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PIPER

T he aggressive whir of my blender slices through NPR's morning news update, drowning out what I'm sure is another depressing story about climate change or political upheaval.

I don't need that negativity this morning.

What I need is my green smoothie, my perfectly organized notes, and a co-host who isn't a complete flake.

"You know, most people actually chew their breakfast," my roommate Abigail says, shuffling into our shared kitchen in fuzzy slippers and an oversized t-shirt that reads 'I'm Silently Correcting Your Grammar.'

"Most people don't have to salvage a podcast recording in—" I check my watch "—exactly two hours and seventeen minutes."

"Remind me again why you scheduled a recording at 10 AM on a Saturday?"

I pour my smoothie into my University of Boston tumbler, the one emblazoned with the journalism department logo. "Because it's when the studio was available, and because we're interviewing some jock from the hockey team." I can't even remember his name—my brother’s teammate, I think.

Not that it matters; they're all the same.

Abigail leans against our tiny kitchen counter, dark curls springing in every direction as she rubs sleep from her eyes. "And Marcus is meeting you there?"

"That's the plan. I slide my laptop into my bag. "He's bringing coffee."

"Fancy coffee?" Abigail perks up.

"Yes, from that place with the uncomfortable chairs and pretentious baristas who judge you for adding sugar."

"Perfect. I'll stop by around eleven with those social media graphics I promised." She yawns. "Though it might be closer to eleven-thirty."

"The recording will be done by then!"

"Exactly." She grins. "All the visualization, none of the work."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling.

Transferring to UB with Abigail was one of my better decisions.

We've been inseparable since freshman year at our previous college—a little known liberals arts school named Baldwin College, just forty-five minutes from Boston city limits.

When I decided to move closer to my brother Derek and take advantage of UB's prestigious journalism program, Abigail didn't hesitate to apply for their communications department.

"Any word from your dad?" she asks, her voice softening.

"He texted this morning. Said Nathan is driving him crazy with high school soccer recruitment stuff." I try to keep my tone light, but worry creeps in anyway. “I just hope the two of them are managing with Derek and I so far away.”

“They’re in Philly, sweets. That’s not exactly Timbuktu.” Abigail flashes me a smile that quickly falls, giving my arm a squeeze. "How's the podcast prep going?”

"It has to be perfect," I say, organizing my notes for the third time.

"The Williamson Fellowship isn't just about the career connections and prestige. I mean, it’s the same fellowship Mom applied for before she died.

Her submission is actually framed in Professor Bennett's office.

If I can win what she never got the chance to.

.." I trail off, unable to fully express how completing this circle would feel.

But with Abigail, I don’t have to. She gets it.

Her hand withdraws, and I wipe a fingertip underneath my eye. “Anyway, I gotta go.” I check my watch again. "Marcus is flaky enough when I'm on time, and I want to get there early to set up."

“You’ve got this!" she calls after me as I head out the door.

The crisp October air hits my face as I step outside our apartment building.

The UB campus is particularly beautiful this time of year, with trees showing off their red and gold plumage against the backdrop of ivy-covered buildings.

Students shuffle between dorms and coffee shops, bundled in sweaters and scarves despite it not being quite cold enough to justify the full winter gear yet.

It's perfect podcast weather.

"Love & Logic" has been my passion project since transferring here three months ago.

A dating and relationship podcast based on research and practical advice rather than fluffy feelings and clichés.

It’s my shot at proving to Professor Bennett that I'm fellowship material. That I'm serious.

And I am deadly serious about not screwing this up.

The campus radio station is tucked into the basement of the Journalism building, a cozy space with surprisingly good equipment thanks to an alum donation last year.

I swipe my ID card at the door, balancing my smoothie and messenger bag as I navigate the stairs.

Empty.

The studio is completely empty.

I check my watch again. 8:27 AM.

I'm early, as planned, but there should be at least a few people prepping for weekend shows. And where the hells Marcus?

I set up anyway, arranging my notes in perfect stacks, checking levels on the equipment, and firing off a text:

At the studio. Where are you?

Three dots appear immediately.

MARCUS

oh shit

***

MARCUS

forgot to tell you

Tell me what?

MARCUS

i can't do the show anymore

WHAT?

MARCUS

creative differences? your approach is too clinical, u know? relationships are about passion, not spreadsheets

I stare at my phone in horror as more texts flood in.

MARCUS

plus i got a better offer from the sports podcast guys

MARCUS

no offense but they have actual listeners

MARCUS

u can keep my mug tho

My fingers shake as I type:

You're quitting 20 MINUTES before we go live with our first official episode?

MARCUS

technically 93 minutes

MARCUS

ur watch is fast btw

I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. The panic rising in my chest threatens to overwhelm me.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the anxiety.

Marcus was never that insightful anyway, right? But he was a foil to my research-based approach, and without that contrast...

My phone buzzes again, but it's Abigail this time.

ABIGAIL

Forgot to mention - I found your spare charger. It was in the bathroom?? Why??

I dial her immediately.

"You forget something?" she answers on the second ring.

"Marcus quit."

"What? When?"

"Just now. Texted me." My voice is tighter than I'd like. "Said we had 'creative differences' and the sports podcast offered him a spot."

"That absolute weasel!" Abigail's outrage is comforting, if not helpful. "What are you going to do? The athletic department is sending someone for an interview in less than two hours, and the whole premise of the show is debate between approaches!"

"I don't know." I pace the small space, heart hammering. "Can you?—"

"I have that presentation for Professor Chen," she cuts in apologetically. "It's worth forty percent of my grade."

"I know, I know. I wouldn't ask you to skip that." I sink into the chair, mind racing. "Maybe I can reschedule the athlete?"

"On a Saturday? When they probably have games or practice or whatever jocks do?"

She's right.

This close to their season, the hockey team's calendar is packed. I'd only locked down this interview through my brother's connections, and flaking would not only make me look unprofessional but might affect Derek too.

"What about solo?" Abigail suggests.

"The whole point is having different perspectives! It would just be me talking to myself about research that everyone already finds boring."

"Your research isn't boring," she coos just like a best friend should, though we both know it's not exactly thrilling radio.

"I need to call Dad," I decide, grasping for any lifeline. "Maybe he'll have an idea."

But the call with my father yields nothing but more stress.

He's supportive as always, but his suggestion to "just reschedule" shows he doesn't understand the urgency. My sister Liz gets on the line and suggests I "interview the hot athlete about his dating life instead," which is possibly the worst idea I've ever heard.

"You could always do that thing where you pretend your guest is stuck in traffic," she offers.

"I'm not going to start my podcast career with a lie," I snap, then immediately feel guilty. "Sorry, Liz. I'm just... panicking a little."

"A little?" She laughs. "I can hear you hyperventilating from here. Look, worst case scenario, you do the show alone today and find a new co-host for next time."

"I guess," I mumble, though the thought of doing a debate show alone is mortifying.

By the time I hang up, I've gone from anxious to full-blown panicked. I do what I always do in a crisis: I make a list.

Options:

Cancel the show (unacceptable)

Do it solo (terrible - the whole premise is debate)

Find a replacement (in 85 minutes? impossible)

Fake an illness (unprofessional)

Improvise completely (risky)

None of them are good.

Option five seems least catastrophic, but what would that even look like?

I could turn it into a straight interview, I suppose, asking about team dynamics and communication...

But that's not "Love & Logic."

That's not what I pitched to Professor Bennett. That's not what could get me the fellowship.

I stare at the empty chair across from me, the one where Marcus should be sitting, and a desperate idea begins to form. It's ridiculous. It's unprofessional. It's possibly brilliant.

What if I introduce the hockey player as my new co-host?

It would be spontaneous, unplanned, probably chaotic—everything I typically avoid.

But it would also be authentic. Real. Raw. All those buzzwords professors love to throw around.

And what's the worst that could happen? He says no, I'm humiliated, and I have to find a new major because I can never show my face in the journalism department again.

Okay, so there's a lot that could go wrong.

But as the minutes tick by and my options dwindle, this insane plan starts to seem like my only choice. I'll need to be quick on my feet, ready to guide him through the show, prepared to pivot if it all goes sideways.

I check my watch again.

9:05 AM.

Less than an hour until whatever sport-ball jock Marcus signed up is scheduled to arrive.

Time to prep for the most chaotic, unplanned, potentially disastrous podcast debut in UB history.

Or, if I'm extremely lucky the most memorable one.