Page 92 of Broken on the Mountain
But I can't. Because choosing Chase means disappointing Mom. Means facing her cold fury and my father's disapproval. It means admitting that I want a different life than the one they've carefully constructed for me.
And I've never been brave enough to do that.
We pull up to departures, and Chase puts the truck in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"Chase, can we—"
"Have a safe flight, Piper." His hands grip the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, tears streaming down my face now. "Please don't leave it like this. Please…"
He gets out, grabs my bag from the back, and sets it on the curb. I follow him, my boots—the ones he bought me—treading heavy on the pavement.
"I'm sorry." The words are useless now, but I say them anyway. "I'm so sorry. I know I should have told you earlier."
He just shrugs those big round shoulders that have been burdened with too much already, then pulls me into a hug.
I feel my heart shatter, because… it feels different this time. Tighter. More desperate. Like he's trying to memorize the shape of me.
I bury my face in his chest and breathe him in. I want to stay here forever.
"Forever Friday, right?" I pull back, trying to smile through the tears. "I'll see you next—"
"Goodbye, Piper. Travel safe."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't crack a joke. Doesn't give me the easy grin that usually makes everything okay. The Chase-nessis gone. The light in his eyes. The enthusiasm that makes himhim.
I broke him.
I grab my bag with shaking hands, and I want to scream. Want to throw the bag down and tell him I'm staying. Want to call my mother and tell her I won't be at the gala, won't be playing perfect daughter anymore, won't be choosing her approval over my own happiness.
But I don't.
Because I'm Piper Whitman, and Piper Whitman always does what she's told.
I walk through the automatic doors, and I don't look back.
***
The alarm goes off at four-thirty, but I'm already awake.
I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching shadows shift across the bland white paint, replaying Chase's face at the airport on an endless loop.
The way he stepped back. The way the light went out of his eyes.
"You either choose this, or you choose Chicago."
I silence the alarm and wearily walk to the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. Everything in this penthouse is cold. The floors, the granite countertops, the stainless steel appliances that gleam like operating room equipment.
Even the fucking coffee maker is programmable. I press the button and watch dark liquid stream into a porcelain cup that's as bland and boring as the rest of the place.
Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him.
I wrap my hands around the cup and walk to the balcony, sliding the glass door open.
Chicago spreads out below me, steel and glass and concrete. The sky is that particular shade of pre-dawn grey that makes everything look washed out. Lifeless.
In Stone River, the sunrise paints the mountains gold, turning the surrounding nature into a painting. The air smells like pine and oozes freshness that cleanses.
