Page 68 of Somewhere Along The Line
“Okay, good. That’s good.” There’s no reason to keep talking to her now that this question about our charade, and whether we’ll need to revive it, has been answered. Still, my mouth keeps moving.
“I’m meeting with their office next week. I don’t know what’s going to happen from here, but I feel in my gut that I’ll be subpoenaed. I’d bet money on it.”
“That’s wild.” Those two words are all she says, and they betray none of her feelings about the matter. Especially paired with an apathetic expression I haven’t seen before.
“I just wanted to check in; I figured if you had gotten a call too, you’d want to talk about it. So glad you didn’t.” Piper nods. I guess that’s it.
She swings her bag from her shoulder and starts rifling through it. This particular bit of movement is so achingly familiar that hope pricks at my heart as I watch her dig. She finds what she’s looking for and brings it up, sliding her blue and yellow Family Fares card into my hand, cold plastic with roughed-up corners poking at the skin of my palm.
“I won’t need this anymore then.” She imitates a soft smile, the kind you give when a stranger enters your elevator. Piper strides past me to go left on the platform, in the direction of her office and the people she serves, the ones whom she loves and who love her back.
I turn the card over in my fingers, studying it, this last piece of evidence that there once was an “us.” Her act of returning it cleaves “us” into a distinct “me” and “you.”
While I debate throwing it away—tossing this token of my fears and failures into some grimy bin with the rest of the city’s refuse—I slide it into my pocket instead. Maybe I’ll tuck it into my scuffed shoe at the back of the closet, a monument to the beginning and end of what was, what could have been, and what wasn’t with Piper Paulson. It might make me feel worse, but at least it’ll remind me what I felt was real and that I’m capable of feeling at all. It’s the only consolation I can find at the moment.
Two Months Later
I wrap my arms tightly around my chest as I clear the steps of the courthouse. The winter wind bites at my cheeks, nipping them red—the tenderness of my skin echoing my heart. I don’t know why I’m doing this today, watching James give his testimony.
Getting his text last week inviting me to the hearing was like taking a shot of straight cortisol; I’ve been jittery ever since.
After two months, I had come to terms with never hearing from him again. There was nothing left to say after the fight at his dad’s house and how I responded to him showing up on the train three weeks later. I know I was too standoffish, though the same thoughts run miles in my mind justifying my behavior:
It caught me off guard, seeing him back on the train.
He didn’t give me any time to prepare for the interaction.
I had just gotten myself to a non-teary state when he came back into my life. It’s understandable I’d try to protect myself.
While true, these thoughts don’t quell the gnawing at my conscience when I think about my last exchange with James. If I’m willing to be honest with myself, I’m here at the courthouse for a few reasons. To make sure I won’t be arrested for fraud, first and foremost. To support someone who was once a friend. To hopefully get some closure, or maybe a final memory that’s not me handing him my Family Fares card.
If I’mreallyhonest, the buzz that accompanied his message rattled my bones, sparking the small flicker of hope that managed to survive my weeks of tears. While I don’t want to let myself wish for it, I wonder if he’s felt the same.
A rush of warm air tickles my face as I swing open the gilded door to the government building. I let my arms relax before I unwind my scarf and take off my coat, pushing both through the x-ray machine as I stride through the metal detector. The heat in the building stands in contrast to the aesthetics of the place, all white marble and cold metal.
I have no idea where I’m supposed to go next and I’m not about to text James. Maybe I’ll figure it out… or maybe I won’t and I’ll tell him I tried, hopefully receiving the closure I want without having to see him.
There’s still time to bail.
An officer walks by, taking pity on me standing helplessly in the lobby, and asks where I’m trying to go.
“The smoke bomb trial?” The case must have a formal name, something like “The State vs. Criminal” (as if that’s more official), but I have avoided learning anything meaningful about the proceedings.
I can’t dwell on that day, how it ignited the spark between us that burned too bright and then burnt out too fast. It’s better to ignore it, though that’s not possible now. Every memory of September 28th, and the incident that enshrines them, will be in front of me today.
The officer knows the case I’m talking about and directs me to the elevator, up to the third floor, second door on the right. I didn’t realize a courthouse has many small courtrooms and not a single grand one like they show on TV. It makes me wonder what else is happening here and what other lives have been upended by a single moment they have to relive today?
The thought makes me feel less alone.
The hallway is nearly empty as I slip in the back door, the courtroom more crowded than I thought it would be. The State invited everyone who witnessed the incident to attend, though I didn’t get a call—James’s phone number was on the account, and it makes sense they’d assume I’d be here givenmy husbandis testifying.
I recognize a few folks, people who continue to ride on the B Line and occasionally join my car, though they’re people who mean nothing to me outside of the air we share for fourteen minutes each morning.
The way it should’ve been with James.
There are available seats in the back of the gallery and I find one, dropping my bag on the ground and laying my coat on top. My hands slide back and forth over my legs as I wait.
When does this start? How does a hearing work? My stomach rumbles, demanding a breakfast I forgot to eat.
