Piper
* * *
Now: October 30th
It’s a chilly night. Not unlike any other night at the end of October in Pennsylvania. A cluster of small trees on the other side of the road catches my attention. The closest one is half bare, the leaves that still hang from the branches are a mixture of dark reds and browns. They rustle against each other, and the dry, rough bark, crinkling and scratching as the breeze blows through. I watch, entranced as a few leaves pull free. They twist and turn, dancing freely for the first time before the air settles, and they tumble to the ground. A few beautiful seconds of blissful freedom, and by this time tomorrow, they’ll be raked up and tossed into a truck on their way to be composted or mulched.
There’s beauty in that, though, right? I continue to stare at the pile of leaves resting beneath the little tree. They live. And they die, but then they’re recycled. They get to come back. They get a second chance. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear the shifting gears of a car, and my stomach drops when I see his shiny black charger turn the corner, downshifting before coming to a stop directly in front of me. I don’t move, not right away at least. My hands are balled into fists in the pockets of my leather jacket, and I bite down on my molars, already regretting my decision to call him. Well, to text him, but is there really any difference? I know there isn’t. I take a deep breath, steadying myself to make a deal with the Devil, knowing I don’t have much of a choice. I press my eyes shut for a beat, drawing in a second deep breath before stepping off the curb. I stop a few inches away from the car, and the window lowers.
“I knew you’d call.”
I roll my eyes at the smug grin on his stupid face. His stupidly handsome face, the part of my brain that I actively hate chimes in.
“I didn’t call. I texted,” I say, throwing my own argument from moments ago out the window.
“Semantics.” He casually shrugs, unphased by my attitude as he pops the glovebox and retrieves a silver flask. He extends it toward the open window.
“What do I owe you?” I ask, reaching into the back pocket of my black skinny-jeans.
“I don’t want your money, let’s just say you owe me one.” He flashes a smile that would make most girls swoon, but it churns my stomach. I know what lies below his attractive exterior, the monster lurking in the shadows waiting for its next unsuspecting prey. My mind reels, searching for a way out of my current predicament, wishing there was any other way to get through the night. But there isn’t. I bite the inside of my cheek and narrow my eyes, desperate to end this as quickly as possible.
“Fine. You win. I owe you one,” I say with enough venom to rival a snake. I reach through the window, wrapping my fingers around the metal container. A second later, his fingers brush mine. My eyes snap up instinctively, meeting the gray irises I’ve tried so hard to avoid.
“I’m not the bad guy here,” he says.
For a second, I’m tempted to believe the depth I see in his steely gaze. But then I remember what brought us here. The events that led to our meeting and the tragic moment that changed everything.
“You’ll see that eventually.” He lets go of the flask and sits upright. He looks straight ahead as if he’s already over our exchange. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I take a step back from the car. He raises the window, peeling off down the road, leaving a cloud of smoke behind him.
“Piper!” I turn to see my best friend, Kit striding off the sidewalk toward me. “What the hell are you doing out here? It’s two o’clock in the morning, and it’s freezing.” His gaze travels to my hand, to the one thing I didn’t want him to see. “Who was that just now?” he asks.
“No one,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s go back inside.”
“What is that?” His eyes narrow, and he nods at the flask in my hand.
“Uhm. It’s a flask,” I say, wishing like hell I could come up with a believable explanation for this.
“You came outside to get a flask from some speed racer wannabe when the party we’re at upstairs has more liquor than Hemingway’s favorite bar?” Kit asks. He pries his dark brown eyes away from my hand, huffing out a heavy breath. Every muscle in his jaw tightens, and he rakes his hands through his cropped, dirty blonde hair, his gaze locked on my face. The accusation is explicit.
I know what he’s thinking. I understand why he’s angry right now. I can see exactly how this looks, and the worst part is that I can’t even tell him he’s wrong. I wish I could tell him the truth, prove to him that everything he gave up for me was worth it, but I can’t. I’ve been clean for two years, ever since he dropped everything and dragged me to this stupid hipster filled city, away from my toxic past and everyone we know. We both know he left an entire life back in New York, and I’ve worked my ass off every day to prove to him that what he did was worth it, that saving my life meant something. This moment right here is the only time I’ve given him a reason to doubt me since we got here. The look in his eyes is absolutely killing me, but right now, shedding doubt on my sobriety is my only hope.
“I guess they just didn’t have what I needed.” I shrug, feeding his fear. The way I see it, this can go one of two ways. I can spill my secrets, all of them, losing Kit, putting us both in danger and destroying any semblance of my old life in the process- yeah, so not an option. Or, I can push him away, let him think I relapsed and hope like hell that I can fix this once he cools down.
Unfortunately, Kit isn’t always predictable. Since we were kids, smart, practical, responsible Kit has had a bit of a wild streak that has a tendency to rear its head at the most unexpected times. I still remember the day we met. I was the new girl, quiet and plain, somehow flying under the radar of the bullies at Sacred Hearts Prep, the most prestigious elementary school on the east coast. Kit, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. The first time I set eyes on him and his thick plastic frames, he was surrounded by ‘the big five’ as they called themselves in the courtyard. One of them had a fistful of Kit’s hair while another held something in his palm mere inches from Kit’s face. I watched anxiously from the bench I sat on reading my weathered copy of Alice in Wonderland for the sixth time. Kit reached out, snatched the mystery item from the boy’s hand, and popped it into his mouth. The boys roared with laughter, shoving him away, but it was they who ultimately retreated, leaving a triumphant looking Kit in peace. I found out later on that the mysterious object he had eaten was a moth. The boys had been so shocked not only by his willingness to eat the bug but also by his declaration that insects were full of protein that they labeled him a psychopath and didn’t bother him again. I’m reminded of that moment now.
Kit takes the bait I’m dangling, the pain on his face makes it clear that he believes I’ve slid back into old habits. Only, he doesn’t deliver the dramatic argument ending with an ultimatum that I was banking on. In one unexpected, swift gesture, he snatches the flask out of my hand. He backs away. His jaw is tight as he unscrews the cap, holding my gaze with his angry dark chocolate eyes.
“Don’t.” I shake my head desperately. “It’s not what you think.”