Keeping Up With Piper Read online

  “Can we go horse riding?,” Kye asks.

  “No.”

  But I know what we can do. We go to the beach, not for building more sandcastles but so we can watch some shells and the waves and talk about fishes and the ocean. What Kye and Dana love most are jellyfish.

  “Are they like gummi bears?,” Dana asks.

  “They’re transparent and all wobbly. But remember Jellyfish can sting,” I say. “That hurts.”

  After that we sit at a café, I drink some coffee and watch the kids draw. Still, I have no message from you, and I have no idea where you are. Did you sleep at your date’s place? Why can’t you text me? In case your dead I’m good. I just don’t like to lose those people I have plans for. Please be dead or come back. That evening I bring Kye to bed, but I have trouble comforting Dana Isabella. She’s crying and screaming that she wants her mommy. I don’t know what to tell her. You aren’t here. I can’t call anyone. I can’t report you missing. I can’t get in contact with the police. I need you to come back right now. There’s two days left until we’re supposed to leave Hamptons. On Monday you have to be back at work.

  9

  I get nervous as I pack our suitcases upstairs at the condo. I repressed your disappearance. After I put my clothes and toilet bag into my suitcase and yours into your suitcase I help the kids pack their bags. I’ve found some interesting red and black lingerie in your drawer. Why do you need sexy underwear when on vacation with a female friend and your child? I constantly look at my watch. In about one hour we need to leave the condo and put the keys into the mailbox. Dana is still confused. I had to promise her that you’ll be back and that I know where you went so she finally stopped crying. No kid wants to be abandoned like this.

  Just when I start carrying the suitcases to the Mercedes I see you at the white fence that surrounds the property. You look tired, but you smile. You’re wearing a different outfit now, a checkered skirt and a white blouse. It looks like a schoolgirl costume. I’m a cool friend, I remind myself, I’m chill.

  “You’re back,” I comment on your reappearance.

  “I’ve had some crazy days,” you say as you come closer.

  It’s like you’ve never disappeared. You don’t even apologize. You don’t care leaving people behind, letting them watch your child, not knowing when or if you’ll come back. You don’t care about your daughter at all. She missed you. You don’t talk while we’re driving back to Brooklyn, and I don’t want to ask any questions. Maybe I don’t want to know where you’ve been all those days. Maybe it was really just a Tinder date and you stayed at his house for a while. Through the rear-view mirror I see that Kye and Dana Isabella fell asleep. Dana was happy to see you and she hugged you. That was it. You didn’t even apologize to her. You didn’t explain why you left, and you didn’t tell your daughter where you’ve been.

  A few hours later we’re back in Brooklyn. Good old Brooklyn. I stop at your apartment and let you out. You just say goodbye, take your suitcase and Dana’s bag, then you go home. Before you open the door you wave at me, then you drive away. Even at work on Monday I’m still pissed that you don’t tell me what happened. I try not to let it show. Even Kye asked me where you went. I should equip you with a detection device. I should’ve tried to locate your phone.

  MWG

  Did she come back? Any update?

  Shit, I totally forgot I texted him. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I told him to not text me like this. We use codes for everything. We have to use codes. The code for yes is the emoji with heart eyes. The code for no is the rain cloud emoji. I decide to text back the upside-down face emoji. That’s not a code for anything but it gives a what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-stop-it-or-I’ll-kill-you vibe.

  On Monday at the office I see you standing behind the printer.

  “What are you up to,” I ask.

  You turn around. “My friend Penelope… we were friends back in high school, basically best friends… she seems to have stopped taking drugs and she is about to marry a forty-year old guy named Z.”

  “Z,” I repeat. Who would call himself Z?

  “Yeah, he tries to be a cool dude, so he goes for Z. I don’t know his real name. He’s tattooed all over his body, with weird symbols, knives and flowers, and he’s a franchise holder of several McDonald’s in Pennsylvania.”

  All you care about are paychecks, huh? All your friends care about are paychecks.

  “Are you still in contact with her?”

  Why do I even bother asking? I know you are, not regularly but sporadically. Every now and then she likes a photo of you on Instagram or she reacts to your story or comments on one of your posts. She even commented on the photo you posted of us.

  “Hot chicks,” she wrote and put the fire emoji behind her words.

  Wonder how I got your password? You’re easy to see through. Your password for most of your logins is luzie28butterscotch. Luzie stands for your middle name Lucrezia, twenty-eight isn’t your age or the age of Joe but the house number of your parents and your childhood home, and Butterscotch was the name of your sister’s hamster. You should consider not using names and numbers that you have such a personal connection with. It’s so much easier to find out your password when it contains personal information.

  Days pass until I you suddenly ask me to watch Dana Isabella for an afternoon. I say yes, of course. But I need to know what you’re up to, so I, in turn, ask Nanny to watch Dana and Kye. I tell them I go grocery shopping. Instead I follow you. It’s been a while since I last biked, so I probably look like a five-year-old currently learning how to ride a bike. I just took the bike that always stands in front of the house without a lock. No worries, I’ll give it back.

  You brought Dana to my house, then drove back home. I wait on the other side of the street. Is that it? Do you want to spend an afternoon all alone? Why didn’t you tell me? A few minutes later though, you leave your house again. You’ve changed your clothes. The blue jeans and your sweater have disappeared. Instead, your body is wrapped in a glittery silver dress, a short one. You have a clutch with you and plod down the stairs in your heels. It’s four in the afternoon, where the hell are you going, dressed like a stripper?

  I drive as fast as I can to keep up with you, Piper. I almost run over a few pedestrians, but I manage to follow you all the way to a luxury hotel in Midtown. Do you have a date? With one of New York’s millionaires? Is that why you wanted me to watch your kid? I follow you inside, through the lobby and into a restaurant. An employee welcomes me. Luckily I can choose a table on my own. There are lots of plants and columns in the room, so I try to hide from you but still obtain a clear view of you. You sit at the table alone, but I’m sure it won’t stay that way. About five minutes later a man shows up. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you have a date. I’m your friend, you should tell me these things.

  “Piper,” he says, but he’s still hiding behind a column.

  I am interrupted in my observation by the waiter showing me two different wines, one red and one white. He then tells me some French and Italian names.

  “Thank you very much,” I say. “I’ll have the white one.”

  I just want him to move out of sight. Isn’t it a bit too early to have wine? When he stops blocking my view your mystery man is already seated. I can’t fully see his face, it’s hidden behind a leaf.

  “You look good today,” he says.

  “You too,” you answer and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

  You smile like you just want to jump at him.

  “How’s Dana Isabella?,” he asks.

  You told him about your daughter? I’m impressed. Did you also tell him that you just give her away to your friend whenever you have a date?

  “She’s great,” you say. “Are you gonna pick her up on Friday?”

  You’ve got to be kidding. Joe Jensen?

  10

  I sit on my sofa, waiting for your return. It is past midnight and Dana Isabella and Kye are already asl
eep. You should be here soon. I left a bit early because you took Joe to apartment house. I didn’t want to see you lying under him. You two talked about a lot of things. Joe seems like he’s still with his girlfriend who is not you. According to his Instagram, which has no photo at all, his girlfriend’s name is Vera. She has a few photos of the two on her account and she has no clue that he came here visiting you, fucking you, telling you that you look gorgeous. I thought Joe Jensen is just a small-town guy, nice and boring, not exactly someone who would cheat on his girlfriend with his ex. You told me you don’t want someone like Joe, an average guy. What changed your mind? Do you think you won’t find a better man? Do you want Dana to have her real dad back? Did you find out that Tinder dates aren’t the solution? Is it too hard to find a good-looking and rich sugar daddy? Do you need him back temporarily, so he pays for Dana Isabella’s tuition? What is on your mind? I look at my watch, then I look outside the window, then I look at my phone. There’s no message from you. We both have to go to work tomorrow and you don’t bother telling me when you want to pick up Dana. Actually, I don’t mind, I could just ask Nanny to watch both Kye and Dana once again, but I need to know what you want from your ex who is currently in a relationship with another woman. I almost fall asleep when I hear the doorbell. For a minute I wonder why I didn’t give you a key to my apartment but then I remember. It’s because I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you or Joe or any of your shady friends.

  “Hey,” you say as you arrive in my living room.

  “Hi,” I say.

  You let yourself fall back on the sofa next to me. “I’m so tired.”

  You look tired. You tried covering up your dark circles with make-up and you put your fuzzy hair into a high ponytail. You should use some hair oil. Normally your hair is shiny and healthy.

  “How was your evening? You didn’t tell me what you were doing.”

  I grab the tea that stands on the side table. I didn’t want to sit here like a crazy person, so I made myself a tea. It looks like I’m just enjoying my tea in my living room in the middle of the night. I should’ve turned the TV on. Who sits on the sofa alone with a tea but without doing anything?

  “I was on a date with some guy,” you say and smile, not at me but at the ceiling.

  Of course, you lie. That’s what you can do best. It is amazing how our surroundings, our social group, our friends and family shape the way we turn out to be. Blair Morgan is a lying and cheating dumb piece of shit just like you. I keep reminding me that I made her up. She’s the fictional character I invented to take care of the ghosts of my past. Well, at least one. I need her to lie and stalk and fake documents and do all kinds of illegal and unethical things. I’m your mirror image. Blair is you.

  “A guy?,” I dig deeper.

  “Well, my ex,” you admit.

  See, you can do it if you try hard enough. Honesty looks good on you.

  “Your ex?,” I say surprised. “You mean Dana’s father? No, really? Tell me more. How come he’s in New York?”

  I’m so good at getting fake excited these days. On the inside I’m like nah, I seriously don’t care but go ahead if you want to.

  “Okay,” you say and look at me, “we just met to talk about Dana, but then we talked about our time together.”

  Did you meet him on Long Island? Was it him? I thought it’s a Tinder date because you didn’t text him. Maybe I’m missing out on something. I will have to find out where else you two are texting. Snapchat maybe, but that means I can’t really follow all of your conversations.

  “Are you back together?,” I ask.

  “He’s still with his girlfriend.”

  Poor Vera.

  “Oh.” I sigh dramatically.

  It doesn’t matter if I tell you that is not right, that it’s cheating. You do whatever you want, no matter what consequences you face. You are not the rational type of human. You are the type of human who walks over dead bodies. And that, Piper, is something I learned from you.

  “No, but it’s not going well, really,” you say visibly relieved. “They rarely ever have sex.”

  So, you thought you help him getting laid, huh?

  “Got it. You think they’re about to break up?,” I say.

  You shake your head. “I know Joe. He’s slow and lazy. He can’t just let go of a girl.”

  There are two types of people. Some just break up, no matter if there’s a new lover in sight. Others want to play it safe and can’t be alone. They need someone else who wants to be with them, otherwise they can’t just leave their current boyfriend or girlfriend. They’re dependent and weak and dishonest. They’re not exactly happy with their relationship and think there’s someone better out there but they don’t want to end up all alone.

  “Maybe,” you give me a neutral answer.

  “You still like him, don’t you?,” I want to know.

  “He was my type in high school and I got pregnant way too thoughtlessly,” you say.

  I’m younger and my son’s older, so I win. I got pregnant too early. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want a child. A son. Kye. My plan as a little girl was to get a degree first, fall in love with a handsome guy along the way, marry and have children, like my parents. I didn’t want it to be like this. I know it’s classical, but I didn’t want to be a single mom who has to study while raising a child. I wanted to experience college life. Sure, Bruna and I had fun, lots of fun. It still isn’t the same as a young mother.

  “He’s about to develop into a more mature man,” you suddenly say proudly.

  By cheating on his girlfriend with his ex. Are you serious? You think that’s mature? I’d like to slap you into your pretty little face.

  “How do you know?,” I say.

  “I know him,” you answer. “I know when he’s changing.” You look outside the window where it is all dark and black. “Whatever, let’s go to sleep.”

  On Friday I’m at your apartment, so we can get ready for a night at a club. When Joe comes over to pick up Dana for the weekend you act all normal, as if you haven’t kissed him and slept with him earlier this week. Before he came in he was on the phone with his girlfriend back in Connecticut. He told her he will get some groceries before he comes home with Dana. She doesn’t know that he’s cheating on her. Dana doesn’t know, only Joe, you and me.

  Next week it is Kye’s first day at The Huntington School. Joe brought Dana Isabella back to Brooklyn on Sunday evening, so we can’t drive to school together. Instead we meet in front of the building. The Huntington School is an expensive elitist school with modern equipment and small class sizes, teachers from all over the globe and preppy school uniforms. That is the type of school I would have wanted to go to. It is a school where the principal himself takes care of new students, shows them around the building and brings them to class on their first day. Kye’s wearing the school uniform which consists of a dark blue sleeveless sweater with a white shirt underneath and some long dark blue trousers. We bought their uniforms together since it’s Dana’s first day as well. She’s going to be a first grader. Kye’s current elementary school’s a good one, too. It’s close to The Huntington School, but I want him to transfer to Dana Isabella’s school. There is a shop inside the school building. Dana’s wearing the girls’ version consisting of a long blue sleeveless dress and a white shirt. It looks very British. She looks like a tiny future congresswoman, and Kye looks like a miniature businessman. This morning he was excited to go to school, and I hope that he won’t be disappointed.

  After bringing them to school we drive to work and spend our time chatting with each other. Our working hours match, and since we’re single mothers we don’t have to stay at this horribly boring place as long as people like Amber. Being allowed to work part-time is definitely an advantage when being a mother. Wanting to work part-time without responsibilities like children isn’t socially accepted. People always think you must be selfish and lazy.

  “Let’s go to Victoria’s Secret,” you say as we lea
ve the building. “I want some new dessous. And let’s grab some coffee first.”

  We grab some iced coffees at Starbucks, then take a cab to Fifth Avenue. We would come back to Lower Manhattan to get our cars and pick up our children later. As soon as we enter the store and stand in front of the shelves an employee named Monica approaches us. That’s what I mean when I say I don’t need some customer service representative bitch to tell me what to wear or buy, what fits me and what doesn’t. They really do tell you their name ten times a minute, so they get commission. That isn’t commitment, it’s annoying. You worked in retail yourself, at a small convenience store in Manhattan, for about a year when you were at NYU. I came visiting you a few times. Your boss fired you because you kept texting on your phone while working. Stocking shelves is a task that fits your intelligence perfectly.

  “Do you have this one in black?,” you ask the customer advisor.

  Monica says she’ll look for one in black and rummages around the drawers. The store is nicely decorated, and it smells good.

  “I love their dessous,” you say and look around.

  I would love to roll my eyes. You love their stuff because you’re a total slut. You probably don’t want to wear the same thing for your many dates with different men, some of whom are your ex or a Tinder match. Maybe they even pay for your underwear.

  “Do you like this one?,” you ask me. “It’s unusual but I like it.”

  You’re talking about a red lace slip that has a heart shaped cut-out.

  “Love it,” I say. “But look at that one.” I grab a red thong that barely covers any skin.

  “Blair,” you say laughing, “that’s a pretty thing. I’ll take it.”

  Of course.

  “You should take one, too,” you say.

  I don’t have any dates coming up. I don’t have time for guys.

  “I already have so many red ones,” I answer and giggle.