Page 28 of Leaving the Station
“Excuse you, I’ll have you know my brain has many folds,” I tell her, which might be true anatomically, but it’s not how I’ve been feeling lately.
Oakley’s brain, on the other hand, must be made entirely of folds. Deeply annoying, too-smart-for-her-own-good folds but folds nonetheless.
“So,” Oakley begins, turning to me but not quite meeting my eyes. “What are we doing for lunch?”
She sounds nervous, and I try to hide the smile that creeps onto my face. She wants to hang out with me. She wasn’t just saying it to get rid of Guy Fieri’s evil twin.
“We could eat in the station?” I suggest. “I don’t want to lug my suitcase around.”
“I’m sure there’s a place where we can drop off our bags.”
“So if we find a place to put our bags, you want me to walk around with you and have lunch? Outside?”
“Do you have a better way to waste four hours?”
I have plenty of ways to waste four hours. I’m an expert at it.
But I find, as I think about it, that I want to waste this time with her.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, taking a breath. “But sure. Let’s go waste four hours.”
I’ve never been to Chicago before—it’s freezing, and I’m underdressed.
“Why didn’t you bring gloves?” Oakley’s bundled in a peacoat, topped with a white cable-knit hat with a matching scarf and gloves.
She looks polished and preppy. Meanwhile, I’m wearing a light shell over my day-old overalls and flannel.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d be walking around Chicago!” I shiver, and Oakley burrows farther into her jacket.
“Did you not look at the itinerary?” she asks.
“No, not really.” I booked the train so last-minute that I only checked to make sure it would get me to Seattle. I didn’t focus much on what would happen in between.
She eyes me suspiciously. “So you’re taking a cross-country train ride and you don’t even know where it’s stopping?”
“I know where it’s stopping, just not for how long,” I admit.
I don’t want her asking too many questions about the logistics of my trip, because if she does then she might want to know the reason I’m taking the train in the first place.
And I can’t have that.
Ilikethat Oakley doesn’t know me or why I’m riding the train. The expectations she has of me are only based on how I look and what we’ve talked about, and both my outfit and our topics of conversation have been very queer, so it feels right. She knows a part of me that I’ve been stifling for months.
“Where are you taking me?”
When we left Union Station, Oakley said she had a place in mind, so I let her lead the way, which may or may not have been a mistake. She’s been guiding us for half an hour or more, with no sign of stopping.
“You’ll see.”
We’re silent again for a few minutes as we walk and Oakley checks the directions on her phone.
And then she pauses in front of a church.
“It’s here,” she says, pointing at the large beige, brick building.
“You wanted to see... a church?” I jump in place, trying to warm myself up.
“No,” she says, pointing to a second-story window. “I wanted to see a ghost.”
