Page 27 of Somewhere Along The Line
I watch him turn the corner and unfortunately, he looks as handsome as ever. Tailored pants, fitted button-down shirt, open pea coat, bag hung effortlessly on his shoulder and styled hair. James is a beacon of put-together perfection. I wonder if he gets tired of it, looking this pretty.
I wouldn’t.
“Hey, Banker Man!”
James breaks into a grin at my shout. If he’s sticking with a nickname, so will I.
“You ready for this?” I brush dirt off my butt as I stand and walk down to the sidewalk.
“Absolutely!” He picks me up in a hug and twirls me around, my feet floating through the air before I can protest. It makes me laugh, this gesture, and I’m surprised by how much I like it—both his hug and my laughing.
“Areyouready for this?” James tilts his head to catch my eyes, and he looks different than I’ve seen him before. Lighter, less stressed.
Thank God because my nerves will go further through the roof today and one of us needs to stay calm.
“I can be ready,” I reply, nudging his side with my shoulder. I feel around in my tote and grab his bag of sausage balls. I already stress-ate my own on the stoop. Tossing them his way, I watch as he grabs the bag and holds it to his heart before tucking it in the pocket of his coat.
Strangely, I’ve never seen him actually eat one. I want to believe him when he tells me he saves them for lunch. Given we’re together this morning because of a mutual lie, though, maybe I shouldn’t presume honesty.
We walk toward the station in lockstep, not to my usual Roosevelt stop but further west to Monroe where we’ll catch the F Line. It feels easy between us as we make our way over, nothing substantial by way of conversation but enough to keep my mind busy as we stroll. We take the stairs up to the platform and swipe our fare cards—evidence of our ruse that we tuck in our pockets—and we wait.
After riding the train together for weeks, this moment feels different. James and I aren’t riding together as two individuals in a shared space, we’retaking the train together as two people in a unit. It feels strange, different, but good.
James finds us seats as we enter the third car (because we’re creatures of habit), and we settle in for the ride. “You okay?” he asks after noticing that my leg is bouncing faster than a metronome.
“Yep, I’m fine,” I choke out, the least convincing affirmative that has ever been uttered.
He takes his left hand and steadies my right knee, splaying his fingers across my thigh with just enough pressure.
“Breathe, Piper,” James instructs, and I take a deep inhale and release a long exhale as his thumb slides back and forth, his pinky finger slipping occasionally to graze between my thighs.
I’m not sure if distraction was James’s plan all along, but I’m distracted all right. My heart rate ticks up instead of down, which may defeat the purpose of this meditative exercise, but I’d rather be wound up with want than anxiety.
We sit just like this, his hand steadying my leg as we stare out the window and comment on landmarks, favorite restaurants, and the old metro post office James visited on a field trip as a kid. The thought of a tiny James Newhouse in a turn-of-the-century government building fills me with delight. I’m sure he was the cutest first-grader alive, likely attentive and curious too. I like hearing his version of the world we’re seeing outside.
The train screeches to a stop, much sooner than I’d like, as we pull into the main terminal. We join the huddle near the doors and the overwhelming urge to offer a one-liner in our usual style appears in my throat. Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything—how rude of my brain to abandon me this way.
“After you, my dear.”
James says this with a cheeky grin as he guides me onto the platform. For the first time, we both turn right after leaving the train, making our way to the stairwell and down the steps to the street together.
He circles around to position himself nearest the traffic, grabbing my hand as we weave through the morning’s commuters. It’s a six-minute walk from here to the station, and James decides it’s time for a pep talk.
“Alright, P, the hardest part is over.”
Is it though??I give him the side-eye as he continues.
“That’s what they say, right? The first step is the hardest, and we’ve already made it through steps one and two, the walk and the ride.”
He’s so endearing with this encouragement that I’m almost tempted to believe him. Almost.
“I’m pretty sure the hardest part will be living a lie in front of a few police officers but please, go on.” It’s a snarky comment, I know, but James doesn’t care.
“It’ll be simple. We’ll go in, I’ll introduce both of us, and I’ll state that we’re here to give witness statements. We’ll sit in a waiting room and they’ll call us back, probably separately, to give our account of the day. Your only job is to tell the officer what happened on the train that morning. You don’t have to volunteer details that aren’t relevant, like why you have a different last name, for example.”
“Lots of married women keep their last names!” I interject, willfully missing his point. He levels me with a look. “Okay, fine. I’ll try to stick to the facts.” I smile, but it’s not convincing.
We arrive at the door and he pulls it open, letting me duck under his arm to enter the station. Our first stop is a set of metal detectors where an officer searches my bag. Nothing in there but a few notebooks, empty snack wrappers, and a card I meant to mail two months ago.
