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Chapter 14
Fitz
WhenImakeitto the second floor, I look up and down the cold hallway of the apartment building I’m in, trying to look at the door numbers. 2225. Ok. I turn to my left and see 2220, and stride that direction, reading each number as I pass. 2215. 2210. Finally, I’m in front of 2205.
I put the bag in my hand on the ground in front of the door, and try to adjust myself. In my haste to get over here, I’d thrown on the first clean shirt I could find, not even looking in the mirror. Now, I regret that choice - I’m sure I’d made a complete mess of my hair running my hands through it, reading Piper’s text messages.
Scared of her? No. Worried for her? Most definitely. In awe of her? Absolutely.
As soon as she sent that last text, I texted Carla and asked for their address. I knew she lived nearby, given the fact that we both went to the same dog park in a city full of other options, but when I finally coaxed it out of Carla after promising she could personally kick me in the nuts if I did anything to upset Piper, I wasn’t wrong. She lives less than ten minutes away, and truly, I could have just walked here.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, and text Piper.
FITZ WESTFALL
Come open your door.
There’s no response - no indication she’s seen it.
Had I scared her off this time?
My mind has been racing since Thursday night - sleep was minimal, and my brain kept replaying that sound, the horrible crack as the ball slammed into her head. Frannie tried to talk to me about it this morning, when I was clearly distracted in our leadership meeting, but I’d just locked myself in my office, sure most people would just write it off as my normal, brooding personality. But she could tell.
Piper hadn’t scared me off reacting poorly to being in the hospital, though I wasn’t entirely sure what she was reacting to specifically. She had reminded me what the years of trauma she’d been through could do to people, and the role I’d played in hers. I wanted to give her space to figure out if I was worth her time, knowing that some of that pain had returned in full force with me right there to witness it.
So when she texted me - a joke, at that - I couldn’t help but feel relieved. And then frustration gave into impulse, which is how I find myself in my current position. Outside her door, with a bag of food, waiting for her.
When she doesn’t text back, after a few minutes, I ring the doorbell, and immediately regret it. The sound of the electronic chime echoes through the space behind the door, and I hear her dog barking and someone cursing at top volume in a different language, footsteps thudding. The door flies open.
“There’s a sign, you-"
Piper freezes, her hand pointed to small white writing on their black door. I run my eyes over her. Her normally immaculate curly hair is pulled into a thick, rumpled pile on the top of her head, curls framing her pink cheeks. She’s wearing a pair of tight black leggings and a long sleeve sweatshirt with what looks like some sort of Tarot card on it.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in something even mildly unkempt that I can remember, and I feel something stir inside of me.
“Fitz?” Her eyes scan me, my face, my messy clothes, and her eyebrows knit together. “What are you doing here?” She pauses. “How do you know where I live?”
“I have my sources,” I say flatly, and don’t wait for her to invite me in as I pick up the bag and push past her, into the small apartment.
An open living room and kitchen is decorated with stacked bookshelves and hanging plants, a large, hand-woven white tapestry over the back of their blue tweed couch. Nothing matches, there are clothes and plates and cans of soda everywhere, and a part of me internally cringes. Compared to my home, which is all metallics and clean lines, this feels lived in. Maybe that wasn't a cringe at this, I think. Maybe it was a cringe at my clinical living situation.
“Hey!” she protests, though her voice has some humor in it as she closes the door and follows me to where I clear off a corner of the counter from unopened mail and set the bag down. “You can’t just barge in here, what if I’d been indecent or something?” I don’t turn to face her as she talks, but smirk to myself. If only. Bex, her tiny dog, scampers around my feet, sniffing at me to figure out, I'm sure, where Roscoe is.
“Carla told me you hadn’t eaten yet,” I say, ignoring her protests and unpacking the contents of the paper bag. Two containers of the meal José was prepping at Cosette for a tasting today, which he’d sent back with Frannie for me. “I hope you like pasta.” Instantly, I realize it’s a dumb statement. There’s a pause.
“I’m Italian,” Piper says in a dry voice, but I can hear the smile. “Of course I like pasta.”
“Good.” I keep working, popping the lid open on one of the containers and moving to the microwave above their small stove. When I get it started, I turn, leaning against the oven door handle, crossing my arms. She’s got one hand on the counter near where I was standing, the other on her hip, and she has her eyes narrowed at me. Her rings clink on the marble as she nervously taps her fingers.
“Remind me to kick Carla’s ass later,” she says, and I nod.
“Noted. Now go back to bed.” Her eyes widen, and then her brows rise.
“Fitz, I-"
“You should be in bed, resting. I brought dinner, and popcorn, and…” She tilts her head, and I reach forward, pulling a container of microwave popcorn out of the bag. She makes a face and I try not to be offended. Bex sits statue-still at my feet, laser focused on the crinkling plastic. “What, don’t like popcorn?”
“No, I do,” she says, shaking her head, her hands reaching up to adjust her hair, her shirt riding up to show a thin strip of skin above the hem of her tight pants. I note that the bellybutton piercing from high school is gone. “Microwave popcorn just tastes like shit compared to what you get from the theater.” She seems to consider her words for a moment, and then looks apologetic as I slide the container back in my bag. “Sorry.” Looking frustrated, she lets her hair out of the bun, a silky hair tie still in her hand, and shakes it out, leaning to one side to massage her scalp.
