Page 71 of Somewhere Along The Line
The incident on the train occurred when? A week after we met? Three conversations deep? James couldn’t have known he loved me then. Right?
All he knew of me was that I’m clumsy and poor and am consistent with my breakfast.
The attorney continues her line of questioning, but I hear exactly none of it. Thoughts and timelines swirl in my mind until I can’t concentrate over the thumping of my heart. It’s taken weeks to convince myself James never cared about me, to believe the mess of words that roared out of his mouth in his backyard.
But what if… what if he wasn’t trying to convince me, but rather himself?
Holy shit.
Something happens and people start moving, standing to stretch, rolling out their necks, gathering their things. I wish I knew how James’s testimony ended, to get a read on his expression at this moment, but I can’t find him amid the crowd gathering en masse at the courtroom door.
Is this it? Is our whole charade really, truly over now? Relief settles in my chest as the weeks and months of anxiety about this trial finally dissipate. But it’s met with a sinking feeling in my gut, the relief quickly turning to something else. Regret, or maybe disappointment, that the final tie between James and I is now cut.
My eyes are down and unfocused while I remain in my seat. A tornado of thoughts and feelings rips through me, wreckage of the last few months of my life swirling around in the periphery of my mind.
I blink alert when a pair of shoes enters my field of vision, Cole Haans with a large scuff on the toe. James’s voice greets my ears before I see his face.
“Thanks for being here.” I don’t look up. “For coming down here today.” He takes a step closer, and if I lift my head, I will be eye-level with his crotch which is the last thing I need right now. James turns and sits in the seat to my right and we sink into the same position we have always assumed, my knee pressing lightly into his leg.
My heart waits for his left hand to settle on my thigh. I shouldn’t expect it right now, not after everything, but it’s a gift when it comes. Neither one of us acknowledges it.
James turns to face me, and I swivel to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are magnified behind his glasses, flecks of gray and green catching the light, and they’re filled with an emotion I can’t discern. He's the picture of perfection with his hair carefully styled, his tie perfectly straight, and his suit custom fitted so it looks poured onto his body, but that’s not the man I see.
I see a James who is as messy as I am, who keeps people away because he can’t stand the thought of hurting them or allowing himself to be hurt. He wants a tidy outcome, and that’s not how love works evenwhenit works.
“We’re adjourned for lunch,” James says quietly, as though he doesn’t want to startle me. Doesn’t want to make me jump and pull my leg out from under his touch. “Any chance you’d join me? I have a few things I’d like to say if you’d let me.”
My heart softens with the words, their familiar kindness and lack of expectation, the type I’d come to expect from him before he became someone else.
There he is,my soul whispers.
There’s my James.
I nod, trying to temper any trace of eagerness that may spill out from my throat before I decide how to feel. I bombard my brain with positive self-talk, the strategy I’ve been working on with my therapist thrown into overdrive:
I can have lunch with James.
I can hear him out, maybe tally up some points for my own closure.
We can eat a meal and catch up.
It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
You’re not as breakable as you think.
“Sure,” I reply, grabbing my bag and sliding my water bottle into it. “I’ll follow you out.”
We settle at atable in a local sandwich shop, a dive as unromantic as they come. It smells vaguely of vinegar and burnt bread, the occasional ding of a toaster interrupting the chatter of businessmen on their lunch breaks.
It’s not ideal for this reunion, but it’ll do.
“So,” Piper offers, extending an olive branch after I gave one earlier with this invite. “What’s new with Mr. James ‘Banker Man’ Newhouse? Other than not getting busted this morning on the stand, I mean.”
The tentative smile she offers to accompany the nickname thaws some of the ice between us, allowing us to settle back into the playful but guarded banter we had when this charade started. It’s comforting.
“Well, Pipes,” I say cautiously, wondering if she’ll throw something at me for calling her that. Instead, her eyes give a dramatic, familiar roll. “I’ve been working, much to no one’s surprise. Dad moved into his apartment, about five blocks from my place, and that’s been an adjustment. We were able to sell the house for cash.”
I try to hide a grimace, but I’m sure she catches it easily. A cash offer in this area means they want the lot; they’re likely to bulldoze the house if they haven’t already. Her face changes, an I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know kind of look to tell me she understands how much it hurts to lose the house that way.
