30. Piper
thirty
piper
Overthinking It
“ L ook at this kitchen!” Sarina says, scanning the length of Dev’s kitchen. “It looks like Martha Stewart designed it herself.”
I set Nisha’s baking dish on the massive island next to the salad I made. While I’m a hopeless cook, give me store-bought ingredients—as long as it’s not gorgonzola, because ew!—and dressing, and I can whip up a decent salad. Today’s offering is a recreation of the Olive Garden salad to go along with the baked mac and cheese Nisha brought for our biweekly dinner because you have to be a lunatic not to love the Olive Garden salad.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did design it,” I say, walking over to the wall-to-wall fridge to pull out the pitcher of the Bloody Mary I made earlier for the three of us, along with a bottle of chocolate milk for Rome.
While my honorary nephew has seen Dev’s place quite thoroughly, given the move-in fiasco of the century, this is the first time my best friends have come over.
Dev is flying back from his day trip to Seattle, but I texted him this morning to ask if I could host my friends at his place. His response?
Dev
It’s our house, Peter. You can host whoever you want.
Me
Well, in that case, let me send off those invites for the rager I’ve been thinking about hosting here.
Dev
Fine, but if TMZ shows up, you’re on damage control. Also, no foam machines, please. The clean up is a bitch.
Me
Ugh, you’re such a killjoy. Fine, I’ll stick to just glitter bombs, then.
Dev
I’ll let the cleanup crew know to stand-by. Try not to burn the place down, little hellion.
Me
No promises. Hurry back if you want to see your house in one piece.
Dev
I’m hurrying back, but it’s not the house I want to see.
Me
Oh yeah? Then it must be that crossword you left for me to finish. Honestly, Menon, how do you call yourself a genius? I had to erase your answer to forty-six across. The eight-letter name for a variety of apple often used in baking wasn’t Braeburn; it was Cortland. Which is why you weren’t able to solve twelve-down: Constable. As in John Constable, the painter famous for his depiction of clouds.
Dev
Firstly, I don’t call myself a genius. And secondly, no, it isn’t the crossword I want to see, either. Stop being purposely obtuse.
And even if our fun banter was destined to end shortly in the future, along with our fabricated relationship, I had a smile as wide as the Mississippi River stretched across my face the rest of the day.
“So, how has it been living with him?” Nisha asks, settling into a chair after taking off her light jacket and showing off her full sleeve of tattoos.
Even with her hair pulled into a messy ponytail and literally nothing but a dab of lip gloss on her face, my best friend is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. A warrior-goddess walking amongst us plebeians.
Beneath that tough exterior lies not only the soft soul of a fiercely loyal friend, but also a badly broken heart she guards with all her might. She often teases me for being closed off about my past, but I’m nowhere as reserved as she is.
Not that I’m reserved, per se. I don’t know anyone who would use words like “shy” or “private” to describe me. I’m a ball of energy with a dab of eccentricism thrown in for balance. Okay, so maybe a little more than a dab, but who’s really measuring, anyway ?
As for my past? It’s just not a story I like to lead with. My dad was—and still is—a toxic asshole, and my ex intensified the insecurities my dad instilled in me throughout my childhood. I’ve witnessed firsthand how promises turn into lies and how love morphs into hate and resentment, and I’ve cultivated my distrust for romantic love and my skepticism toward commitment.
You don’t have to be Freud to determine I have a few underlying issues that I overcompensate with my adventurous spirit, but I’d argue that I’m not living a lie, either. I actually am happy. I’m proud of how far I’ve come.
Does that mean my insecurities and doubts don’t sneak up on me? No. I’m only human; a work-in-progress. Does that also mean I’m immune to someone trying to scale my high walls? No . . . I see him, and he’s succeeding.
“I feel like with how busy we’ve all been, we haven’t properly chatted about your billionaire since you went to Disneyland,” Sarina adds, grabbing two glasses of the Bloody Marys I’d set out, bringing one to her sister before settling into her chair. “Rome told me how much fun he had?—”
“It was the best!” Rome yells from the family room, examining a new handmade structure of the solar system Dev got made especially for him. “You should have seen Mr. Dev’s face when he was on Space Mountain. He almost peed his pants, Mom! I didn’t. I was prepared for it. I knew it would be scary, but I wasn’t worried.”
Sarina, Nisha, and I giggle before I decide to irritate my little smart-Alec nephew with one of my dumb questions. “Rome, do you think we came out of Space Mountain younger than when we went in because we went at the speed of light?”
Rome slaps his forehead and shakes his head, making us all laugh .
“No, Aunt Piper,” he groans, feeling second-hand embarrassment for me. “We can’t travel at that speed yet.”
“Oh.” I pout. “I really thought we were going that fast.”
Rome sighs. “Where’s Mr. Dev? He knows so much more about space.”
“He should be here soon, buddy,” I answer, still giggling.
“Okay, so give us the deets before your man comes home,” Sarina whispers out of earshot of Rome. “Have you guys . . . you know?” She wiggles her brows, making her meaning clear.
I can’t even help the smile that spreads over my face. God, have we ever.
It’s not like me to blush or have butterflies swoop through my stomach, but just the thought of Dev does that to me. Like, seriously, who the hell is he turning me into?
“Maybe,” I respond coyly.
Sarina gasps. “You hussy! I knew it! And? How was it?”
My thoughts filter back to the past week and a half. I can no longer remember how many times we’ve had sex—the most incredible sex, in fact, where my lady bits sing and weep and dance and dream. Basically, my vagina feels like she’s in her own little Broadway musical. But the aftermath of each night is etched into my memory with alarming clarity.
Whole.
Happy.
Like I was floating on clouds.
Floating on clouds? Christ. Am I serious with that analogy?
When did I start waxing poetic?
But honestly, it’s how I’ve felt, ever since the first night he asked me to stay. I was steadfast in not letting him break my rules, making it a point to sleep in my own room and away from his intoxicating pull each night. But it took one breathless moment, one plea from him to let go, and I crumbled like an over-baked soufflé on The Great British Bake Off .
And then his words to me after—the ones said with so much conviction and confidence—left me feeling even more exposed than I was physically.
He was burrowing himself into the place I kept under lock and key, but could he demolish the fortress of deep-seated doubts I’d built around it?
“Alright, spill the tea,” Sarina urges. “Tell us everything.”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but knowing my friends can see right through it. “I don’t know, it just happened. One minute we were kissing under the fireworks, and the next?—”
“Wait,” Nisha interrupts. “You . . . kissed him?”
Damn. I was hoping to slip that detail in without notice.
“It was just a kiss. Don’t overthink it.”
Except for the fact that it was the most life-changing, earth-altering kiss in the world.
“Don’t overthink it?!” Sarina barks, making me jump in my chair. I almost spill my Bloody Mary on my new skirt. “You haven’t kissed a guy in more than a decade, and you’re telling us not to overthink it? Piper. You like him!”
“I . . .”
“Don’t even try to deny it,” Nisha interrupts, clearly knowing what I was about to say. It’s really annoying to have friends who know you better than you know yourself sometimes. “I saw the way you were looking at him when he came to the salon, and then when you dropped Rome off after Disney. I’ve heard you talk about him. It’s unlike the way you’ve ever been with anyone.”
I stir my cocktail with the celery stick inside it, suddenly feeling unsure about everything—my thoughts, my feelings, and the way my heart seems to have picked up its pace. “Yeah, okay. I like him. So what?”
My friends look at each other, mouths hanging open as if they can’t believe what they’re hearing.
“Guys, do you not remember what I told you about the terms of this engagement?” I ask. “It ends shortly after Dev’s mom passes.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it has to,” Nisha says, leaning in. “If you love each other?—”
“Love?” I interrupt, my head snapping back. “Nisha, we’ve known each other for mere weeks, not long enough to figure out if it’s love. Anyway, you know how firm I am about rule number three—no falling in love.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she whispers irritatedly. “Your stupid rules.”
“Remind me again why rule number three is even on the list?” Sarina adds, eyes narrowing. “What’s your problem with falling in love?”
I groan, taking a sip of my cocktail. I’ve explained this to them before, but apparently, my best friends have the memories of goldfish. “I don’t have a problem with all love, just the romantic type. In my experience, romantic love is unpredictable, untrustworthy, and probably some other “un” words I can’t think of right now.
“People use it too often but don’t mean it enough. Love is something one person comes to rely on while the other person uses it to string them along, only to change their mind later. It’s why I’ve chosen to stay away from it, because in the end, it breaks more people than it mends. Look at my parents. Look at you both.”
I snap my mouth shut as soon as those last words are out. I wasn’t trying to bring up either of their failed relationships, but honestly, can they blame me? If anything, they should be on this anti-love bandwagon with me!
I circle my finger over my glass. “I’m sorry. That was really rude of me.”
Nisha’s eyes soften. “Yes, but you’re not completely wrong. I get that you’ve seen some shitty examples of love, but you’ve also seen some good ones. Look at Rowan and Shay. Look at how happy they are. ”
“Or even Dev’s parents,” Sarina chimes in. “Every time you visit, you tell us how much love you see between them, even if his dad is a hard-ass.”
“And what about your mom and her husband? She seems to have found true love with him,” Nisha adds.
Ugh, why did I tell them about any of that? I should have known they’d conveniently bring up those examples at a time like this to make their point.
“Look.” I sigh. “Even if I have feelings for him, the last thing he needs is a complication when I promised him there wouldn’t be. This was just supposed to be an arrangement between us. Plus, I haven’t actually loved anyone romantically before, not even Andrés. I was too young to even know what that kind of love was at the time.”
“Yeah, but now you do, don’t you?” Nisha asks, and I gather she’s not expecting me to answer. “You have a much better understanding of that kind of love now. You’re just holding yourself back from experiencing it.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m holding us both back from inevitable heartbreak in the future.”
“I might be reaching here,” Sarina says, cutting into what will definitely become an argument between me and Nisha, “but maybe you’re the one overthinking it, Piper.”
“Overthinking what?”
We turn toward the deep voice to see Dev walking toward us.
He stalls mid-step when Rome rushes to him, and in a scene I couldn’t have predicted, Dev scoops him up, placing a kiss on his cheek, before setting him back on his feet. Taking out a small object the size of a remote from his pocket, he hands it to Rome.
“Whoa!” Rome exclaims, wide-eyed. “What is it?”
“It’s a new handheld projection device my company is developing. This one displays the solar system in detail. ”
“Are you saying I can have it?” Rome asks, oscillating between shock and awe.
“It’s all yours, little man.”
The expression on Rome’s face is indescribable. Even behind his glasses, I can see his eyes glisten.
Dev ruffles his hair. “Go try it out, buddy. I’ll meet you in a few. Let me say hi to your mom and your aunts.”
Rome runs off while Sarina yells at him to say thank you before we all greet Dev. Sarina pulls him into a hug, while Nisha opts for a handshake. Both of my friends have met him during his photo shoot at the salon, but never in a casual setting like this.
After exchanging pleasantries, Dev takes a seat beside me. His warm brown eyes caress my face before he leans over, pressing a kiss on my lips.
It’s brief and chaste, but it has my toes curling under the table.
“What were you overthinking?” he repeats, reaching over to take my glass from my hands before taking a long sip.
Both my friends watch with rapt attention, and I know what they’re thinking—that this is real; that neither Dev nor I could be such good actors.
And perhaps that’s true. But that doesn’t change the fact that love— lasting love —is rarer than finding a four-leaf clover under twelve feet of snow.
Is there a part of me that wants to follow my heart and jump head-first into whatever is developing between us?
Yes! Abso-fucking-lutely, there is!
But there’s also that other part—the rather loud and pesky one—-that screams at me to hold back, reminding me that jumping head-first will not only lead to a cracked skull, but also a cracked heart.
“She was talking about the cake,” Sarina blurts. “She’s overthinking the design and flavors.”
Dev places his arm on the back of my chair before running his fingers through strands of my hair. “You know there’s no rule saying we have to settle on one cake or flavor.”
I hold back a smile. “I wasn’t aware of that, actually. Are you saying if I like ten different cakes and twenty different flavors, we can get them all?”
He shrugs. “I don’t see why not. How many times are we going to get married?”
His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. How many times? Once. Just this once. At least that is the case for me, because I wouldn’t do this again unless it was for love. And since the whole love thing terrifies me, I wouldn’t do it at all.
But is he implying he wouldn’t do it again, either? And if so . . . why ? In the time I’ve known him, he definitely doesn’t seem to have the same aversion to love as I do. So, why wouldn’t he do it again for real the next time?
I open my mouth, questions burning on my tongue when I meet his eyes. Soft, warm, and full of a tenderness that’s become familiar lately. They urge me to lean in, to trust, to . . . hope?
But the words die on my tongue. Because at this point, I’m completely confused. Confused about what this is, what this was supposed to be, and now my own feelings about it.
Maybe Sarina is right. Maybe I am the one overthinking it.