Page 71 of Leaving the Station
“There’s something I want to do at this stop,” Oakley says.
“No.” I cross my arms. “I refuse. There’s no way you know of an attraction inRugby, North Dakota.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says with a smug smile. “Rugby has designated itself the unofficial geographic center of North America, and there’s a little stone monument we can take a picture with.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay, but here’s the thing,” she tells me, biting her lip. “The monument is about a mile away, so we have to move fast. We can probably get there in fifteen minutes if we rush.”
“I mean, of course,” I tell her. “Because we’ll be walking on gay time. I always get where I’m going at least two minutes faster than the estimate.”
So, when the train pulls into the station, we jump onto the platform, fast-walking like we’re in a race.
We make it there in twelve minutes.
The monument is tall and made of stone, and next to it stand the US, Mexican, and Canadian flags.
“Apparently the real center of the continent is about one hundred miles away,” Oakley says as we stare at it. “But, you know, close enough.”
I have her stand in front of the monument and take her picture on my phone, which I turned on while we were running over here. (There’s no service, thankfully.) The sun is still low in the sky, and she’s soaking in the early-morning half-light. She’s beautiful.
“What?” she asks, smiling and covering her face. “Do I look horrible?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I want to get it right.”
I take the picture and promise to send it to her. Then I covertly tap the heart to add it to my favorites.
“All right, now let me take one of you.”
I reluctantly walk over, then strike a series of ridiculous poses.
“Can you do a normal one?” she asks, cocking her hip. “I want to remember this.”
That takes me by surprise; I pause my posing and stare at her, half-smiling, half-bemused.
“There,” she says. “Perfect.”
I flip her off.
“Let’s get one together.”
I agree and pull out my phone, leaning it against a rock and setting the self-timer. She puts her hand around my waist and I hold her there.
My heart feels pulled in a million directions, out to every city in North America, from here in its beating heart center.
Then, Oakley breaks the spell. “We have to get back,” she says, checking her phone. “We have ten minutes before the conductor abandons us in Rugby.”
While we’re sprinting back to the train, I try not to freak out about the fact that this trip ends tomorrow and I’m having the best time I’ve had in weeks, months, years. I’m with someone I like who likes me back and it’s all going to be over soon.
The thoughts of future sadness are too much—even if rightnow is so, so good, I know there’s only one way this will end. That my heart will break more than it already has. That all the good of this trip will be eclipsed by bad, bad, bad.
Even as I’m holding Oakley’s hand, as we’re running back to the train, I’m separate from myself. I’m watching this scene unfold from some unknown future, grieving the current moment.
Because this is going to end, and if my past is any indication, it won’t end well.
Thirteen
Wednesday, 10 a.m., Somewhere in North Dakota
