The End of Us (Love in Isolation 3)

“The death threats and vile photos tell me otherwise. Also, we don’t know if he had weapons that night. No one caught him to check.”

Piper grabs the veggies, then screams, dropping the bag on the floor. “Shit, that’s hot.”

I rush over and gently take her wrist, then lead her to the sink. “Put it under cold water.”

As I hold her hand under the stream, I rub the pad of my thumb over her palm.

“I think I’m okay,” she says softly after a few moments. I meet her gaze, and a thousand sparks fly between us.

Fuck. I can’t cross those lines or give her the wrong idea.

After I turn off the water, I check her hand. “You’re a hazard in the kitchen. You need to be more careful.”

“I didn’t know it would be that hot,” she explains. “But yes, you’re right. That’s what I get for trying to help.”

I hand her a towel, and she dries her hand. “Go sit. I’ll finish.”

Once she’s settled at the table, I bring her a plate full, then sit across from her.

“When I’m back home, I’m signing up for cooking classes,” she blurts out, and I immediately laugh.

“Which celebrity chef will be featured on your channel?”

She narrows her eyes and glares at me. “I wasn’t going to film it, jackass. I was just telling you I've realized I need to learn some basics.”

“That’s an understatement,” I tease.

“Hey, it’s not my fault. My parents set me up for failure. Imagine waking up every morning to a gourmet meal served by a personal chef and a housekeeper who picked up every mess. I wasn’t taught basic life skills. When I was older, it was a culture shock to find that not everyone lived that way. Now that I live on my own, I’m willing to try new things and only have a housekeeper come once a week. Most trust fund babies don’t even bother. They’ll pay someone for literally everything.”

“So why did you start a YouTube channel? It’s not like you needed the money or sponsorships,” I ask the question I’d been wondering since day one.

“Because I wanted something that was just mine, something I earned and worked for, a passion project that I started from the ground up. Sure, my name gave me a foundation, but my content keeps them watching. That’s something only I can claim.”

“I’ve watched a few of your videos,” I admit.

“Only a few?” She arches a brow.

“I don’t really need makeup advice, fashion hauls, or to keep up with the latest trends.”

She rolls her eyes, stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork. “So which ones do you watch?”

I contemplate lying but don’t because we’re being open and honest.

“Your day in the life vlogs are my favorite. They show more of who you are versus the act you put on in the others.”

“For the last time, I’m not acting. I’m just showing off sponsored products, so I might exaggerate a little, but—”

“You haven’t talked about a single brand you’ve worked with while we’ve been here. In fact, you’ve looked more like your true self these past ten days than ever before.”

She glowers as if what I said was an insult, but it’s quite the opposite.

“What look is that exactly?”

“This no makeup, messy bun, leggings, and T-shirt look. You’re comfortable in your own skin, more relaxed, and you laugh like you mean it. There’s not an ounce of fakeness on you.” And it’s driving me absolutely fucking crazy. The urge to drink her in every time she walks in the room gets stronger with each passing day.

I think back to that first day she filmed a tour of the house and talked like she was living her best life when she’d been complaining moments before.

“You wouldn’t understand. If I act unhappy about something, I’m immediately criticized and called ungrateful. There’s an expectation that comes with being in my family.”

“Yeah, I have no idea what that’s like,” I deadpan. “Honestly, I may not be at your level, but I live with expectations too. Every single day.”

I lower my eyes, cutting my chicken, and think about every man we lost that day in the explosion that blew off part of my leg. If I openly complained about the pain, people would think I’m ungrateful to be alive. They like to associate the two together when the two can co-exist.

We finish eating in silence, and after she puts her plate in the sink, she announces she’s going to take a bath.

I take that time to clean up the kitchen and place the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. As I rinse the dishes, I replay our conversation. I suspect I’m the only person in her life who doesn’t feed her lines of bullshit. Then again, most of her friends and fans are in their early twenties and don’t have a clue about the real world.