Chapter Twenty-Four

Piper

There was a point in my life where I would've killed someone to get two weeks off from work. Fourteen days away from Tate and his penthouse, and his phone, and his ridiculous Rocketbook, and all of his crazy schemes that make copious amounts of money. Fourteen days without having to look at his piercing blue eyes, or his stupidly white teeth, or his nonsensically sculpted abs, or the little furrow that forms in between his eyebrows when he's trying to solve a problem. Fourteen days to do whatever I want for a change.

It turns out, when given the chance, all I really want is to be by his side. I don't consider myself a wallower, and I try really hard in the interim not to let myself flounder around in a puddle of self-pity and multiple pints of Moose Tracks. Taking great pains to fill my days with something other than reality television and staring at the elevator, I make it a point to do all of the things that usually bring me joy. I wander around the Twin Cities like a tourist, taking myself on dates to just about every place I can think of that Tate and I never got around to seeing together. The Institute of Arts doesn't do it for me. Every commissioned portrait of a turn of the century railroad baron or oil tycoon reminds me of Tate, from the way they sit in their stuffy rigid chairs to the look in their eyes.

Historically, I've been able to count on the Cathedral of Saint Paul to lift my spirits in some capacity. Looking at the domed ceilings and the ornate altars should fill me with a sense of wonder and awe. Instead I find myself thinking of Gibson and Avery's eventual marriage, and of the engagement party, and that stupid strawberry ring that got Sunset Fake so riled up. The Science Museum is no better. Every placard and display comes with a tiny Tate Story in the back of my head, providing a running commentary about how he could do better.

On top of it all, I can't turn a corner without running into another happy couple. They seem to be swarming the city. Everywhere I look, the entire population of the Twin Cities combined seems to be operating in pairs. Their smiles make me sick. I want to stop every single one that I see and grab them by the shoulders, shake some sense into them before one of them gets hurt. Being happy can't be as simple as they make it look. I have to be missing something, or else Tate and I could be doing each and every one of these things together, instead of a handful of miles apart.

He hasn't come down the elevator since we've been back from Sunset Lake. I guess that's my fault for being so adamant about our new boundaries. Still, I had expected more pushback. Like every woman before me, I wished he'd fought for me. For us. But he hasn't. No calls. No emails. No texts. Not even a note under the door. As far as I know, Tate Story has ceased to exist.

Or worse. He's forgotten all about me.

And this so-called paid vacation is just giving him enough time to figure out how he can fire me.

By the afternoon of my final day off, I find myself beginning to panic. I had assumed I would return to work as normal once the two weeks were up, but without any contact from Tate at all, I'm wondering if I've not only lost a friend and a lover, but if I've managed to lose my job right along with it. Not only am I nursing a break-up from a relationship that was never real to begin with, I might have to start polishing my resume. The idea sends shivers down my spine.

After several minutes of internal debate, I open my laptop, readying myself mentally and emotionally for the existential horror that is browsing LinkedIn, but am interrupted by a knock at the door. I scramble up from my couch, running to the mirror to assess the state of my hair. It isn't great, but it isn't hopeless. I free it from its braid, fluffing it at the roots to induce the illusion of volume, and check that there isn't anything in my teeth. I can't imagine it's anyone but Tate at the door, and while he's seen me in just about every state under the sun, I'd like to look like I haven't been thoroughly miserable for the past two weeks.

Like he didn't break my heart.

The second, far less patient series of knocks gives me hope that it really is Tate. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and reach for the door.

The person on the other side isn't Tate—but is about as close as you can get.

Fallon stands in the hallway, holding a Styrofoam cup the size of a small child and a brown paper bag. Behind her is Daisy, chewing a piece of gum and typing something on her phone. She gives me a nod and a polite wave.

"Here. I have a tendency to forget to eat when I'm heartbroken. I brought you carbs and sugar."

Hoisting the bag in my direction, Fallon blusters past me into the apartment. Daisy follows suit, and before I can say anything they're both firmly ensconced on my sofa.

"I'm… um." Opening the bag, I find what appears to be a double cheeseburger. An experimental sip from the straw in the cup determines its contents to be a strawberry shake. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." Fallon sighs, propping her feet on my coffee table. "I'm sorry my brother is an asshole. Perhaps if I had given him a few more noogies as a child, he may have turned out differently."

"I don't know how to respond to that."

I join the two women, taking a seat in the chair opposite the couch. While the milkshake really is exquisite, it doesn't offer much of an explanation.

"Why are you here? You can't have driven all this way to bring me lunch."

"No. But you're going to want to eat. You'll need your strength," Daisy explains, solemnly gesturing at the food.

"Why do you look like that?"

Looking down at the floor, Fallon grimaces to herself. "Because we came to take you back to the resort."

"Why?" I grumble out around a mouthful of cheeseburger. Fallon was right. I had been forgetting to eat. I'm going to inhale this entire sandwich if I'm not careful.

"For Tate."

"Absolutely not." I cough loudly, halfway choking on my food. It takes me a moment to recover from the shock, both emotionally and physically. Once I'm done coughing, I take a long swig of my milkshake, pointing toward the elevator with my cup. "If Tate wants to say something to me, he can simply come down here and say it in person."

"I realize my brother has made a mistake. Several mistakes. Plural. A lot of mistakes." Fallon rubs at the bridge of her nose, screwing her eyes shut in frustration. I wonder if coming here was her idea, or if Tate put her up to it. "It's not a horrible drive, okay? A few hours round trip. If things don't work out, we'll bring you right back home and we will never bring it up ever again. Humor me. Please. I can't drive all the way back with Daisy alone. She only listens to dark romance audiobooks. You wouldn't believe what a morally grey hero can get up to. It gets weird after a while."

Daisy shrugs. "It's an addiction. I'm lonely. So shoot me."

I look from Daisy to Fallon and back again, mulling over my options. I've wanted nothing more than to see Tate for the past two weeks, and now that I'm presented with the opportunity, I don't know if I have the courage. Or the stomach. I have to admit that no matter how it could go, anything would be better than this uncertainty. If it really is over for good, I'd like to know.

I press my lips together. "You promise I can leave whenever I want?"

"Promise," Fallon nods. "Scout's honor."

Crumpling the wrapper from my burger, I shove it into the bag with a long-suffering sigh. "Alright. Fine. Let's get going before rush hour."

Fallon snatches her keys from the coffee table, nearly jumping out of her seat in her haste to get the front door. "You aren't going to regret this, Piper, you beautiful being."

I wish I could share the same certainty that she has. For now, I can only hope for the best.