Page 19 of Somewhere Along The Line
“PIPER?!” The yell almost ruptures my eardrum as Mom’s voice bounces off the walls of my office. She’s not even on speakerphone.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick all morning. I heard what happened. You know I know you take the train every day. I understand that you’re busy, but how hard would it be to send your mom a quick text to say you weren’t in that train car?”
She’s talking a mile a minute, and while I feel her exasperation, I smile at my own frantic cadence echoed in my ear.
“Actually, Mom,” I take my bag from my shoulder and drop it near my feet, “Iwasin that train car. I just got to my office. It was a crazy morning, but I’m okay. Really, I’m fine. It was just some smoke, that’s all.”
“This is absolutely not fine! Do you need me to come up there? I can load up the car now and be at your house by dinner. I can’t believe this. I knew you moving back to the city was a bad idea. I talked to your sister the other day and she said you never even called her back last week…”
I stretch the phone several inches from my ear, filling my lungs with a deep breath before I re-engage.
“I hear you Mom, I do. Everything is okay; you don’t need to drive up here. Promise. Hey, I’ve gotta go. I need to let everyone else know I’m okay. Love you!” I end the call before Mom has a chance to argue.
I plop down in my rolling desk chair to scroll through my notifications and send the required texts—to Sami, my sister Gemma, a friend from high school who also works in the city, my brother Kent, my grandpa Bud, and the lady who does my hair who knows I ride the B Line.
They all want the full story, but I don’t have it in me to tell it just yet. They’ll have to settle for knowing I’m safe.
There’s one more message I need to write, my eyes lingering on the screen as I consider it. James said this was my call—that I could choose how we address the issue of our relationship (or rather, our “relationship”)—but that doesn’t feel right.
We both agreed to this fake-marriage-for-benefits thing; we should also agree on how to deal with it in the aftermath of today’s events. Besides, I can’t risk he rats me out Prisoner’s Dilemma-style when we go to the station to give our statements.
We need to get our stories straight.
I type James’s number directly in the text message’s “to” field, ignoring the option to create a contact card. A contact card implies repeated contact… which is not going to happen.
James and I will talk, we’ll figure out a plan, and then we’ll go back to exchanging soft smiles on the train each morning. The endearment I felt toward James on the walk to the office is my signal to back away. I can’t risk drifting from the path I’ve painstakingly rebuilt solely because this man comforted me this morning.
I add no emojis or exclamation points and hit send. This text is all business, a farce now that I know the smell of his aftershave and can feel the ghost of his fingers on my back.
He replies almost immediately.
Obviously…
Is it just me, or is there a shocking level of emotional intelligence and self-awareness in these few texted lines? Hats off, Banker Man.
I pause for a second, weighing which direction to take this conversation. Meeting in person is a bad idea. It’ll feel like a date whether I want it to or not, and the fact that Idowant it to is a red flag.
That said, James and I might be able to wrap this up in an hour over drinks while a series of emails or texts could last for days. I’d rather make the decision tonight. The butterflies in my stomach at the thought of having a drink with James have nothing to do with it.
I exit the thread and turn my phone face down on the desk as I mull over his words. “Thanks for reaching out.” Didn’t have much of a choice given we may need to show upas spousesat the police station soon, but I appreciate his graciousness.
“Piper! I heard what happened!” Jenny, Hope First’s development coordinator, spots me through the window next to my desk and makes a beeline for my office. “You have to get out here, this thing on the train is all anyone has been talking about. Are you okay? What was it like? Did you think you were going to die? I would’ve been losing my shit!”
My stomach cartwheels at being put on the spot like this. I’m not ready to answer these questions, but a crowd gathers at my door regardless.
Wiping my damp hands on my skirt, I stand up from my workspace and follow everyone to the lobby—a large landing at the bottom of the stairs with two armchairs. My coworkers gather around like first graders ready for story time, sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor as I lord above them from my seat, their eyes attentive and eager.
“Is it true that everyone huddled together in the back of the car? I heard you were packed like sardines in there!” Sadye, twenty years old and our newest intern, may be the most eager of all.
“Well, I mean, it was crowded because it’s the train. When the incident happened, everyone kind of stuffed themselves between the rows, the seat backs promising a bit of protection. I wouldn’t say people were huddled though, everyone stayed spread out.”
This is a version of the truth I'm comfortable sharing. She didn’t ask ifI, specifically,was huddled together with someone. We can stick to the broader facts here.
The friendly interrogation goes on too long before I shoo everyone back to their respective desks. I’ve got eight hours of work to fit into four with a hard stop at 6:35 p.m. All other burning questions will have to wait.
The train drops me at my stop, and I’m jittery with nerves as I head across the outdoor platform and down to the sidewalk. I’m not sure why I’m anxious; I basically spooned with James Newhouse for an hour this morning and whatever happens tonight will certainly be less awkward.
Except, of course, that the spooning didn’t feel awkward at all. Which is concerning.
