Page 93 of Leaving the Station
“No,” I tell him.
Because he was my best friend, and one day, maybe years from now, I want to spend hours on the phone with him. I want to take him out to coffee and laugh at ourselves, at the people we were when we were young and naive and on the cusp of adulthood but not quite there.
“I really did like you,” I say. “Just probably not the way I should’ve.”
“Then in what way?” he asks.
“I’m trying to work that out,” I take a deep breath, and the Amtrak bathroom smell fills my nose.
I know I need to tell him the truth. I owe him that much. “I’m figuring things out with my gender. And maybe... I don’t know. You were a fairly nonthreatening man. It wasn’t that much of a leap to think that if I was a little more masculine-presenting I could look like... you.”
He was an easy escape from the thoughts I was having about my gender, about the way I wanted the world to perceive me. But I don’t want to hide from that anymore.
“I don’t know whether to be honored or scared.” He laughs a little, and this time it’s more sad and less cold. “At least you didn’t try to wear my skin like a suit.”
“That was the next step,” I joke, and he laughs genuinely, the way he did during our late-night talks.
We’re quiet for a moment. Maybe it’s because we both know that this will be the last conversation we have for a while.
“Thank you, Alden,” I say finally.
“For what?”
“For helping me figure things out.”
He sighs, and it comes out like a crackle over the phone. “I wish I could’ve been more to you. I really, really liked you, Zoe.”
“I know,” I tell him, tears falling now.
He takes another breath. “I loved you,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say again, my voice breaking.
How can two people be dating but have two entirely different ideas of what it means? He thought we had a future, and I thought I waslookinginto my future. Into the person I could be.
“I’m going to go,” he says. “Probably not to sleep after this, but I might stare at the ceiling.”
I smile a little at that. “Have fun,” I tell him. “And Alden, I’m so sorry. Like, I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
“I’m sorry too, Zoe.”
With that, he hangs up.
I head back to the observation car and wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my flannel, just as the conductor lets us know that we’re leaving the station.
Thursday, 3 a.m., Eastern Washington
The first thing I do is grab my beat-up paperback. I wanted to read on this trip, so I do. Living my life for me and all that.
The book with the war-torn woman facing backward is not bad, and once I’ve read a few chapters, I check that off my mental to-do list.
And then I’m restless again. Because as much as I want to follow through on living my life for me for the rest of the train ride, the only way I can do that is if I fix things with pretty much everyone.
I get up and stretch, pacing back and forth along the aisle of the observation car until I stumble upon a body and promptly turn around.
Apologizing to Alden was just the beginning. I have a million people I want to speak to, but it’s the middle of the night, so I start with a text.
The first is to the Tees.
