Page 10 of Catastrophically Yours

EIGHT

THE WEIGHT OF NUMBERS

The insistent buzzing of Piper's phone cut through the last lingering notes of their improvisation like a blade. Drew's hand, still resting near hers on the piano keys, felt the immediate tension that seized Piper's entire body when she glanced at the caller ID.

"Mom." The word escaped as barely a whisper, but Drew caught the shift in Piper's tone—from the warm, unguarded woman who'd just created something beautiful with her to the controlled, careful daughter always braced for the next crisis.

"I should take this." Piper's fingers were already sliding away from the keys, leaving Drew's hand suddenly cold against the ivory.

"Of course." Drew watched through the window as Piper stepped onto the Blue Moon's small patio, phone pressed to her ear. Even from here, she could see the rigid set of Piper's shoulders, the way her free hand moved to her temple as if warding off a headache.

Marcus appeared beside the piano bench, wiping down glasses with practiced efficiency. "That piano hasn't sounded that good in months," he said, genuine appreciation warming his voice. "You two make quite a team."

"Yeah." Drew's eyes remained fixed on Piper's silhouette beyond the glass. "We do."

Outside, Piper's conversation continued, punctuated by long pauses that Drew instinctively knew meant bad news. The easy magic of their musical moment felt fragile now, ready to shatter against reality.

When Piper finally returned, her face had resumed its familiar mask of composed efficiency, but Drew had learned to read the subtle tells—the slight tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers drummed against her phone case.

"Everything okay?" Drew asked, though the answer was written in every line of Piper's posture.

"Fine." The response came too quickly, too bright. "Just family stuff. Nothing I can't handle."

Drew nodded, recognizing the deflection for what it was. She'd used similar phrases countless times when Chris had asked about overdue bills or eviction notices. Nothing I can't handle was often code for everything's falling apart, but I don't want to burden you with it.

They gathered their things in companionable silence, the easy intimacy of moments before now wrapped in Piper's renewed guardedness. Drew wanted to ask, to offer whatever help she could, but she also understood the weight of pride. Sometimes the kindest thing was to wait.

The next morning brought autumn's first real bite, sharp enough to fog Drew's breath as she walked Pickle around the block before Piper's run.

The cat had developed an unfortunate attachment to Piper's morning routine, positioning himself by the door and yowling pitifully until Drew agreed to the early walk.

"You're as bad as she is about schedules," Drew muttered, watching Pickle investigate the same fire hydrant he'd examined yesterday and the day before that. "Creatures of habit, both of you."

Back upstairs, Piper was already dressed in her running gear, but she lingered by the kitchen counter longer than usual, staring at her phone with an expression Drew couldn't quite read.

"Have a good run," Drew called softly, but Piper was already deep in whatever digital rabbit hole had captured her attention.

Hours later, when Drew returned from a fruitless job search expedition, she found evidence of Piper's day scattered across the dining table—documents, printouts, and her laptop displaying a complex spreadsheet that hurt Drew's head just looking at it.

Piper herself was nowhere to be seen, but voices drifted from her bedroom, muffled by the closed door.

Drew busied herself in the kitchen, giving Piper privacy while preparing what had become her signature offering when words felt inadequate—coffee and toast with the good jam Piper pretended not to have favorites about but always reached for first.

"No, Mom, listen to me," Piper's voice carried through the door, strained with barely contained frustration. "The insurance company can't just decide an emergency room visit wasn't necessary after the fact. We're going to appeal this."

Drew's hand stilled on the coffee pot. Medical bills. Insurance disputes. The weight in Piper's voice suddenly made perfect sense.

The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, Piper's tone cycling between professional reassurance and barely contained emotion.

When her bedroom door finally opened, Drew was curled on the couch with her guitar, picking out a gentle melody that filled the apartment's silence without demanding attention.

Piper emerged looking wrung out, her usual composure frayed at the edges. She took in the coffee waiting on the kitchen counter, the way Drew's music provided background comfort without intrusion, and something in her expression softened.

"Thank you," she said simply, wrapping her hands around the warm mug like an anchor.

"Bad news?"

"The usual kind." Piper settled into the opposite corner of the couch, close enough that Drew could see the exhaustion she was trying to hide.

"Dad had a fall last month—he's fine, mostly just bruised his pride along with his hip—but the ER visit generated some bills the insurance company is now questioning. "

Drew's fingers found a different chord progression, something that matched the worried furrow between Piper's brows. "How much questioning are we talking about?"

"Eighty-four hundred dollars' worth." The number fell between them like a stone.

Drew's fingers stilled on the strings. She'd grown up with medical debt as a constant background hum, watching her grandmother ration pills and skip appointments because the choice between medication and groceries wasn't really a choice at all.

Eighty-four hundred dollars might as well have been eight million to families already stretched thin.

"That's..." Drew searched for words that wouldn't sound patronizing or hollow. "That's a lot."

"My parents are proud people." Piper's voice carried the weight of generations. "Dad worked two jobs for thirty years to make sure Brian and I could go to college debt-free. Mom took night classes to become a medical technician while raising us. They've never asked for help, not once."

"But they're asking now?"

"No." A bitter laugh escaped Piper's throat. "They called to apologize for the bills existing. Mom was crying because she thought the insurance mess might somehow be their fault."

Drew set her guitar aside and shifted closer, drawn by something raw in Piper's voice. "What are you going to do?"

"What I always do. Fix it." Piper's fingers traced the rim of her coffee mug with mechanical precision. "I've been running scenarios all afternoon. If I drain my emergency fund and set up payment plans for the rest, I can cover it. My parents never have to know the full extent."

The casual way Piper said it— drain my emergency fund —made Drew's chest ache. She recognized the calculation, the way Piper was already mentally rearranging her entire financial life to absorb this blow without letting it touch her family.

"You know," Drew said carefully, "there might be other options."

Piper's smile was tired but genuine. "You're sweet, but I've been doing this math for years. There aren't any magic solutions."

"I'm not talking magic. I'm talking creativity." Drew pulled her legs up under her, warming to the possibility taking shape in her mind. "When's the last time you let someone else be good at something you're not?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're brilliant with numbers and planning and making sure everything adds up perfectly. But what if this problem needs a different kind of solution? What if it needs..." Drew gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. "What if it needs music?"

Piper's expression shifted from confusion to something approaching alarm. "Drew, I appreciate the thought, but a benefit concert isn't going to raise eight thousand dollars. This isn't a movie."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Piper stopped, clearly struggling with where to begin listing the impracticalities. "Because organizing something like that takes months. Because I don't have connections in the music world. Because even if we somehow pulled it together, there's no guarantee?—"

"But what if we could?" Drew interrupted, leaning forward with growing excitement. "What if, instead of you carrying this alone, we figured it out together? You handle the logistics and planning—all that stuff you're scary good at—and I handle the music side?"

"Drew."

"Hear me out. The Blue Moon has that back room they never use. Marcus has been complaining for months about needing more events to draw weekend crowds. And I know every struggling musician in the city—we're all dying for stage time and the chance to play for something meaningful."

Piper was quiet for a long moment, her analytical mind clearly working through the proposal. Drew could almost see her building and discarding scenarios, calculating risks and probabilities.

"Even if we could organize something," Piper said finally, "there are still a dozen ways it could fail. We'd need permits, promotion, enough advance notice for people to plan... And what if nobody shows up? What if we spend weeks working on this and raise fifty dollars?"

"Then we'll have fifty dollars more than we had before." Drew reached across the space between them, covering Piper's restless fingers with her own. "And you'll have proved that you don't have to handle everything by yourself."

Something flickered across Piper's face—vulnerability quickly masked, but not quickly enough.

Drew saw it then—the real fear underneath all the practical concerns.

It wasn't failure that terrified Piper; it was the possibility of letting people down, of being the reason things fell apart instead of the person who held them together.

"You really think we could pull this off?" Piper's voice was smaller than usual, missing its confident edge.

"I think you could organize anything if you set your mind to it. And I think there are more people who care about you than you realize." Drew squeezed her hand gently. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

"We fail spectacularly and I still have to drain my savings account, but now I've also wasted weeks and gotten your hopes up for nothing."

"Or," Drew countered, "we succeed spectacularly and discover that some problems are too big for one person but exactly the right size for two."

Piper was quiet so long that Drew began to worry she'd pushed too hard, asked for too much trust too soon. Then Pickle chose that moment to leap onto the couch between them, purring loudly as he settled across both their laps like a furry bridge.

"Even the cat thinks it's a good idea," Drew said solemnly.

That surprised a laugh out of Piper—the first genuine one Drew had heard from her all day. "Using my own cat against me. That's playing dirty."

"I call it smart strategy," Drew said with a grin. She scratched behind Pickle's ears, earning an even louder purr. "So what do you say? Partners?"

Piper looked down at their hands, still linked across Pickle's contentedly sprawled form, then up at Drew's face. Whatever she saw there seemed to decide her.

"Partners," she agreed, and Drew felt something settle into place between them, deeper than attraction, steadier than chemistry. A foundation they could build on.