely between us. "This has been coming."
"The job?"
"Yeah. But also..." He set down his wine glass and leaned back against the booth. "Us. This. Whatever we've been doing for the past few months."
My throat felt tight. "Daniel—"
"It's okay." His voice was gentle. "I'm not mad. I'm not hurt. I just think we both know this isn't working."
The honesty hit me like cold water. He wasn’t being cruel, just honest.
"I care about you," I said, because I did. I really did.
"I know. I care about you too." He smiled. "But caring about someone and being in love with them aren't the same thing. And neither of us are in love here, are we?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. He… he was right.
"When did you know?" I asked quietly.
"That I wasn't in love with you?" He considered this, fingers still tracing the wine glass. "Honestly? Probably around month three. But I liked you. I liked spending time with you. And you seemed happy enough, so I figured..." He shrugged. "Maybe it would grow into something more."
"But it didn't."
"No. It didn't." He paused. "When did you know?"
I thought about the pool. About seeing Liam and feeling my entire world tilt sideways. About coming home and texting Daniel miss you too when I wasn't sure I meant it.
But that wasn't entirely fair, was it? I had cared, and I did care.
I liked his company, the way he made me laugh, how he always remembered to bring me coffee on his way to my bakery.
I liked the way he folded his socks into neat pairs and how he'd text me pictures of dogs he saw on calls. All good, real things.
It just wasn't enough. Something essential was missing, and I didn't know how to make it appear.
"I think I've known for a while," I admitted. "I just didn't want to admit it."
"Yeah." He nodded, like that made sense. "I get that. It's easier to keep going than to stop and ask if you actually want to be going in the first place."
The waiter appeared with the calamari neither of us had confirmed we wanted. Set it down between us with a cheerful "Enjoy!" that felt wildly out of place. We both stared at it.
"Should we…” I gestured at the plate.
"Might as well." Daniel picked up a fork. "Seems like a waste to let it go cold just because we're breaking up."
I laughed. Of course he'd be practical about this. That was Daniel. Steady, reasonable, and always making the hard stuff easier just by being himself.
We ate in silence for a minute, like we were still just two people having dinner.
"So," he said finally, setting down his fork. "Portland. Six weeks. Which means we should probably..." He made a vague gesture.
"Make this official?"
"Yeah." He wiped his hands on his napkin. "I don't want this to be weird. We work in the same town, we're going to run into each other. And I'd like to think we can still be.. I don't know. Friends? Eventually?"
"I'd like that too."
"Good." He picked up his wine glass, held it up slightly. "To being mature adults who can have an amicable breakup over overpriced Italian food?"
I picked up mine, clinked it against his. "To being mature adults."
We both drank.
"You know," Daniel said, leaning back against the booth, "you deserve someone who makes you feel more than comfortable."
I looked up.
His expression was kind. Knowing, but not accusatory. "I don't know what that looks like for you. Maybe you don't either yet. But you should have it. Whatever it is you're actually looking for."
My throat felt tight. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being... this. About all of this."
He smiled. "What, mature and emotionally healthy? I'm an EMT, Piper. I've seen what happens when people don't communicate. Figured I should at least try to practice what I preach."
We finished the calamari, ordered entrees we barely touched. When we were done, we split the check down the middle—his insistence, even though I offered to cover it. The waiter probably thought we were the most depressing date he'd served all night.
Outside, the October air was cold enough to see our breath. The parking lot was half-empty now, the dinner rush winding down. Daniel walked me to my car, hands shoved in his pockets.
"So," he said when we reached my door. "This is it, I guess."
"Yeah." I unlocked the car but didn't get in. "Good luck in Portland. Really. I hope it's everything you want."
"Thanks." He pulled me into a friendly but final hug. "Take care of yourself, Piper. And for what it's worth? That bakery of yours is incredible. Don't let anyone make you forget that. You have something special going on and—"
He stepped back, eyes narrowing as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted.”
I have to go." He was already moving toward his truck. "They're calling in off-duty."
"Everything okay?"
"Big call. I'll be fine." He gave me one last wave and jogged across the parking lot.
I got in my car and sat there for a moment, processing everything. From the breakup itself, to our conversation. How easy and anticlimactic it all had been.
How relieved I felt.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading back toward Main Street and the apartment above my bakery.
Whatever you’re actually looking for, he’d said. I was still thinking of that, already halfway home, when I heard the sirens. Multiple units, overlapping wails that echoed off the buildings. An engine screamed past me going the opposite direction, lights flashing. Then another. Then an ambulance.
I pulled over to let them pass, watching in my rearview mirror as they disappeared toward the east side of town.
Daniel was headed there too. Into whatever was bad enough to call in off-duty crews.
My chest tightened. Was he already on scene? Was he—
I caught myself.
He wasn't mine to worry about anymore.
I sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, then kept driving.