Page 10 of Leaving the Station
“Thanks,” I tell her.
I walk past her to find tables similar to the booths in the café car, except these are covered in smooth white tablecloths. I locate table four but stop before I get too close.
There are already three people sitting in the booth. There’s an elderly couple facing me, and they smile as I approach. “Table four?” the woman asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, turning around. “They must’ve given me the wrong number.”
“No no,” the man, broad and frowning, says. “This is how it works on the train.”
“We all sit together,” the woman adds.
I look around, and the rest of the tables are full of people from all different walks of life talking animatedly.
“Um, okay.” I step closer.
The third person sitting at the table is facing away from me, so all I can see is shiny blond hair pulled up in a high ponytail.
“I’m Virginia,” the woman says.
“Clint,” the man tells me.
“Zoe.”
“Zoe!” Virginia echoes. She points across the table. “And our new friend here is Oakley.”
Blond Ponytail—Oakley—looks up and flashes me a smile.Her teeth are perfect—neatly aligned, bright white.
She’s wearing a light pink cable-knit sweater and a gold necklace, and she’s the kind of hot that would’ve intimidated me in high school, the kind of hot that would grant her automatic popularity regardless of her personality.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say.
I sit down in the booth next to her.
Oakley is the exact type of person I’m trying to avoid on the train—someone around my age, someone hot and cool who probably has specific expectations of me based on how I look. Maybe it’s the only child in me, but I’ve always been more comfortable with adults than people my own age.
At least I have Clint and Virginia.
I take a deep breath and tell myself that it’s just lunch on a train with people I’ve never met. That it’ll all be okay.
Maybe if I keep telling myself this, it’ll be the truth.
Three
Monday, 1:30 p.m., outside Albany (Rensselaer), NY
“Who knew we’d be seated with not one buttwocharming young ladies?” Virginia asks. She nudges Clint’s shoulder. “Can you believe it, sweetheart?”
Clint clears his throat and rolls up one of his shirtsleeves. I’m sure he’d rather not say one way or the other how he feels about us, just like I’d rather not break it to Virginia that something about the phrase “charming young lady” makes my skin crawl.
I glance at Oakley, and she’s staring out the window.
She’s intimidatingly hot, sure, yes, fine. But maybe that doesn’t matter here. Much like me, Virginia, and Clint, she’s just trying to have lunch.
The waiter comes by with a menu. The options are short ribs, veggie noodles, chicken, salmon and shrimp (combined, for some reason), and baked ziti.
I’m wondering what kind of person orders short ribs on a train when Clint says, “Ialwaysget the ribs.” He looks up from the menu. “It’s all reheated, but even microwaved food tastes better on the train.”
