8. Piper
eight
piper
A Micropenis Will Not Do
“ G ood God, woman, what kind of crack did you put in this?” I moan, shoveling another forkful of the risotto Sarina made into my mouth. “It’s heavenly.”
Sarina, Nisha, and I are cozied up on the couch in my family room, devouring our meals during our bi-weekly girl’s night on Saturday. Well, I’m the only one ‘devouring,’ wolfing down the delicious tomato stuffed with peas and bacon risotto like I’m in a race, while my best friends nibble at it demurely like the cultured civilians they are.
Even after I moved into my own place, we wanted to keep our tradition alive. Rome, Sarina’s six-year-old son and my honorary nephew, usually brightens our girl’s nights with his infectious energy. However, his dad, Sarina’s ex, took him to the new space museum and wanted to keep him for the weekend. So it just feels quieter tonight, given the pint-sized, space-loving genius isn’t here. I swear, his encyclopedic knowledge could put even the most well-read adults to shame. God, I miss the kid.
Since my move, we’ve rotated hosting duties, with each of us bringing something to the table, literally. And given our one and only rule, that it has to be homemade, and my track record for burning water, I’ve graciously taken the role of mixologist, in charge of the cocktails while Sarina and Nisha supply dinner and dessert.
With what I need to tell them today, I may or may not have used a heavier pour of vodka.
“Thanks,” Sarina says, reaching for her cocktail glass before taking a healthy sip. “And damn, you’re getting really good at making these!” She turns the glass in her hand, looking at the purple liquid with renewed approval. “What is it?”
“It’s called a lavender-blueberry spritzer,” I answer, reaching for my glass. I shrug, keeping my frown hidden. “I figure, if this hairdressing thing doesn’t work out, I might have a future as a bartender.”
Sitting across from me, Nisha places her half-eaten plate on the table before folding her feet under her on the couch. “Babe, you can’t beat yourself up about what happened anymore. It was a mistake?—”
“Yeah, a mistake that’s now costing me more than I ever bargained for,” I mumble under my breath, though not low enough to go unnoticed by my friends.
“What do you mean?” Sarina asks, her brows knotting as she chews. “I thought everything got smoothed over and he forgave you.”
I let out a resigned sigh, mentally preparing for the conversation I’ve managed to dodge all week. It’s not that I was purposely avoiding it—okay, maybe just a little—but between our hectic schedules at the salon and our busy personal lives, there hasn’t been a free moment to sit and chat.
I place my plate on the coffee table before rubbing my forehead with the tips of my fingers and squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for their reaction. “Yeah, so technically, it did get smoothed over, but he asked for a favor . . .”
“A favor,” Nisha echoes. “Like free haircuts for the rest of the year, because the bastard is only a billionaire and can’t afford to pay for them. That kind of favor?”
“Sort of.” I chuckle awkwardly. “Actually, he asked me to marry him because it’s his dying mom’s last wish to see her son get married and he wants to fulfill it.”
Silence follows my words for so long, I wonder if maybe I’ve accidentally activated a mute button. I cautiously peek through my fingers to check if my best friends are still there.
Unfortunately, they are. And while they both have completely different features and characteristics, they’re currently giving me the exact same look, like I just told them I’m quitting my job to become a professional armpit smeller.
Honestly, they probably wouldn’t have been as shocked if I had told them that, given my extreme aversion to smelly armpits—one of the reasons I had to break things off with Jimmy Dean. He would get so worked up during sex and, well, I think his glands were a bit more active than most people’s.
Anyway, back to the subject at hand.
“What do you mean, he asked you to marry him?” Nisha asks incredulously, her expression a mix of horror and confusion.
“I mean, he asked me to marry him.” My heart hammers as the weight of my decision sinks into my stomach.
Both my friends are now sitting at the edge of the couch, as if they physically can’t be comfortable during a conversation like this.
“So, what did you say?” Sarina asks cautiously.
“He can’t be serious,” Nisha scoffs. “He’s clearly grieving and has lost his mind.”
I take a moment, tipping back my cocktail glass and downing my liquid courage, feeling the vodka blaze a trail down my esophagus. Licking my lips, I square my shoulders and face my friends again. “I said yes?—”
“What?!” they both scream .
“But honestly, I got a pretty solid favor back from him too, you guys,” I continue, feigning nonchalance. “He agreed to become our celebrity model in exchange for a few months of being married.”
“You said yes?” Sarina’s voice escalates an octave. “Are you fucking serious right now? Piper, you don’t even know the guy!”
I give her a faraway look. “Do we ever really know anyone? I’ve known my mother my whole life, but just last week, she told me she loved gorgonzola. It truly tilted my world on its axis. So, really, can we be sure about anyone?”
“Oh my God.” Sarina’s eyes connect with her sister’s before she searches my face. “You’ve officially lost it. And we were witnesses to the entire year you’d dyed your hair auburn.”
“And the time you convinced us to take a Kia Rio up an iceberg in Iceland and we got stuck.”
I muffle a snicker, recalling the helicopter rescue mission and being in the arms of this burly Viking-looking dude as we dangled over the ice. Nisha and Sarina shot daggers at me the entire helicopter ride back. Ah, good times. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?
“And the time you got Chinese characters tattooed on your ankle, only to find out months later that they translated to ‘turkey sandwich’.”
“That was a failed Google search on my part, and I still stand by the fact that the letters look cool around my ankle!” I take another breath. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, even for me, but I just . . . felt bad for the guy. It would be a temporary arrangement, anyway; you guys know I can’t do permanent and complicated, so this works out. Once his mom passes, we’ll go back to our regular lives. It’ll be like hitting rewind on the whole thing.”
“ Not complicated? Piper, this is the height of complicated!” Nisha’s tone drips with disbelief. “And what do you mean, it’ll be like hitting rewind? You’ll be a divorced woman afterward. Marriage doesn’t disappear from public record.”
“Divorced-schmivorced,” I pfft. “It’s not like half the population doesn’t have a failed marriage or two under their belt. This is an understanding, a simple marriage agreement. And it’s for a good cause. You know how I love a good cause. Remember the ‘Socks Without Partners’ donation we started at the salon?”
“You mean the one we still don’t know what to do with?” Sarina deadpans.
I roll my eyes. “It’ll be for a good cause when we figure out what that is. Anyway, my point is, this marriage will be for a good cause?—”
“Piper,” Nisha pinches the bridge of her nose. “The reason this is going to get complicated is because you already like the guy.”
I gasp so loud, I start coughing. “I do not! I would never like someone so cold and emotionless and demanding.”
And gorgeous, and selfless, and enigmatic. Yuck!
“I bet he has a micropenis with how cold he runs,” I continue, not admitting that I definitely felt something that was not micro in any shape or form when I went chest-to-chest with him that day for threatening the salon. “I’ve heard it’s a real thing, actually. Men who are cold-natured tend to have small penises because their penises shrivel into their body.”
“Can you stop saying penises?” Nisha drones.
“All I’m saying is, with the way I like to be fucked, a micropenis will not do.”
Sarina snorts out a laugh, quickly snuffing it with her hand when Nisha shoots her a derisive look.
“I don’t know, Piper,” Nisha continues. “This seems like a disaster waiting to happen. You can fool anyone else, but you can’t fool us. Ever since Andrés, you’ve been scared to commit?—”
“Oh, here we go,” I huff, rolling my eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading for divine intervention. “You know my feelings about commitment aren’t solely based on my asshole ex-boyfriend from high school.”
“Yes, but you haven’t been exclusive with anyone since him, either. I don’t know . . . this is new territory for you in so many ways.”
“And what?” I ask, rising off the couch, partly to refill my glass from the pitcher on the kitchen counter and partly to escape Nisha’s penetrating gaze. “You’re afraid I’ll fall in love with him?”
“Or worse.” She turns on the couch to watch me walk back with a full glass, which I accidentally brimmed, so now I have to take a big swig to make sure it doesn’t spill over the sides. “Hurt, heartbroken.”
Nisha has had an interesting history with love and heartbreak, having married her high school sweetheart not too long after we graduated. Except after a few years of being married, they divorced when he made his pursuit of Hollywood a priority over their marriage. And though she’s been single for years, I know she still pines for her ex. Hell, just yesterday I caught her watching one of his movie trailers, only for her to quickly close the tab when she saw me. She swears she’s over him, but Sarina and I know the truth.
I shake my head as if the notion of being heartbroken is preposterous. Fool me once and all that. Won’t be going down that path again. “You don’t have to worry about that. When no hearts are involved, none can be broken. Plus, you know my rules. They’re ironclad.”
Nisha shakes her head with an exhausted sigh. “Dear God, not your rules.”
“They’re ironclad,” I repeat. Because they are .
Sarina, who’s downed most of her drink in the time Nisha and I have been talking, finally chimes in, “I’d like to officially register my vote that this is a monumentally bad idea.”
“Noted,” I reply, taking another sip.
“But seeing as you’re hell-bent on forging ahead,” a smile overtakes her entire face as she lifts her almost-empty cocktail glass in a toast, “let’s get the party started, bitches! To micropenises!”
Nisha groans, lifting her glass as a reluctant smile forms over her face. I join next, lifting mine to clink with theirs. And right as we’re settling back into the couch, my phone buzzes on the table—a FaceTime call from Mom.
I excuse myself, leaving my friends to their concerned whispers, before answering my phone. A smile spreads across my face as my mom’s familiar features paint my screen.
While Rowan and I have eyes the same golden-green color as the man we unfortunately call our father, Mom’s are a warm honey-brown, the same shade as her and my hair. Her shoulder-length locks look freshly trimmed, in contrast to my long and straight hair, cascading to my waist.
“Hey, Mom!” I greet her. “Love the haircut. The bangs work for you!”
“Hey, sweetheart!” she chimes, swiping a hand over said bangs. “Thanks, I just wanted a change.”
“Well, it looks great!” I say, noting how the new hair seems to have taken a few years off her features.
Like Rowan, my dad was a famous hockey player at one time, but unlike my brother, he was always a shit person—a coward and a narcissist. After nearly two decades of marriage, during which Mom dedicated her life to him and to raising us so he could further his career, he left her for a woman almost half her age.
Just like that. Snap of his fingers and two decades of love evaporated into thin air.
Rowan and I watched Mom pour all of herself into that marriage—her youth, her needs, her identity. And what did Dad do? Just up and left.
For years, Dad never spared a glance for the family he abandoned. And after years of hoping and waiting for him to get his head out of his ass, Mom also gave up, settling down with her second husband—a man who treats her like the queen she is—in Tampa.
I couldn’t be happier for her, really. But I also can’t deny that watching her heart shatter like that, remembering the nights where she cried herself to sleep, fundamentally altered my perception of love and commitment.
So, see? It wasn’t Andrés who brought on my issues. They were firmly in place prior to him.
In some ways, losing Dad brought Mom, Rowan, and me closer. While Dad was in our lives, Mom was always on edge, trying to be the perfect wife. She’d fret over every detail, from keeping a spotless house to making the most perfect meal every night, while Dad treated us all like we were a burden he had to carry. He had some respect for Rowan because of their shared interest in hockey, but me? He treated me like a disposable trinket.
And while it took Rowan years to sever those ties with Dad, I closed the door on him long ago. My life is not a rent-free apartment. If you want space in it, you have to earn your place; pay the rent. I simply have no room for people who haven’t earned the right to be there, including my father.
Sure, my parents are just one example of a failed relationship. Perhaps I shouldn’t be as jaded as I am, but then I saw it happen again to both Nisha and Sarina—relationships that left them broken and picking up their pieces.
I’ve heard words like “love” and “commitment” be exchanged, only to be disposed of when they’re used up. I’ve held my mom and my best friends as they cried in my arms. I’ve felt the sting of not being enough, not being valued. And I promised myself I’d never put myself in a position to let someone do that to me again.
Because, in the end, people leave. They decide you aren’t worth it. And I’d rather live my life moving forward, unattached and uncommitted, than be saddled with a broken heart.
Mom gleams. “Now, tell me how you are. What’s new with you?”
Oh boy, where to start?
I clear my throat. “Well, I have some news . . .”
Without further delay, I tell my mother about the recent, ahem, changes in my life, namely the fact that I’m now engaged to Dev Menon and that we plan to be married in a few weeks. While I do mention the urgency is due to his mother’s health, I refrain from elaborating on the facade, sticking to the narrative that Dev and I met at the salon a while ago and have since gotten to know each other well. Well enough to now want to be married.
Like my best friends, my mother, and my brother are lunatics when it comes to protecting me. And while it’s great to have an army like that behind you, it does take a certain amount of energy to fight them when they think you’re going down the wrong path, as seen by my discussion with Sarina and Nisha.
Mom’s mouth drops open for a few seconds before she registers what I’ve told her. “ Married? Piper, I’m not sure what to say. This just seems so sudden.”
It’s not surprising that she’s shocked. My mother knows I’ve never thought much about tying myself down with one person.
“Why didn’t you tell me things had gotten so serious with someone? And Dev Menon, of all people? He’s a name everyone knows nowadays. ”
I give her a reassuring smile. “I know it’s shocking for you since I haven’t mentioned him before, but Dev and I wanted to keep things between us until we knew how we felt about each other.”
Mom eyes me quizzically, similar to the look Nisha and Sarina gave me earlier. “Still, this feels . . . rushed. I understand his mother’s health is a factor, but sweetheart, marriage is a huge commitment. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Nope, not at all.
I gulp down a fresh set of nerves. “I know, Mom. I can understand why you’re worried, but I just need you to trust me, okay?”
“And you’re sure you know him well enough to spend your life with him?”
Nope again. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Thank goodness she can’t hear the way my heart is hammering inside my chest.
My mom eyes me for a few seconds, looking for what, I’m not sure, but finally relents. “Well, if this is what you both want, then I’m thrilled for you. Tell me when you decide the date and when you need me there.”
Relieved, I give my mom a few more details about the plan before we hang up. Which isn’t much, considering Dev and I haven’t spoken since he left the salon after I agreed to our arrangement.
My relief is short-lived when, not even three minutes later, my phone buzzes again and my brother’s face lights up the screen. He doesn’t even wait for a greeting.
“You’re engaged?! I swear to God, Piper, if it’s one of your sausage dudes, I will kill the motherfucker.”