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I’m not sure if Piper knows who I am and what I’m worth, or if she is just looking for a good time, but I don’t care either way. She’ll be a delightful way to get my mind off Winnifred. I haven’t been with a woman since Bumpkin, and this could be one of the reasons why I keep thinking about her so much.
Yes. That’s just it. I’m so used to being consumed by the woman I sleep with, and Winnifred is nothing but an extension of my fascination with Grace. Piper is just what the doctor ordered. She’ll be manageable, as my dad and Miranda liked to say.
“We could. Though I should be clear—I’m not looking for a serious relationship. My fiancée passed away a year ago, and I’m not ready to commit to anything beyond tonight.”
I slow the car, giving her a chance to tell me she changed her mind and to take her home. I’m indifferent either way. But Piper squares her shoulders, nods, and says, “One night’s fine by me. I’m on the rebound, anyway. This Chip guy . . . he didn’t tell me he was married.” She sighs and then adds, “Oh, and I’m really sorry about your loss.”
We get to my apartment, and Piper, after gasping out loud at the sight of my living room, asks me where the bathroom is. I point her in the direction.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Wine?” A taxi back home?
Wait, where did that come from?
She shakes her head and smiles. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Ah, yes. Because there’s nothing I want more than to get out of here and leave a complete stranger in my apartment.
While I wait, I walk over to the dining table, where I disposed of all my mail earlier. The stack of ultrasound pictures and the USB Winnifred sent me all those months ago are still there. I plug the USB into my laptop and sit down. Double-click on one of the videos of my mother and me and rub my temples.
God dammit.
The loss that slams into me is a two-fold one.
First, I feel the pain of not knowing my mother. Not spending time with her. Of living the last three decades thinking she was nothing but a self-centered narcissist when, in fact, she adored and loved me more than Douglas ever did.
And then there is Winnifred. Who thought it was important for me to see these clips. Who made sure I’d have these memories.
I go through the videos, one after the other.
It is possible Christian is right. That I am, in fact, in love with Winnifred.
That what I have for her isn’t obsession. Which is exactly why I keep my distance. I am poison, and she deserves better.
Shit. I’m in love, aren’t I? How pitiful. And with Bumpkin, no less.
Piper comes out of the bathroom, yanking her minidress down her thighs with a giggle.
“Ready when you are,” she announces.
I look up from my laptop, close the screen, and sigh. “Sorry, Piper, but I think I’ll take you home. I can’t give you what you’re asking for tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WINNIE
Romeo and Juliet is a smashing success.
Ma, Dad, Lizzy, Georgie, Rhys, and my friends all arrive to show their support. My students nail it, every single part of the play, and hope gathers in the bottom of my belly.
Sure, it’s not what I grew up dreaming I’d do. The scent of the worn stage floor, the bright lights in my eyes, the waiting glances—these are the things I live for, but directing is close enough to acting. And it’s fun working with kids. I don’t regret taking the job offer from my old high school to run the theater club.
Not when Whitney, who plays Juliet, gives her final monologue on stage, and I repeat the words, transfixed, my lips shaping out her words soundlessly.
Not when Jarrett, who plays Romeo, drinks the poison, and tears almost run down my cheeks.
Not when the audience gives the kids a standing ovation.
When the curtains fall.
When I think about a certain man who lives states away from here, and the fact that he is obsessed with Mars almost as much as I’m obsessed with Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” and isn’t that a coincidence?
No. I don’t regret taking the job at all. Because even if there is life on Mars . . . there’s not one for me in New York.
Two weeks after Romeo and Juliet, I cave in to Rhys’s requests, and we go out. This time, it’s a date-date. Rhys knocks on my door, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. I peek at him from my bedroom as Georgie leans one hip against the front door, slurping iced tea.
“My dad’s out for today, so consider me the designated worried parent. What are your intentions with our Winnie, Rhys Hartnett?”
