Page 8 of Somewhere Along The Line
He says it like it’s the score of last night’s game or the weather forecast for this upcoming weekend. Like it’s nothing out of the ordinary, like he isn’t an incredibly hot stranger—well, I guess he’s just barelynota stranger now—and like he didn't just offer to tie himself to me for the sake of my grocery budget.
“We…” I gesture wildly between us, circling my hand in front of his chest and mine. “You and me…could split… a family pass.”
Hearing the words come out of my mouth makes me dissociate from my body. I’m watching this conversation from another dimension, equally stunned in both worlds.
“Yes,we…” he says leisurely, mirroring my hand motion and drawing out the words for emphasis, as though speaking slowly will help my brain comprehend, “could split a family pass. I can’t imagine the MTA employs people whose job it is to check the relationship status between pass holders. They can’t even staff enough people to keep the platforms salted in the winter. I’ll go into my commuter account, add you, and I’ll bring you the new card next week.”
Again, James says this as though he’s rattling off a list of items he needs from Home Depot and not like he’s proposing we commit transit fraud (is that a thing?) by falsifying our relationship to the state government. He looks as unfazed as I look incredulous.
“You’ll add me as what, exactly?” Skepticism drips from my voice. I hope it hides my ascending glee at what I know he’ll say next.
“As my fake wife, I guess, though I’d obviously leave thefakepart off the application. I’ll need your last name to add to the portal unless you want me to list you as Mrs. James Newhouse.”
He means this as a joke, of course, meant to lighten the mood. Instead, the tension between us grows taut as we consider, briefly, the weight of what he’s just said. He scrambles to redirect the line of thought.
“Listen, I know we’re strangers and this is an insane proposition, but look around, Piper. This idea isn’t even close to being the wildest thing happening on the train today. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. You agree, I update my account, and you save money on the fare. A plus B equals C. Honestly, you don’t have to pay for your portion. It won’t cost me much more each month—won’t make a dent.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, shifting in his seat as he stretches his fingers and rolls out his neck as if trying to release the tension that’s built during this conversation.
“You must be joking.” I’m pretty sure this is when I roll my eyes. “Yesterday I ruined your shoes and today you repay me by literally offering to cover my commute? What’s in it for you?”
“The warm fuzzy feeling that comes from being kind?” He smirks and I can’t help but nudge his shoulder with my own, a tactile plea for him to be honest with me. I regret the second I shift back to my own space, feeling the place where he was acutely and becoming instantly aware of all the places I’d like him to be.
“Okay, how about this? You join my commuter account and in exchange, I get some of…whatever it is you bring for breakfast every day. You make some for yourself and bring some for me.”
James gestures to the bag of sausage balls in my lap, which, I admit, look less like a set of individual balls and more like a brownish-beige glob of cholesterol in a Ziploc. I immediately regret thinking the phrase “set of balls” and yet here we are.
“So, to confirm,” I eye him with intention, one eyebrow raised as I lean tentatively into his half of the two-seater bench, “I moonlight as your wife, you cover my daily train fare, and I bring you the Midwest’s favorite potluck staple in return?”
James nods, accepting the terms as if this is a totally reasonable thing we’ve decided on. He sticks out his hand to make it official. “Well, Miss…”
“Paulson.”
“Miss Piper Paulson.” He cocks his head to the left like he’s working out how my name fits with my features. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
I cautiously extend my right hand, unsure how we went from “sorry I messed up your shoe with my toenail” to “yes, I’ll pretend to be your wife and bring you breakfast sausage rolled in a biscuit” within twenty-four hours.
James grips my hand firmly but with a conscious effort to match my strength—to not squeeze too hard. I notice the valleys between his knuckles, the uncalloused skin of a man who makes a living in an office and not out in the sun. The warmth and weight of his fingers settle around my hand as he gives a gentle shake, lingering for just a moment longer than seems necessary.
Though, is a handshake necessary at all for an arrangement like this?
He throws a small smile my way as we pull back our hands, choosing to sit the remaining three minutes in silence. Energy thrums through me as I turn over the conversation in my head, my mind racing as fast as my heart.
This doesn’t mean anything, I whisper to the spinning wheels in my brain. Goodness knows I don’t have the time or headspace for it to mean anything even if it could.
Still, the knowledge that I’m sharing something with this stranger-turned-not-stranger lights up like a spark I want to shelter and nurture. We’re not only sharing a commute, we’re sharing a commuteanda secret. I forgot that secrets could be this fun.
The train slides into the downtown station and I gather my things, careful not to bump James as I sling my tote over my shoulder and ball up the napkin that accompanied my (apparently intriguing) breakfast.
He stands and smooths out the top of his pants, catching my eye briefly before I take a sudden interest in the peeling plastic on the seat in front of me. James straightens with an exhale, shakes out his limbs, and proceeds to tuck away his levity along with his phone.
In an instant, James transforms back into the stoic, no-nonsense Banker Man I had previously assumed him to be. I wonder if it feels as stiff on the inside, this commitment to discipline and pragmatism, as it looks from the outside.
We shuffle toward the doors without talking, focused on making our way through and past the throng of Elvi to cross onto the platform. He goes right as I go left, both of us stepping into the spaces we belong, him to his spreadsheets and me to my advocacy work.
I don’t feel any wistfulness at this moment, no pang of desire for us to venture in the same direction. Splitting off here feels right; the two of us can exist as a “we” on the train, and in name only. Nowhere else.
Halfway down his set of stairs, James turns with a shout.
