Page 13 of Catastrophically Yours

ELEVEN

THE WEIGHT OF DREAMS

The champagne bottle felt heavier with each step up the stairs, though Piper knew the weight came from anticipation rather than the bottle itself.

Thai Palace's familiar takeout bags rustled against her arm as she fumbled for her keys, mentally rehearsing the words she'd practiced during the entire walk home.

We figured it out. We can make this work long-term. I want you to stay.

Her conversation with the property manager had gone better than expected—a lease modification to add Drew as an official tenant, pet deposit for Pickle, everything above board and permanent.

Worth every penny to see Drew's face light up when she realized she didn't have to choose between the recording contract and having a home.

"Drew?" The key turned easily in the lock. "I have news about our?—"

The words died in her throat.

Drew sat motionless on the couch, shoulders rigid as a marble statue.

Legal documents fanned across the coffee table in precise rows, their official letterheads catching the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.

The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, too still. Pickle was nowhere to be seen.

The champagne bottle slipped slightly in Piper's suddenly sweaty grip.

"Drew?" Her voice came out smaller this time. "What's wrong?"

Drew's head turned with mechanical precision, revealing a face drained of color. Her hands rested flat against her thighs, fingers spread wide as if she were trying to keep herself grounded. When she spoke, her voice carried the careful neutrality of someone delivering tragic news.

"Chris stopped by."

Two words. Two simple words that somehow managed to tilt Piper's entire world sideways.

Piper's feet carried her forward without conscious thought, setting the champagne and food on the kitchen counter with deliberate care.

Each movement felt underwater—slow, distant, unreal.

She forced her breathing to remain steady as she returned to the living room, cataloging details with the same methodical precision she used for financial audits.

Legal contract. Multiple pages. Watermarked paper stock. Official signatures.

"What kind of contract?" The question emerged in her professional voice—calm, analytical, betraying none of the ice crystallizing in her chest.

Drew's fingers traced the edge of the top document without lifting it. "Three-album deal with Mercury Nashville. Fifty-thousand-dollar advance." Each word dropped like a stone into still water. "They want me in the studio next month."

Next month. Piper's mind immediately began calculating timelines, logistics, practicalities—anything to avoid processing the emotional implications. "That's... that's quite an opportunity." The words tasted like ash. "What are the terms? Length of commitment? Creative control?"

"Two years minimum in Nashville for recording and promotion. They retain rights to approve songs and collaborations." Drew recited the details in that same flat tone. "Standard industry contract for new artists."

Two years in Nashville. The champagne bottle seemed to mock her from the kitchen counter. All that careful negotiation with the property manager, all those promises about long-term tenancy and responsible pet ownership—suddenly as relevant as yesterday's weather forecast.

"And the advance? Is it recoupable against future earnings?" Piper heard herself asking, falling back on technical questions because they felt safer than examining why her chest felt like it was caving in.

"Yes. But it's enough to..." Drew's voice caught slightly before smoothing back into that careful monotone. "It's enough to solve everything. Housing, financial security, career stability. Everything I've been struggling with since college."

The silence stretched between them like a chasm. Piper found herself studying Drew's profile—the determined set of her jaw, the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her breathing had become shallow and controlled. Everything about her posture screamed of a decision already made but not yet voiced.

"What do you plan to do?" Piper's question emerged softer than intended, vulnerability leaking through despite her best efforts.

Drew finally looked at her directly. Those warm brown eyes that had become so familiar now seemed carefully shuttered. "I haven't decided yet."

But the careful control in Drew's voice told a different story. This wasn't uncertainty—this was the measured tone of someone trying to deliver bad news gently. Piper recognized it because she'd used it herself when explaining to clients that their financial situations were beyond saving.

"Of course." Piper managed what felt like an appropriate smile. "It's a big decision. You should take time to consider all the factors."

"The timeline is aggressive," Drew continued, her words sounding rehearsed. "Chris says the industry moves fast, and waiting too long could mean losing the opportunity. If I'm going to do this, I'd need to leave... soon."

Chris says. Of course he did. Piper's hands clenched briefly at her sides before she forced them to relax. "He's probably right about industry timing. These kinds of offers don't come around often."

"No," Drew agreed quietly. "They don't."

Piper retreated to the kitchen, ostensibly to deal with the quickly cooling Thai food.

Her hands moved through the motions of unpacking containers while her mind raced ahead, calculating how quickly she could help Drew find a storage solution for her belongings, how to handle the lease situation, how to minimize the disruption to Drew's obvious departure plans.

Because that's what this was—a departure.

The careful politeness in Drew's voice, the physical distance she'd maintained since Piper walked in, the way she'd said "I haven't decided" while clearly having already decided.

These were the behaviors of someone preparing to leave, trying to minimize damage on the way out.

"Piper?"

She turned to find Drew hovering in the kitchen doorway, her earlier rigid posture replaced by something almost hesitant.

"I want you to know that this isn't..." Drew's hands gestured vaguely. "The timing is complicated. After everything we talked about the other night..."

This isn't about you, but you're collateral damage. The meaning came through clear enough.

"I understand." Piper forced brightness into her voice. "Career opportunities don't wait for convenient timing. You should absolutely consider all your options."

Something shifted in Drew's expression—surprise, maybe, or disappointment. "You think I should take it?"

The question felt like a trap. What was the right answer here?

Should she fight for something that had never been clearly defined?

Should she voice feelings that might create guilt or obligation?

Should she pretend that watching Drew leave wouldn't feel like losing something precious she'd never quite been allowed to claim?

"I think," Piper said carefully, "that you're the only one who can decide what's right for your life and career."

Drew's shoulders sagged slightly. "Right. Of course."

They moved around the kitchen in a bizarre pantomime of normalcy—Piper plating food, Drew retrieving utensils, both of them maintaining careful distance as if proximity might complicate the clean lines Drew was trying to draw around her decision. The domesticity of it felt like a cruel joke now.

"So," Piper said as they settled at the small dining table, "when would you need to leave?"

"If I decide to take it," Drew corrected quickly, though the correction felt hollow. "But potentially within the week. Chris has connections who could expedite the logistics."

Within the week. Piper nodded as if this timeline struck her as perfectly reasonable rather than devastatingly sudden. "That doesn't leave much time for arrangements."

"No." Drew picked at her pad thai without actually eating any. "But honestly, how much do I really have to arrange? Most of my stuff could fit in a car. It's not like I have roots here or anything."

The casual dismissal of everything they'd been building hit Piper like a physical blow.

But Drew wasn't wrong, was she? What did she have here, really?

A temporary housing situation that had gotten complicated, a handful of coffee shops that let her play music, friends who would understand if dreams called her away.

Nothing that couldn't be abandoned with a week's notice.

"That's one advantage of keeping things simple," Piper agreed, proud of how steady her voice remained. "Less complication when opportunities arise."

Drew's fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Exactly."

They ate in the kind of polite quiet that characterized dinner conversations between strangers—comments about the food quality, observations about the weather, careful inquiries about each other's immediate work obligations.

Nothing about feelings or future plans or what any of this meant for the tentative something that had been growing between them.

Pickle remained conspicuously absent, as if even he could sense the emotional distance opening between them.

"I should probably start researching neighborhoods in Nashville," Drew said as they cleared the table. "Chris mentioned a few areas that are good for musicians."

"Smart planning," Piper replied, accepting the plate Drew handed her with exaggerated politeness. "Research makes any transition smoother."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

They moved around each other like awkward dancers, all careful courtesy and formal gratitude. When Drew's hand accidentally brushed Piper's while reaching for the dishwashing soap, both women jerked back as if contact might burn.

This was what the end looked like, apparently. Not dramatic arguments or tearful confessions, but polite distance and practical conversations about logistics. Drew methodically severing connections while Piper facilitated the process with helpful suggestions and supportive platitudes.

By the time the kitchen was clean, the careful politeness had become suffocating.

"I think I'll turn in early," Drew announced, hovering near the hallway. "Give myself time to think through everything properly."

"Good idea." Piper's smile felt like it might crack her face. "Important decisions deserve careful consideration."

"Right." Drew's own smile was equally strained. "Thanks for... understanding."

Understanding. As if this were simply a matter of rational analysis rather than watching someone she'd begun to care about prepare to walk out of her life with a week's notice.

"Of course," Piper said. "Sleep well."

Drew's bedroom door closed with a soft click that somehow sounded final.

Piper remained in the living room, surrounded by the domestic details of their shared life—Drew's guitar case propped in the corner, coffee mugs from their morning conversation still waiting to be washed, Pickle's toy mouse abandoned under the coffee table.

The lease modification papers lay on the countertop where she'd left them, their careful legal language now reading like a cruel joke.

Tenant may maintain one domestic cat on the premises provided said cat is properly documented and all associated fees are current.

She'd been so excited to solve Drew's housing problem, to give her one less thing to worry about.

Instead, she'd secured long-term housing for someone who was planning to leave anyway.

The champagne bottle caught the light from the kitchen, its golden foil still pristine.

She'd imagined opening it together, maybe sharing a toast to new beginnings and solved problems.

From Drew's bedroom came the soft, familiar sound of guitar strings being tuned.

Then a melody began—something Piper didn't recognize, played so quietly she had to strain to hear it.

The notes were sad and sweet and somehow final, like a lullaby someone might sing to comfort themselves through a difficult transition.

Or like a goodbye that couldn't be spoken aloud.

Piper pulled her knees to her chest and listened to Drew play herself toward leaving, each note another step away from whatever they'd been building together.

The music was beautiful and heartbreaking and perfectly suited to the moment—everything ending before it had really begun, dissolved by opportunity and careful politeness and the unspoken understanding that some things were too fragile to survive the weight of real decisions.

The champagne remained unopened. The lease papers remained irrelevant. And somewhere in the bedroom, Drew continued playing songs that sounded like farewell.

But underneath her resignation, something harder was taking shape in Piper's chest. This wasn't just about Drew choosing her career—it was about Drew choosing the easy path over the complicated one. Running toward a known quantity instead of staying to see what they might build together.

Maybe some things were worth fighting for, even if it meant risking everything.

Especially then.