Chapter 51
Fifty-One
Six months later
My new apartment smells like fresh paint and cardboard.
There are boxes everywhere. They’re stacked in the hall, shoved against the kitchen counter, and blocking most of the living room.
But it’s mine. All mine. The windows are huge, the light is warm, and when I stand in the middle of the room, barefoot in ripped jeans and a black T-shirt, I feel something settle inside me.
Independence. Peace. Steadiness.
Things I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.
Six months ago, I was sitting on the edge of a childhood bed in a towel, trying to figure out what ground-up meant in practical terms.
Here is what it meant. Therapy, first. Once a week with Dr. Anita Reeves, who has a plant wall in her office and doesn’t let me get away with anything.
When the talking wasn’t quite packing the punch it needed to, Rowan told me to come to her studio.
She handed me a paint can and a huge empty canvas and told me to go crazy.
It worked. There’s a specific kind of healing that only comes from making a mess on purpose.
Then came the Cathy Brennan call, which lasted forty minutes and ended with me saying yes.
The rehearsals. The performance. The reviews that used the words I once could only dream of.
Dr. Reeves wouldn’t let me dismiss those words.
I have them written on a Post-it on my bathroom mirror now, not because I need the validation, but because I’m practicing the act of accepting a good thing.
Typical Callahan chaos is currently unfolding in my living room.
Madison is dragging a box labeled “bathroom stuff” toward the hallway, swearing because the bottom keeps catching on the rug.
Rowan is unpacking mugs I don’t remember buying.
My mother is fussing with the curtains like they will never hang correctly unless she manages them personally.
My father is attempting to assemble a bookshelf without instructions because he refuses to be dominated by Swedish furniture.
“If you put that there,” Rowan says from the kitchen doorway, “I will say nothing, but I will think something.”
“That’s rich,” Noah scoffs, putting the box exactly where he wants it, “from someone who hasn’t carried anything in twenty minutes.”
“I’ve been directing and consulting,” Rowan says, gesturing broadly. “These are management skills. You should be grateful.”
Dad sets his screwdriver on the shelf and looks at the far wall. “Piper.”
“I know, Dad.”
“It’s yellow.”
“That’s the point,” I say. I chose it because Ezra would have called it impractical. I chose it because yellow is my favorite color, and it reminded me of a summer dress I once wore.
Dad looks at it for a moment longer. “I think I like it.”
“Of course you do,” Mom says serenely. “She has her father’s eye for color. The yellow is perfect, love.”
I’m wearing the linen shirt from Mira Cove over my black T-shirt, along with the earrings I bought there.
I’ve decided that looking good and feeling comfortable are both valid reasons to keep wearing them.
I have seventeen unread texts from a group chat called The Anchor, and my calendar is full for the next four months.
I stand in the middle of the living room and breathe in. My own place. The smell of new paint and clean floors. And underneath all of it? Nothing. No one else’s scent. No one else’s opinion about where things should go.
“Are you crying?” Rowan asks, appearing at my shoulder.
“No,” I say.
“You’re doing the chin thing. Before you cry, you do this.” She imitates something with her chin that I refuse to believe I actually do. “It’s very recognizable.”
“I’m not crying. I’m just taking a moment.”
“She’s taking a moment,” Rowan announces to the room.
I look at my apartment, and I realize I keep waiting for the familiar contracted feeling. The checking and adjusting, but it doesn’t come.
Noah’s phone rings. He’s standing by the window with a lamp base. He looks at the screen before he looks at me. It’s a fraction of a second where he checks my face before answering.
“Hey, man,” he says, and steps outside to the landing.
The door doesn’t fully close behind him.
It’s Griffin.
The ache is so familiar by now that I’ve made peace with it.
It isn’t an empty place. It’s a warmth that sits there quietly and waits.
I haven’t reached out. He hasn’t either.
I meant what I said in his kitchen. I want to show up to whatever comes next as the full version of myself, not the version that’s still learning what that means.
I want to walk through that door having built the thing I said I needed to build.
I look at the yellow wall.
I’m nearly there.
Noah comes back in and catches my eye. We both smile.
“Shit.” I check my phone. “I’m late. I have a rehearsal.”
“Now?” Rowan looks at the boxes. “We just got here.”
“I know, I know.” I grab my keys from the counter and find my violin case by the door. “Be good sports and start unpacking. Love you.”
The responses that follow me out the door are a string of curses. I’m laughing as I take the stairs.
“Piper Callahan!” My mother’s voice floats down the stairwell. “We’ll see you at the concert tomorrow night! Break a leg!”
I hit the ground floor and push out into the afternoon. My violin case is in my hand, and my keys are in my pocket.
I have a rehearsal. I have a concert tomorrow. I have a new apartment.
I have a life I built from the bottom up that looks a lot like the one I would have chosen if I’d been choosing the whole time.
I break into a jog. I’m late, but I’m going somewhere.
That’s the thing.
I’m always going somewhere now.