The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle
Thirteen
I wake up with a start.
Something rattled me awake, put my hair on end, even before I figure out where I am. What is it? What’s happening?
It’s dark, almost black save for the power light on the TV. I’m on the couch, tangled in the fleece blanket, and there’s something going on.
There it is. A choked cry.
But it’s not my mother.
I get to my feet, stumbling across the dark living room, running my shin right into the cedar coffee table. I wince, seeing stars for a moment (that’s gonna leave a bruise!), and then I open the door to my bedroom, rushing inside.
My eyes have adjusted. Harrison is on his back on top of the covers, his head moving back and forth, mouth open. Another doomed cry comes from his lips as his face contracts in anguish.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Hey, hey, you’re okay.”
I put my hands on his shoulder, barely touching him, not wanting to scare him. When he doesn’t seem to wake, I shake him a little harder.
“Harrison. Harrison Cole. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
His head stops moving, and his eyes slowly open, his breath labored. He blinks into nothing for a moment and then looks at me, visibly shaken.
“What . . . Where, where am I?” he gasps.
I keep pressure on his shoulder, hoping it’s more soothing than restrictive. Not that I could restrain him. I can feel the power and muscle beneath my hand.
“You’re okay, it’s me, Piper. You’re in my bed. You were having a nightmare.”
In the dim light I see his shining eyes finally focus on me. He takes in a deep gulp of air, his body relaxing slightly under my touch.
“Piper,” he manages to say, licking his lips. If the situation weren’t so worrisome and dire, I’d be more distracted than I already am by the fact that he’s licking those lips and he’s lying in my bed.
“It’s me,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You fell asleep on my bed.”
He blinks a few times at me and then seems to remember what happened.
“Fuck,” he swears, his voice still thick with sleep. “That was unreal.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding, his eyes still looking a little wild. He swallows. “Yeah. It’s always the same.”
He seems in such a wild, fragile state that I don’t want to press him too much.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head and sits up. His eyes pinch together, wincing. “No.”
“Here,” I tell him, fetching the water and pills from the bedside.
He shakes his head again, brushes the glass and pills away. “I’m okay. I need to go back. They’re probably worried.”
“It’s the middle of the night. They’re probably asleep. Just stay and sleep for a bit. You can go back in the morning.”
But he’s already getting out of bed. He’s unsteady on his feet, and I leap up to press my hand against his chest in case he topples over again.
Here we are. In the dark. In my bedroom.
I’m pressed right up against him. His chest feels as hard as a rock beneath my fingers. He’s staring down at me, his breath raspy. I keep my focus on his chest because I’m afraid to meet his eyes.
“I need to go back,” he says, his voice low and rough, and at such close proximity it sends shivers down my spine. “But thank you.”
I dare to look up at him. In the dim light his eyes are fixed on mine, the line between his brows deepening.
Our faces are so close. If I stood on my toes, I could kiss him.
I won’t.
But for the first time, I’m consumed by how much I want to.
It was easier to ignore before. It’s impossible to ignore now.
Is it the same for him?
Does he feel this? The tension that crackles like a live wire, the pull that I feel toward him like a planet orbiting the sun.
“Thank you for what?” I whisper.
He swallows.
“Taking care of me.” His eyes search mine, glittering in intensity, seeming to wrestle with something. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had that,” he murmurs.
Then he reaches out and brushes a strand of my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. Keeps his palm pressed against my cheek.
His face dips down an inch, and I suck in a sharp breath as his gaze drops to my open mouth.
Oh my god.
I’m frozen in place, frozen in time, knowing that Harrison is about to kiss me and . . .
He pulls back. Clears his throat. “I better get going.”
Then he walks around me, leaving me feeling cold.
He sits on the end of the bed and slips his boots on and I want to say something, anything, but I can’t. My skin feels alive where he touched me, my heart aching for that kiss that never came. I’m confused and tired, and damn it, I’m yearning.
“I’ll see you later,” he says to me once his boots are on, not bothering to lace them up. Then he’s walking to the front door, and then he’s gone.
I stand there for a few moments and then slowly lower myself on the bed.
I don’t think I’m going to fall back asleep anytime soon.
Despite what Harrison said about seeing me later, I didn’t see him at all yesterday, nor today. It’s back to quiet in the house, which gives me time to start working on my lesson plans for the first week of school this fall (just because teachers get summers off doesn’t mean they don’t have work to do).
It also gives me a lot of time to think about what happened on Friday night. It made me realize that I can’t let the fear of what other people think of me rule my life. I’ve never been that social, mainly because it’s been ingrained in me to stay home and look after my mother, but I wonder how much of that is really needed and how much of that is misplaced guilt.
I decide to spring the question on my mom on Sunday night, when we’re sitting around on the deck, waiting for the sun to set, a sweet breeze coming off the water beyond the trees. She’s wrapped up in a crossword puzzle. I’m trying to read a book, but I’ve basically been repeating the same sentence over and over again.
Finally I put the book down.
“Mom?” I ask.
“Mmm,” she says absently as her pencil hovers above the squares.
“You know how I went out the other night.”
“Mmhmmm.”
“Were you okay with that?”
She puts down her pencil and peers at me. “What do you mean?”
“Did it bother you that I went out?”
“No. Of course not.” She tilts her head, considering. “Okay. I have to say I was a little concerned that you went with Mr. Cole.”
“Why?”
“Because I know your type.”
“I’m not dating him.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking her head at me. “I see the way you look at him. I’ve seen that look many times before, Piper.”
I cross my arms, feeling defensive. How am I looking at him? I can’t control what my face does. “I’m not . . . We’re not . . . We’re just friends.”
“You want to be more than friends.”
“Well, so what?” I say in a huff, throwing my arms out. “So what if I want to be more than friends? It hurts only me. I know we can’t be together for a million reasons, so obviously whatever feelings I have will remain buried, locked inside me forever.”
“No need to be so dramatic,” she says, as if she’s not usually the queen of self-created drama. “I’m just pointing something out to you. You say your therapist does the same thing. You haven’t gone to her in a while, so maybe someone has to step up.”
She’s right. I talk a big game about therapy, but I haven’t been in at least six months. I guess I kind of felt like I was done, but I’m starting to think that therapy doesn’t have an expiration date. You’re never cured. There is no cure. There’s just a way to cope. Only you know when you’re ready to move on, but you also have to know when you should go back.
Maybe I should go back. Maybe everything I’m dealing with hasn’t resolved itself.
I gnaw on my lip for a moment, pulling the plaid blanket I have wrapped around me tighter. “Maybe you’d like to go with me?” I ask quietly, bracing for the impact.
“To therapy?” my mother questions. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. She’s pushed back against this so many times before that I know it’s pretty much futile to even ask, but I figure I might as well try.
“Yeah. I think it would be good for both of us to go together, don’t you?”
Now she’s blinking rapidly. Tears are forming at the corners of her eyes.
Shit.
“Why . . . I thought I was doing well,” she says. “I’ve been doing well, haven’t I? I’ve been good.”
I reach out and put my hand on top of hers. “You’ve been so great.”
“Then why would you say that? Why would you say that to me?”
I’ve made a mistake. I wanted to talk to my mother about how perhaps I’m not as needed at home as I think I am, that maybe I ought to stop using her as a crutch, as an excuse to withdraw from society. But now I’ve mentioned therapy and she’s upset and on the defensive, just as she always is.
“Forget it,” I tell her.
A tear spills down her cheek. She will not forget it. She will dwell on this for days.
“I’ve been trying so hard, Piper. I really have. With them moving next door, I feel like I have to be on my best behavior, and I’ve been so afraid of screwing up. I don’t want them to judge me. I want them to like me.”
This breaks my heart. I squeeze her hand tighter until she pulls it away.
“Mom, please. You’re doing fine. I promise they aren’t judging you and that they like you and you’re handling this change so well. I just thought that maybe if it’s time for me to go back, you’d come with me. Not so much for yourself but for me. I . . . it would be nice to have the support.”
But she doesn’t believe me and won’t hear me, that much I know. Once she has something in her head, all the convincing in the world won’t change her mind.
She gets up, crying now, and heads inside.
I sit there, my heart sinking. I fucked up this time, I really did. This is how it’s always gone when I mention therapy. She’s so resistant to it that it’s like a reflex. The same goes for medication. She should go to the doctor a lot more than she does, and I have to be the one on top of her refills. She’ll happily run out of pills and won’t tell me for weeks. Sometimes I wonder if she’s so afraid of society judging her for her mental illness that the stigma contributes to her denial. Or I think that maybe my dad had something to do with it. I was young, but I remember many arguments between my parents, my dad often saying that my mother could change if she wanted to, and that there was no such thing as borderline personality disorder. Hell, he’s the type to believe that depression is just a case of the blues as well. I wonder how much he contributed to the way my mother is now, you know, aside from the fact that he left her high and dry for the very reasons he told her didn’t exist.
Liza, who has been lying on the deck, gets up and walks over to me, looking up at me with questioning eyes. She’s so sensitive to both our moods, which is one of the reasons why she’s such a great girl to have around. Even though she’s not an official emotional support animal, she acts like one anyway. Maybe her upbringing, being found as a stray, most likely escaped from an abusive home, makes her know just what it is that people in pain, emotional or physical, need.
“Hey, girl,” I say to her, feeling choked up myself. I stroke the top of her head. “Go check on your grandma. She needs you.”
Liza stares at me for a moment, but she knows what grandma means. She trots off into the house, presumably to go be by her side.
As for me, I know the damage I’ve done and that going after my mother and trying to explain and apologize isn’t going to get me very far. It will only make things worse. The only thing I can do now is give her space and hope that she’ll come around soon.
Tomorrow is Monday. It’s a great day to call my therapist and make an appointment for myself.
My therapist is getting more than she bargained for.
I slept in a little this morning, feeling tired and melancholy, and eventually ended up making an appointment for next week (my therapist is in Victoria). My mother stayed in her room with the door closed, and I only opened it when I heard Liza scratching at the door to be let out.
On our second walk of the day, I decide to check the mail. Our mailbox is farther up the road, but luckily the cul-de-sac is empty save for that SUV. I don’t want to stare too hard, but either James never sleeps or he’s not in the SUV at all and it’s just for show. Either way, it’s been keeping the media away.
I grab the mail, which is just an envelope and the local newspaper, the ShoreLine, and then take it back to the house.
Where I unfold the newspaper on the kitchen table.
And stare at the front page.
It’s a picture of Eddie and Monica, with Harrison in the background, taken in England at some time.
The headline?
“Royal Bodyguard Involved in Altercation at Local Pub.”
Followed by the first line: If the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax are expected to be our new residents, how long can the peace last?
The article itself is a very long, waxing piece of mumbo jumbo. I’ve already read it two times, and I’m currently sitting on the couch and trying to read it again, because it doesn’t make a lot of sense.
I’m not named in the article for some reason or another, but I have been given the title of “local schoolteacher who is neighbors with the royals.” It starts off by saying there was an altercation at the pub over the service (a damn lie and they know it) and that Harrison Cole reacted in an aggressive manner toward the owner. The article goes on to talk about Joey himself and his family and their island legacy, before going into the negative impact the royals will have on the island. It says that the island so far has been peaceful, but when the royals become news, the media will come out in droves again.
That part is most likely true. However, the article then veers into fearmongering, talking about how the royals might be bad for the island long-term; how the island doesn’t need negative publicity, since the royals’ appearance in Canada alone has brought out resentment from taxpayers; that we’re far too small and humble for the likes of celebrities like them, etc.
Basically it’s just one long, big bashing, using Harrison’s incident as an excuse for it.
I don’t recognize the name of the person who wrote it, but that doesn’t matter much anyway. They think a certain way, and I’m sure Barbara Mischky and others are apt to share the same complaints. I think it’s ridiculous that this hateful drivel was actually allowed to be printed, and on the front page, but sometimes I suspect the people at the newspaper might not be as unbiased as they claim.
I’m still stewing over this when, surprise, there’s a knock at my door.
This time I have no idea what to expect. Is it Monica, here to get mad at me for what happened at the pub (after all, the outing was my idea)? Is it Harrison . . . here to get mad at me for what happened at the pub? I mean, the possibilities are endless.
I open the door.
A tall and lean man in a suit, with a strong jaw, black hair, and dark eyes, is standing on my steps.
PPO James.
“Good afternoon,” he says in a Scottish brogue. “I hope I’m not bothering you. The duchess is wondering if you’d join her tonight on the dock.”
“Am I being forced to walk the plank?” I ask.
James smiles. He has a nice smile. Proof that not all bodyguards need to be as moody and broody as Harrison. “Not at all. She said she was due for a girls’ night and was hoping you would join her. I believe she’ll have drinks and food set up. You don’t have to bring anything.”
“Why did she send you here?” Why didn’t she send Harrison? “She could have just texted.”
“She would have come here herself, but she’s gone off island with Eddie. To the doctor.”
“Oh my god, is something wrong?”
Another quick smile. “Not at all. It’s routine.”
Ah, for the baby. Of course.
“Okay. Sure, I would love to have a girls’ night. Do you know what time?”
“I’ll be back at seven p.m. to get you,” James says. Then he touches his forefinger against his forehead in a sort of salute and walks off down the driveway, the fallen leaves of the arbutus tree crunching beneath his boots.
Interesting. He said that he’ll be back to get me tonight. Not Harrison. I figured the reason Harrison wasn’t here delivering the invitation was because he was off island with Eddie and Monica. But if that’s the case, then wouldn’t he come get me later, not James?
Unless Harrison is embarrassed to be around you. The way he acted, how drunk and vulnerable he was, the nightmare. He’s probably seen the newspaper. Maybe he realizes he needs to take a step back. Maybe whatever you had between you, that beginning of a friendship, maybe that’s officially over.
I usually tell the negative side of my brain to shut up, but I don’t have a good counter to it this time. I think I’m right.
At ten to seven, I’m wearing skinny jeans, a white tank, and a long cardigan, since evenings can get cool, and waiting for James. My mother is in her room still, only coming out briefly to get some water and snacks before going back. She’s avoiding me, and as much as it hurts, I know I just have to let her have her space.
At seven on the dot, there’s a knock at the door.
James is outside and nods when he sees me. Seems all the bodyguards are equally as punctual.
I walk with him to their house, glancing at him curiously. In some ways he seems the same as Harrison: big, broad-shouldered, a body that looks like it has no problems being lethal if it has to be. And even though James is quick to smile around me, there’s a sadness in his eyes. He looks like an old soul.
“Where were you working before you came here?” I ask him.
“I wasn’t,” he says, giving me a soft smile. “I was on sabbatical.”
“Oh. Well then, is it good to be back to work?”
He nods. “Yes. Especially here. It’s a lot easier to do the job when you’re on an island in the middle of nowhere.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s the middle of nowhere.”
“Compared to England, yes. But that’s not an insult. I love the peace and quiet here. Gives me time to think about my next moves.”
“Are you going to stay with them the whole time they’re here?”
“Probably. But I’m not sure where I’ll go after that.”
“Why were you on a sabbatical?”
Another quick smile; this one doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a long story. But we all need a break sometimes, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t agree more. Being a teacher is perfect for that, even though I still have a lot of work to do during the summer to prepare for the upcoming school year.
I decide not to pry any further, and we go around the side of the house, down a set of stairs that leads to the back hillside, and follow the sloping path down to the dock where the yacht is tied up.
At the end of the dock are a couple of Adirondack chairs with throws over the back and a log-stump table in between them. It looks like a gorgeous spot to just sit and relax and watch the world go by.
Except now I’m noticing that there are quite a few boats out there. Little speedboats and Zodiacs that are just sitting on the waves, not going anywhere. Odd. There’s a lot of traffic at Scott Point, with the ferries heading out of Long Harbour or out of Active Pass, sailboats, fishing boats, and whale watching tours heading in all directions between Salt Spring, Galiano, and Pender Islands. The difference here is, these boats aren’t moving.
I’m just about to say something to James about it when a speedboat comes roaring out from around the corner, the same speedboat I saw when they all first moved in. The boat cuts right in front of the dock, between us and the waiting boats, and it’s only then that I realize that it’s Harrison behind the wheel.
If he’s noticed me at all, he doesn’t show it. He handles the boat with grace as it zips past and does a quick turn, getting closer to the waiting boats this time.
“What’s going on?” I ask James as we stand outside the yacht, the dock now moving underneath us as the waves from the speedboat crash against it.
“The press,” James says with a sigh. “They’ve been awakened with that newspaper article.” He glances at me. “I assume you’ve seen it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Well, news travels fast, especially online. I have a feeling that these are our dear British tabloids that have finally shown up, late to the game and doubly frustrated that they can’t get close to the house.”
Monica pokes her head up from inside the powerboat, looking tiny against its massive size. “Piper,” she says. “Come aboard.”
She’s smiling as always and seems cheery, so that relaxes me somewhat. Doesn’t stop me from feeling like all of this is my fault, however.
I get on board, while James walks to the end of the dock and sits down on one of the chairs. Harrison is still going around in the speedboat, though he’s slowed down now and the wake isn’t so bad.
Monica waves me inside the boat, and I follow. The interior is slick but a little cold and austere, with zero personal touches. “Nice boat,” I tell her.
“I’m not a fan,” she says, and then laughs when she sees my expression. “It’s okay, it’s not our boat. We chartered it for the time we’re here. It was the only one this big that was available for such a long time. Here, have a seat. Want some wine? I’ve at least got that. And please, don’t decline because I’m pregnant. I need to live vicariously through someone. I am missing wine like I’m missing a limb.”
“Well, in that case, yes, please,” I tell her, sitting down on one of the plush chairs by an oak table. “You know, I’ve heard doctors say that it’s okay for pregnant women to have a glass of wine every now and then.”
She pulls a bottle from the fridge and laughs. “That applies to most women, but I don’t fall in the ‘most women’ category. Word would get out somehow, and then my unhealthy habits would be splashed across every tabloid across the planet. When my child grows up, if there’s anything less than perfect about them, then you can guarantee a million fingers will be pointing my way, and at that one glass of wine.”
“You’re right,” I tell her as she plucks a wineglass from the shelf and brings the bottle over, filling the glass with a generous amount of pinot blanc. “I never thought of that.”
“Unfortunately when you’re me, you have to think of everything,” she says with a tired sigh as she sits across from me. She leans forward, her elbows on the table, and steeples her fingers under her chin, looking at me thoughtfully. “You’d think I would be used to it by now, but sometimes, whoooo boy . . . it’s like the rug is pulled right out from under me. Today is a good example of that. I had originally thought we could have a little girls’ night here on the dock, but once those boats started showing up . . .”
I cringe. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“It comes with the territory,” she says with a shrug, sitting back in her chair and resting her hands on her bump, which is looking more pronounced than ever.
“But it’s my fault.”
She frowns at me. “Come on. It’s not your fault. How is it your fault?”
“I’m the one who invited Harrison.”
“And I’m the one who made him go,” she says. “Besides, I’m not concerned about what happened. I heard Harrison’s side of the story, and I’m sure yours is the same . . . He said he was defending you.”
I nod. “He was.”
“From your ex too. I tell you, if I were there, it would have been ugly. I have a temper that comes out at the worst times. Or perhaps just the right times. But it’s all bad news when everyone is watching your every move.” She pauses and gives me a small smile. “I’m glad you had Harrison with you. Don’t think otherwise.”
I take a sip of my wine. It smells of green apple and honey, and it’s so crisp and divine, I immediately relax. “I wouldn’t have gone without him. I don’t think I’ve been to the local bar since . . . well, a long time.”
“Not your scene?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I mean . . . sometimes I feel like I’m missing out. In fact, just being there made me feel a little more connected to where I live. I don’t necessarily like some aspects of the community, but I like feeling as if I’m part of something, and I guess, I don’t know, hiding here in the trees makes me realize that I’m hiding from a lot of things.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Life?”
“You’re a schoolteacher. That makes you a part of the community. You’re responsible for the well-being and teaching of the community’s children.”
“I know. But it feels disconnected. It’s so much easier to bond with my students. Easier than making friends among the teachers. I’ve lived here for so many years, but I made the big mistake of getting involved with Joey, with my ex, right off the bat. Everything was about him, and whatever friendships I had were shallow as a result. By the time they could develop into anything really meaningful, we broke up and I was left at the wayside, an outcast. People made their decisions about me without even knowing me, and I knew I had too many hardships in my life that they wouldn’t be too understanding of. I wanted to protect myself, protect my mother.”
“You know, you’re describing my own life,” Monica says. “Back when I was doing music, the press was different. I was just a Black singer to the media. No one cared enough to dig deep about my own family. Yes, my parents are very lovely people and they’re still together in Seattle. But my father cheated on my mother when she was young, and I have a half brother that a lot of people didn’t know about; my mom, like yours, has struggled with mental illness. It’s a story like so many, but people only cared about my singing and my body and my dancing. Shallow stuff. Then I met Eddie and . . . it all changed. Suddenly everything was on the table. Every bad thing I ever did, every ex I dated, everything I said when I was drunk. The tabloids found it and exploited it and did what they could to mount a campaign against me. We couldn’t hide our relationship for long; I was thrown right into that fire. Believe me, I know what it’s like to have shallow friendships, to feel like you don’t belong, to feel that you’ll never be accepted as you are. I know it because I’m living it too.”
Okay, now I feel a little silly, because as bad as I think I have it, it’s nothing compared to what Monica has had to go through.
“Then how do you do it?” I ask. “How do you get out there? If I were you, I’d be hiding all the time.”
“What do you think I’m doing now?” she says through a dry laugh. “I’m hiding. We’re literally inside a boat because I wanted some time away from the house, the other place I’m hiding in, because the media is just outside there with their telephoto lenses. We came here to hide because I didn’t want to do it anymore. I know that this is the life I chose, that I chose Eddie and everything that came with him, and I have no regrets. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it or that I have to put up with it allthe time. It doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t race and I don’t lose my breath every time I step out in public. I know I’m strong, but it’s impossible to be strong all the time, and as much as they said we were running away by coming to Canada, they were right!”
“And yet they’re still here.”
“I know all of this seems bad to you. I know that seeing those boats out there, or being accosted by the media outside your house, or being written about in your local paper, is aggravating and depressing. It is bad, and you don’t deserve any of it. You’re just an ordinary citizen. But believe me when I tell you, it can get worse. And no matter what happens here, it won’t ever be as bad as it was for me back in the UK.”
“Do you think you’ll end up moving here forever?” I ask.
She rubs her lips together in thought, folding her slender hands in her lap. “I don’t know. I just know that I want this time to be barefoot and pregnant. Time to be alone with Eddie. Time to figure stuff out. I’m sure I’ll be back in London for the birth—the Queen would disown Eddie if our child wasn’t born on British soil.”
“What’s she like?” I can’t help myself.
“The Queen? She’s . . . she’s okay. I admire her a lot, you know. She had to go through so much growing up and at such an early age. She’s always been kind to me, though there’s a lot of distance between her and her family. It’s nothing personal. Just the way you have to be when you’re a monarch.”
“If Prince Daniel doesn’t have any children, does that mean Eddie will have to take up the throne? Is that something he even wants?”
“Eddie would be amazing at it,” she says quietly. “And I would support him one hundred percent. That’s the deal I made when I fell in love. You can’t choose who you fall in love with, but you can choose to be with them, and that was my choice.”
I mull that over as I have another sip of my wine, and she studies me carefully.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says.
“Of course.”
“Why are you still single? What happened with your ex wasn’t recent.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “Guys just don’t know what a catch I am.”
“Oh, I’m not suggesting there’s something wrong with that,” she says quickly. “I was just curious. Please, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m not offended. It’s true. It’s hard to get to know people if you’re hiding away most of the time. It’s not like I’m hitting on any single dads who come for parent-teacher interviews.” Though there was this one dad last year who was pretty damn cute. I didn’t do anything about it because of my own parent-teacher codes, and now I’m not even sure if he lives here anymore.
“Besides,” I add, “I have the worst taste in men. I figure it’s just easier to be by myself.”
“You know,” she says slowly, “there are photos of you on the internet.”
My chin jerks back. “What?!”
She nods. “Nothing bad. From Friday. I guess someone at that bar knew who the both of you were.”
“Oh,” I say slowly, wondering where she’s going with this.
“You looked really happy,” she says. “And so did Harrison.”
“Well, Harrison was drunk,” I tell her.
She smiles. “I know. I think that’s good for him too, to let off some steam. But there’s a photo of the two of you, you’d swear you were on a date and enjoying it.”
Uh-oh. My pulse starts to quicken. Is this the reason for the girls’ night?
“It wasn’t a date,” I say as casually as possible.
“I know it wasn’t. So does he.”
“And I know it wasn’t,” I fill in. “You know I just wanted protection, a buffer.”
“You wanted to upstage your ex in a way, I get it. And I’m glad you did it.”
And yet I can tell she wants to say more. I want to say more too. To deny, to tell her again that there’s nothing going on, because there truly isn’t.
“Look,” she says, pressing her fingers against the table. “I’m not going to tell you what to do or what not to do. You’re a grown woman, and Harrison is a grown man—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I tell her, holding my hand out in front of me, my palm out. “You’re so mistaken here. There’s nothing going on between us.”
“He didn’t come home until very late.”
“Well, did you ask him what happened? He didn’t want to go home, so I took him to my bed. I slept on the couch. That’s what happened.”
“He’s skirted the question . . . as he often does when it’s anything personal.”
“Nothing happened between us.” I’m practically pleading.
She nods. “Good. I was worried for a moment there.”
Wait. Wait, why was she worried?
“Why would you be worried?”
She gives me a wry smile. “Because I like you, Piper. And Harrison is like a brother to me. And knowing him, and knowing you, it would be a disaster if you were to get together.”
A disaster? I mean, I never thought it would be a good idea, but disaster is a pretty strong word.
“It would be bad for him and bad for you,” she goes on. “And perhaps bad for Eddie and me too. I just . . . look, it’s not really any of my business, but I just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.”
“Of course,” I tell her. The same page being it would be a disaster. Well, if I wasn’t on it before, I am now. No one likes to be told that.
So much for my motherfucking feelings. And to think I thought he was going to kiss me. Thank god he didn’t.
“Want another glass of wine?” Monica asks as she gets up, and it’s then that I notice I’ve finished mine. “The TV in here gets Netflix. We could watch something. Have you seen that new rom com with Keanu Reeves? You can never go wrong with Keanu, am I right?”
I nod yes to the wine and yes to Keanu Reeves. The girls’ night is continuing.
But inside I’m focusing on that very big and final no to Harrison and me.
