Page 20 of Somewhere Along The Line
I lengthen my stride as I approach Tempest Tapas, a coffeehouse-turned-bookstore-turned small plates joint I frequent with my sister when she comes to town. It’s a small comfort knowing this meeting will take place on my turf. I may not be at ease in James’s presence, but at least I’ll be in a familiar swivel chair that presses in on all sides.
I turn the corner and there he is: Banker Man in all his glory. It’s easy to forget how tall he is since I usually see him sitting on the train. He has his knee-length pea coat atop his outfit, but it’s unbuttoned so his blue oxford shirt peeks out when he moves. His hands are tucked in his pockets until he sees me and pulls one out for a wave.
James looks exactly like the kind of guy I could fall for, the kind of guy Ihavefallen for, all lean muscle and careful hair with a business school vocabulary and a penchant for stealing the check.
If the first step in fixing a problem is to admit you have one, pass me on to step two. I know this guy, I know his type, and I know the damage a smile like his can inflict.
I won’t be fooled twice.
“Hey, thanks for meeting me.” Again, he leads with gratitude, and it catches me off-guard.
“Oh. Yeah! Thanks for the suggestion.” Should I go in for a hug or a handshake? A high-five? If a standard protocol exists for greeting your week-old fake husband, I haven’t learned it yet. My shoulders settle for a small shrug.
“This place is one of my favorites,” I say. “I typically come here with my sister, but I suppose you will have to do. There are some chairs near the front in a reading nook-type area. Could be a nice place for us to talk.”
He nods, opening the door and then gesturing for me to walk in ahead of him. His familiar scent—the one I learned this morning—greets me as I pass.
“Piper’s got a sister. Noted.”
I swivel around to ask what the hellthatmeans and while I’ve stopped moving for a second, James hasn’t. In an instant my face meets his chest, his hands catching my hips to steady me. He presses in softly, anchoring me to the floor as I regain my balance.
There can’t be more than an inch between us. It’s shameful how much my lower half wants to close the gap.
“Wow,” I blurt, as usual, because apparently I can only conjure up one single word when it comes to this man. “I mean, thanks. Sorry. What were you saying about my sister?”
I step back and turn forward as we walk in tandem to my favorite chairs. We keep two feet of distance until we’re safely seated.
“I was just saying,” he adjusts himself in his pants, “that I didn’t know you have a sister. Felt like something important to note.”
“How so?”
“Well, if we have to pretend to be married, we should at least know the basics of each other’s lives. If we decide to go forward with this thing, I mean.”
My cheeks flush, and I hope the light is dim enough that he doesn’t notice. “Gotcha,” I choke out, concerned he mentioned marriage and I’m already losing my resolve to stay casual. Has it even been five minutes? “Let’s talk about it then.”
“Let’s.” James swivels his chair my way and leans forward, dropping his hands between his knees. If he could be more of an ogre, this conversation would be easier.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” I say. “We have two choices, really, and they both come with risks. Choice number one is to come clean at the station when we give our statements. We try to get ahead of our lie—to go on the offensive, if you will.”
I don’t know if James cares about sports. I also don’t know if I’m using this sports-sounding word correctly, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing.
“We tell them we shouldn’t be on the same Family Fares account and that we don’t want to go further in this process without being honest about the nature of our association.”
He nods and presses his fingers together, stretching them toward the back of his hands. His knuckles crack with the pressure.
“With this option, we wouldn’t have to lie—even by omission—to a bunch of officersand/orthe State if we are called to testify. But we’d have to walk into the police station and literally confess to a crime, which is horrifying.”
My anxiety is rising rapidly, and with it, the propensity for words to pour out of my mouth. “Do you know the potential consequences of fare evasion? I researched it today andwow, it’s way worse than I expected. We’re talking fines, community service hours, restitution, suspended riding privileges, even arrest or jail time.
“Why didn’t we look into this before signing up together? We really should have because I don’t have the money to pay a fine, I won’t be able to keep my job if I'm barred from public transit, and we both know I’d be a hot commodity in prison.”
James breaks into a laugh, and I get the sense he’s picturing me in an orange jumpsuit, bartering with a seasoned inmate for a pen to turn into a shiv.
“I’m serious,James! I’d be hard-pressed to become a social worker someday if I have a criminal record!” He seems to note the social work info, tucking it alongside the fact about my sister. I throw myself back in the chair and it rocks under the force of my stress.
“And option two,” James picks up where I’ve left off, “is we go down to the station, we give our statements, and we let them think what they already think. A ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ sort of deal.”
“And the risk,” I reply with a huff, “is we get busted, and I end up in jail anyway, probably with some additional hard time for misleading a police officer and lying under oath.”
