Page 15 of Catastrophically Yours

THIRTEEN

SILENT SONGS AND SLEEPING TRUTHS

The Novak family dining room felt smaller than usual, the mahogany table that had hosted countless Sunday dinners now seeming to stretch endlessly between occupied chairs.

Piper stabbed at her mashed potatoes with more force than necessary, watching the butter pool in the crater she'd created while her mother's eyes drifted—again—to the empty chair beside her.

"Are you sure she couldn't make it?" Janet's voice carried that particular tone mothers perfected, the one that meant she already knew the answer but kept hoping it might change. "I made that honey-glazed salmon she mentioned liking."

"She had other commitments." Piper's fork scraped against her plate, the sound harsh enough to make her father wince. The lie tasted bitter, coating her tongue with the metallic flavor of pride mixed with regret.

Robert cleared his throat, the gentle rumble that usually preceded his attempts at family diplomacy. "Pass the rolls, would you, Brian?"

But Brian was too direct, like their mother, to drop it. "I saw Drew at the Blue Moon this afternoon." He accepted the basket from their father without breaking his gaze from Piper. "She's got this energy, Piper. Like she lights up the whole room when she talks about music."

The potatoes turned to paste in Piper's mouth. She'd watched Drew light up rooms herself, had seen the way conversations shifted toward her like flowers following the sun. The memory of Drew's laugh echoing through their apartment felt like touching a bruise.

"She was coordinating with this jazz quartet about Tuesday night," Brian continued, getting excited the way he always did about things he cared about.

"Had everything mapped out on these color-coded charts—reminded me of your budget spreadsheets, actually.

But then she'd start talking about the music itself and.

.." He gestured with his fork, searching for words.

"It's like she speaks two languages fluently. Organization and art."

Janet set down her water glass with careful precision, the crystal ringing softly against the placemat.

"I still can't believe she's doing all this for us.

" Her voice wobbled slightly, the emotion she'd been holding back all week finally showing.

"That girl barely knows us, and she's organizing an entire concert just to help with my medical bills. She must really care about you, honey."

The words hit Piper's chest like a physical blow. Care. Such a simple word for something that felt increasingly complicated, twisted up with fear and longing and the persistent ache of missing someone who slept ten feet away from her every night.

"Drew cares about everyone," Piper managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "It's not personal."

Robert raised an eyebrow—the skeptical arch that had seen through every teenage excuse and young adult rationalization. "Organizing a benefit concert seems pretty personal."

"She's just being kind."

"Kind?" Brian laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Piper, she spent three hours on the phone with venue managers, convinced the Blue Moon to stay open late, and somehow talked Martinez Auto into sponsoring refreshments. That's not kind—that's love."

The word hung in the air like incense, heavy and impossible to ignore. Piper's hands tightened around her silverware until her knuckles showed white through her skin. Love. As if it were simple. As if it didn't require the kind of vulnerability that felt like standing naked in a snowstorm.

"You know what I think?" Janet leaned forward slightly, her green eyes—so similar to Piper's own—bright with the kind of maternal insight that had always made lying impossible. "I think Drew is perfect for you, and you're being ridiculously stubborn about admitting it."

"Perfect." Piper's laugh came out hollow. "Right. Because struggling musicians and accountants are such a natural match."

"Cut the crap, Pipes." Brian's voice carried an edge of frustration that made Piper look up sharply. Her little brother rarely swore, and never at family dinner. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

The question hit like cold water, sudden and shocking. Piper's fork clattered against her plate, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. Her face heated, blood rushing to her cheeks in a betraying flush that answered Brian's question more clearly than words ever could.

"I..." She started, then stopped, the admission caught in her throat like a fish bone.

"Honey." Janet's voice had gone soft, the way it used to when Piper scraped her knees or came home crying about some childhood injustice. "What are you afraid of?"

Everything. The word rose unbidden, carrying with it the weight of every careful plan, every contingency she'd mapped out to avoid exactly this kind of uncertainty.

She was afraid of disruption, of the way Drew made her want things she'd convinced herself were impractical.

Afraid of waking up to find that the recording contract had won, that she'd been nothing more than a convenient waystation between Drew's old life and her new one.

"What if I'm just a convenient place to stay until something better comes along?" The words came out smaller than intended, revealing more vulnerability than Piper had meant to show.

Robert set down his silverware entirely, giving her his full attention. "Have you asked her?"

"Asked her what?"

"Whether you're convenient." His tone carried the patient logic that had walked her through calculus homework and college applications. "Because from where I sit, someone who organizes benefit concerts for her roommate's family doesn't sound particularly temporary."

Janet nodded emphatically. "She didn't do this for someone she doesn't love, idiot." The endearment took the sting out of the word, wrapping it in the kind of fond exasperation that only family could manage.

"But what if?—"

"What if the sky falls?" Brian interrupted, his nineteen years somehow making him sound older than her thirty. "What if aliens invade? What if you spend so much time worrying about what might happen that you miss what's actually happening right in front of you?"

Piper stared at her plate, watching butter congeal in the cooling potatoes.

Her family's voices continued around her, offering reassurance and gentle criticism in equal measure, but her mind had already started spinning ahead to the drive home.

To the conversation she'd been avoiding for weeks now, the one that required the kind of emotional honesty that made her feel like stepping off a cliff in the dark.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of deflected questions and half-hearted participation in conversations about Brian's midterms and their father's upcoming retirement. By the time Piper hugged everyone goodbye and escaped to her car, her hands were trembling slightly with nervous energy.

The drive home through quiet Sunday evening streets gave her too much time to think. Brian's words echoed in her head— you're in love with her, aren't you? —while her practical mind tried to construct arguments, backup plans, ways to minimize the risk of complete emotional devastation.

She could start small. Maybe mention that she'd enjoyed their duet, that she missed playing music. Test the waters before diving into the deep end of feelings and vulnerability. Drew responded well to gradual approaches anyway; she'd learned that much over the past few weeks.

By the time Piper pulled into her parking space, she'd rehearsed seventeen different opening lines, each one carefully calculated to show interest without desperation, honesty without complete exposure.

She climbed the stairs to their apartment with her heart hammering against her ribs, key ready in her hand.

The apartment was quiet when she entered, lamplight casting everything in warm amber tones. Piper closed the door softly behind her, listening for signs of movement. No music drifted from Drew's corner of the living room. No soft humming from the kitchen.

She found Drew on the couch, curled on her side with Pickle sprawled across her chest like an oversized, purring hot water bottle.

Drew's face looked younger in sleep, relaxed in a way that made Piper's chest tight with something between affection and longing.

Her guitar lay within arm's reach, positioned carefully so it wouldn't fall but close enough that she could grab it at a moment's notice.

The scene hit Piper like a physical blow.

This was what she'd been afraid of—not just Drew herself, but the way everything felt more right when she was here.

The way coming home meant something different now, carried weight and warmth and the possibility of finding exactly this: peace and music and someone who chose to stay.

Piper approached slowly, careful not to wake either sleeper.

Pickle opened one green eye to regard her, but Drew remained perfectly still, her breathing deep and even.

This close, Piper could see the calluses on Drew's fingertips from guitar strings, the slight smile that curved her lips even in sleep.

Without thinking, Piper reached for the guitar.

The Taylor felt different under her hands than her old piano had, wood warm and smooth where keys had been cool ivory.

She ran her fingers gently over the strings, not pressing hard enough to make real noise but feeling the vibration travel through her fingertips.

The metal wound around nylon created texture against her skin, a tactile memory of music that made her remember why she'd loved playing in the first place.

The strings hummed softly under her touch, creating faint musical notes that seemed to awaken something inside her that had been sleeping for years.

She closed her eyes and let herself remember: the satisfaction of finding the perfect chord progression, the way melodies could capture feelings that words couldn't reach, the connection she'd felt with Drew during their impromptu duet weeks ago.

She'd been so focused on the practical—on making sure everything was planned and controlled and safe—that she'd forgotten how music felt like coming alive. How creating something beautiful mattered more than whether it made sense on paper.

The guitar strings continued their quiet song under her fingertips, and Piper found herself remembering other things too: the way Drew's eyes had lit up when she'd played piano, the careful attention Drew paid to her schedule and preferences, the way Drew said her name like it meant something important.

She didn't organize a benefit concert for someone she doesn't love.

Brian's words came back with new weight, carrying truth that Piper had been too scared to examine closely.

Drew had spent days coordinating with musicians, convincing venues, organizing details that had nothing to do with her own life or dreams. She'd done it because Janet mattered to Piper, and somehow, impossibly, Piper mattered to Drew.

A soft murmur interrupted her thoughts. Drew shifted slightly on the couch, her lips forming words too quiet to understand clearly. But Piper caught the shape of her own name in the movement, heard the way Drew's sleeping mind reached for her even in dreams.

Pickle opened both eyes now, regarding Piper with the kind of feline judgment that suggested she found the current situation between her humans unnecessarily complicated. The cat's expression seemed to say: She loves you, you love her, and you're both being ridiculous about it.

Piper stood frozen between her old self and her current self, between the woman who'd loved music and the one who'd chosen practical safety, between the person she'd been and the person she might become if she found the courage to reach for what she wanted instead of just what made sense.

Drew murmured her name again, and this time Piper heard it clearly—soft and warm and full of trust that made her chest ache with possibility.

Tomorrow night, Drew would perform at the benefit concert she'd organized for Piper's family. She'd stand on a stage and share her music with strangers, all for people she barely knew, all because they mattered to Piper.

The least Piper could do was find the courage to tell her what that meant.