Page 74 of Somewhere Along The Line
“Then what’s stopping you, sweetheart?” She must be shuffling around the kitchen as I hear an occasional drawer closing and the clang of utensils shifting inside it.
“You’re scared, of course, but look at you,” she says. “You didn’t crumble. You worried that having him in your life would sink your job, but you got the promotion, Piper. He left, and you cried, but it didn’t bury you. If heartbreak happens again, with James or whoever might come next, you’ll deal with it. You’re strong enough. If something in your heart is telling you to try again, you should.”
The vision of someoneafter Jamesprompts a wave of nausea that rolls from my head to my toes. I don’t want anafter James. I want James. It’s as complicated and as simple as that.
It’s clarity I’m glad to have.
“You’re right, Mom. Happy? You’re always right.” I hope she can sense the smile in my voice, the way I say this with gratitude instead of the teenage angst that used to accompany these words. She loved me fiercely through that stage, without wavering, because she knew I’d come around.
She waited for me to come around.
Maybe that’s the lesson I need today—that love is about letting people come to their own conclusions in their own time. I exhale something between a laugh and a sigh as James’s words repeat in my mind: “I made the choice for both of us that this…thing…was too risky. Not only for me but for you. That wasn’t my call to make for you.”
James came around. Perhaps I can too?
“Let me know how it goes, honey. I love you!”
“I love you too, Mom.”
Friday comes with unexpected sunshine, and it melts away some of the anxiety that has a permanent home in my chest. Something about a sunny day, even when it’s near freezing, feels like hope—like the winter won’t last forever, and my ever-changing, stressful situation-of-the-moment won’t last either. I turn my face to the sun as I speed walk toward the train, dodging piles of melting, dirt-tinged snow as I focus on the station ahead.
It feels good to feel good for a moment, to shake off the stress I’ve been battling since seeing James a few days ago. He’s given me the space I asked for, and I’m grateful for that, but it’s also nerve-wracking.
What if he’s not willing to wait as long as I need? What if he regrets what he said in that stupid sandwich shop? What if seeing me reminded him of all the ways I’m a bad idea, the ways I’m never going to be the type of woman a guy like him should be with?
The “what ifs” are so frequent they’re starting to feel like friends.
I told myself (and Sami, who cannot get enough of this recent development) that I’d spend the weekend thinking and painting and figuring out what I want. What I don’t tell her, and barely admit to myself, is I’ve already decided.
I can’t venture back into the land of “What is this?” with James. We need to be together or not. No more in-between. If he wants to start again and can show me he’s serious about it, I’ll risk another try.
The steps to the platform are slick, and I’m careful not to touch the metal railing as I ascend—it will rip the skin off my hand with its frost. In the winter, I regret that the trains in this city are elevated and not shielded from the elements by operating underground. I swipe my new fare card quickly, the flimsy plastic moving from wallet to hand to the left side of the turnstile to wallet to bag without thinking.
The train pulls up as I approach and I wait for it to stop, shuffling my way to the third car where I will take my usual seat. I step over the gap, hauling my bag after me as the doors close. Glancing up to find my seat, I’m greeted by a mass of people who are all standing for some reason—a visual blockade of bodies. I try to inch my way past them, frustrated that today is the day everyone’s getting serious about sitting as the new silent killer.
Ducking and weaving, my heart makes a leap so wild it stops me in my tracks. There’s music playing, and it’s getting louder.
It’s a classic, the sort of song my parents would dance to in the kitchen, though I can’t make out the words yet.
I look around frantically, but no one else seems to recognize, much less care, that there is music wafting through the car. I expect some hothead to lash out any minute at the impertinence of it—the choice someone made to forget their headphones for a 7:26 a.m. train and play the music out loud.
There are unwritten rules on the train and whatever this is breaks several.
With enough force, I push past the last of the standers and he’s there, James, sitting in the seat next to mine. Well, he was sitting, but now he’s rising and with him the volume of the music playing from his phone, outstretched in his hand.
What is happening right now?
I follow the line of his arm to his shoulder, his neck, his face, his hair—hair that’s slicked back in a pompadour, teased up in the front. I drop my eyes to his chest, and it all becomes clear—the blockade, the music, the hair—James is dressed like Elvis. He’s singing and the people behind me have joined him in chorus.
And then the lyrics fall into place. It’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love."
I'm dizzy as I take in the scene. He reaches for my hand and pulls me to my seat before my legs buckle; the lurching of the train does my wild heart no favors. My field of vision blurs except for James and his face, my ears trained on the words coming out of his mouth.
The magnitude of James’s gesture, how far outside of his comfort zone he’s gone, how little he wants to be the center of attention… it makes me want to cry and laugh and dissolve into him entirely. Then the questions begin.
Where did he get this costume?
Who are these people?
