Page 18 of Somewhere Along The Line
It’s a sweet relief, this sort of laughter after the heaviness of the morning. The harder we try to rein it in, the worse the fit gets. We gasp like hyenas until we’re wrung dry, until our abs are sore.
“As I was saying,” I compose myself enough that the words are (mostly) intelligible, “we could decide to see this through. I mean, if you’re up for it.”
There’s a lot I don’t say right now about ethics and lying and loyalty. I’m not even sure what I mean by “see it through,” if I’m being honest.
I can’t read the look on Piper’s face as spins the suggestion around in her mind, swaying side to side as she thinks.
“Wecould…” she murmurs, rubbing her hands down her arms, her fingers pressing against the soft wool of her jacket as she considers her options. “We could. I’m not sure that weshouldkeep up this charade considering what happened this morning and what may be asked of us, but we could.”
She pulls her lips between her teeth, and I have to restrain my eyes from lingering on her mouth.
“How about this,” I say, nudging her gently with my elbow which she rewards with a small smile. “Take some time to think about what you want to do. We can make a plan to come clean before we give our statements, or we can let the folks at the station think what they want to think. I’ll defer to you entirely. Just let me know what you decide.”
I pull a business card from my wallet, a chuckle escaping with my exhale as I consider how comically formal this feels. This woman spent the better part of the morning tucked between my legs, after all.
“Here’s my cell. Shoot me a text when you’re feeling settled, and we can make a plan. No rush—the officer said it would be a few days before we hear from anyone with next steps.”
Piper takes the card and nods, toying with it for a second before slipping it in the back pocket of her tote.
“I will.” She smiles, a bit of hesitation pulling at the right side of her lips. She turns to head out, presumably in the direction of wherever she works, before spinning around to face me. “And seriously, thank you, James. For all of it.”
“Of course,” I parrot my words from earlier. Like before, I mean it.
The events of themorning replay in my head as I walk to work, the scenes flipping through my brain like cards in a toy View-Master:
The mixture of surprise and eagerness on James’s face when I sat down in the seat beside him on the train.
The way he grabbed the bag of sausage balls from my grasp, immediately opening them and stealing a smell.
His hand resting timidly on top of my leg as he asked for my eyes, and the electricity sparking under his fingers.
The ear-splittingPOP!and my immediate belief that I wouldn’t live long enough to leave the train.
My dive to the floor, James catching me in his arms and tucking me into his chest as I buried my face in his shirt.
His whispers in my ear, his hands smoothing my hair and then tracing circles on my back as I sat frozen.
The heat of him as I lay surrounded, James’s heart beating a steady thrum I worked to emulate.
How safe I felt during such a scary moment simply because James was with me.
I let my mind dwell there for a while, lingering in the warmth of the memory as I cut across the street. It’s outrageous to feel any positive emotion about the day’s events, I know that, but I can’t help it. I’m so used to taking care of myself (and frankly, everyone else) that being so intentionally, tenderly cared for by James has me floating.
The pitchy blare of a car horn brings me down to Earth.
Is something wrong with me? Maybe I hit my head when I ducked down. Although this new endearment toward James might be a normal reaction—the logical result of having a near-death experience together.
That’s why they make the people onThe Bachelordo those bungee jumping dates, right? Getting through something scary with another person makes you feel bonded.
Stupid dopamine response.
Once this high wears off, I am sure I’ll float back down to the realization that nothing has changed between us. No cocktail of brain chemicals could convince myrightmind that any real relationship with James Newhouse is a good idea.
I glance at my phone, slowing my steps briefly on the sidewalk to note the time: 10:25 a.m. Nearly two and a half hours after I typically start work.
No one knows where I am or what happened, and by the look of my notifications, people are concerned. If this morning’s incident has hit social media, much less the news, it would explain why I have seventeen missed calls.
I pick up my pace, willing my feet to move faster so I can get to my desk and start letting folks know I’m safe. Our building’s lobby is empty as I slip inside and up the stairs unnoticed. Praise the Lord I don’t have to give the whole team a play-by-play yet. I need to call Mom first.
