Page 9 of The No Pressure Pact
“And then my flight got delayed out of JFK, and I spent six hours next to a guy who kept trying to explain the differencebetween sparkling water and club soda like it was an advanced chemistry lesson.”
I laugh. “There’s a difference?”
“Apparently,” he replies, lifting one shoulder casually. “Something to do with added minerals that give one of them a salty taste? I can’t even recall the details, to be honest.”
He drops the duffel draped around his shoulder with a soft thud and sits next to me. Not too close, just enough that I can feel the warmth of him in the cool morning air.
“Are you heading straight to Lucerne?” he asks. His brown eyes appear lighter today, even in the clinical light of the airport.
I nod. “Trying to remember which train I’m supposed to get on first. It’s all very organized in Elle’s spreadsheet, which is great, but also slightly overwhelming after an eight-hour flight.”
“I’ve got some notes,” he says, fishing his phone out of a pocket on his oversized coat and immediately scrolling through it. “Although I thought I’d just follow someone smarter looking than me and hope for the best.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And you landed on me?”
“Obviously.” He shrugs again, and the movement, combined with the way he’s saying it, makes my stomach flutter. “You give off capable energy.”
“Thank you,” I say, and then after a beat, “I think?”
We stand and start walking together toward the signs for the trains. His suitcase clunks every few steps, even on the smooth tile of the arrivals area, and I try not to let the scene make me laugh.
“You know,” he says, glancing over at me, “I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew this early. Figured we’d all just magically appear at the house looking suspiciously well-rested.”
“Well,” I say, “you’re halfway there.”
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
“You showed up.”
Connor lets out a soft laugh. “And the other half?”
I shrug, grabbing on to my suitcase’s handle with a little more force than intended. “Debatable.”
“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “That’s brutal.”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
He smiles, easy and unbothered. “Guess I’ll have to win you over on the train.”
The train platform isn’t too crowded yet. We scan the board and find the right platform number, then walk toward it in companionable silence. The train arrives within a few minutes, sleek and quiet, and we get on without issue, heading towards the suitcase racks. I lift mine on, and Connor follows with a low grunt, almost like he’s laughing under his breath at himself—but the sound comes out rougher, heavier, and it catches me off guard. It’s nothing, really, just a noise, but it lands too close to the base of my spine, sharp enough to make me suddenly, annoyingly, aware of him. And when I glance up, he’s already watching me, like he’s just as surprised to notice me back.
We find seats near the window facing each other, and within a few minutes, the train starts moving. The view is already beautiful—green hills, small houses with flower boxes, glimpses of water just beyond the trees.
He stretches his legs out and leans back with a sigh. “So,” he says, eyes closed as if he’s intending to sleep the whole way to the first station where we need to change trains. “Any pre-trip regrets yet?”
“Not yet. You?”
He tilts his head to either side, stretching his neck. “Hmmm, ask me again in two days.”
I watch the countryside pass. It’s quiet in the train car. Peaceful, in that in-between way where no one expects anything from anyone yet. Where all you have to do is be exactly where you are, going in the exact direction you are heading in.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while. Not in an accusing tone in the slightest, simply making an observation.
“I’m always quiet,” I say. I want to add that I’m not usually the quiet one in a group, but it’s unnecessary. We’re friend-adjacent, and he doesn’t need to know every detail of my life and my feelings.
“That’s true,” he says. “But I think it’s on purpose.”
I glance at him, the words catching me off guard. His features are so relaxed, unlike anything I’ve seen recently. Normally, he’s buttoned-up and stiff, eyes always on his phone or thumbs typing furiously, even with his girlfriend next to him, talking loudly and gesticulating wildly with every story she tells. A lot of the men in the friend group are the same.Finance, was what everyone told me. Like their chosen professions just keep them on edge constantly.
