Somewhere Along The Line

1. Piper

Catching this train would be easier if I wasn’t missing a shoe. How am I supposed to convince my boss I'm worthy of a raise—that I can handle more responsibility—ifI shuffle into the office on a naked foot?

Something is always amiss in my life but it's typically not this literal.

One worry at a time, Piper.

That's what Dr. Browne would say, and her words echo in my mind as Ihoist myself up the station’s stairs and steer my toes away from a sticky mess on the platform.

My anxiety about the promotion, and how it would fix my money issues, can have itsturn later.

My lungs are desperate for air and my heart pounds reprimands in my chest as I dart into the third car through the disappearing space between the closing doors.

I’m right on time at 7:26 a.m.

The trek from my house takes twenty minutes, yet every morning I give myself fifteen. It’s the story of my life, each day trying to stretch something into more, a little into enough, when that something isn’t elastic to begin with.

Time. Money. Certain responsibilities.

No matter, I can take a marble block and chisel it into the David… well, maybe not the David, but perhaps something sort of resembling a man named David. Maybe one who dropped his cheap beer on the platform last night, chuckling with heavy eyes and this week’s hook-up still tangled in his arms.

Close enough.

That’s what I tell myself at my therapist’s urging: I’m capable, I can figure things out, and it’s okay if the details of my life are not perfect. Dr. Browne thinks positive self-talk is the answer to my anxiety. I think the jury’s still out.

“You’re on my shoe.”

The sound echoes in my ears, the hair at the back of my neck standing up as I try to orient myself to where the voice is coming from. This is a collected voice, a makes-homemade-French-press-every-morning voice, a get-your-shit-together-because-mine-certainly-is voice.

I recognize this voice. Not from a conversation, but from a tense work call this man conducted on the train last week, loudly enough for everyone in the third car to hear.

I couldn’t drag my eyes away from him and not only because he was rude. He looked straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. It made my stomach somersault.

What shoe? I wonder, then suddenly remember—shoes! Ah yes, I’m missing a shoe. And upon surveying the situation—my eyes dragging down from the broad chest in front of me to the floor—I see my bare foot on top of this man’s Cole Haan suede.

Worse, my toenail has edged a deep scratch across the top of the toe box.

An expensive toe box.

“Wow, holy shit. Sorry. Yikes, wow. Let me just—” I hobble on one leg, the weakest attempt at a smile settling on my lips as I grasp the cold metal pole between us for support. The suede tickles as I slide my foot off his and the man moves away, not making eye contact.

It’s like he thinks spending a second more in my presence might cause my chaos to stick to him and impart something messy onto his otherwise immaculate (and immaculately fitting) navy suit.

“It’s, uh… it’s fine,” he mutters, his hand raking into his mousy brown hair and then drawing down the side of his face. The motion projects God, I’m tired and you aren’t worth my time in equal measure.

“I can pay to fix it,” I reply, glancing down at his shoe and finally up to his face, my smile getting weaker by the second. I force the muscles in my cheeks to rise.

Do I have the money to fix his shoe? Absolutely not. But could I figure it out? Of course. I’m Michaelangelo… or something like that.

“Cole Haan, right?”

The man’s blue eyes perk up and settle on mine, flashing a hint of curiosity before regaining their stoicism.

“They’ve got a program, Cole Haan does, a shoe repair program. You can send in damaged shoes, and they’ll buff or fix or whatever else to make them look new again.” The words tumble out of my mouth at a rapid clip. “My brother Kent does it—sends his shoes in. He’s a banker. He knows things.”

The man shifts uncomfortably, his gaze gliding down the length of my body before settling back on his defaced loafer.

Good GOD, what am I doing right now?

My brain is self-talking alright, but the talk isn't positive.

Get it together. Can you act like a normal human for once? One with a brain and the ability to stop the words from spilling out of your mouth at sixty miles per hour, word vomiting on this specimen of a man who doesn’t have the time or desire for this interaction?

The answer is no, it turns out. I cannot. The spew continues.

“I said that ‘cause I figured you’re a banker like my brother. I mean, I can tell—I worked in corporate finance before things went totally to shit, which is another story for another time, but anyway, I said that so you know I know what I’m talking about. About the shoe repair, I mean.”

If my body had a meter to measure the nervous energy flitting off it right now, the gauge would show max capacity.

“Really, it’s fine.” His mouth is attempting to approximate a smile, but it’s not working. “It’s just a shoe, the train is crowded, it’s…” He gives half a shrug as the words trail off before turning his attention to his jacket and fiddling with a button between his long fingers.

Oooookay then. Had I known this morning would devolve into an awkward stand-off with Banker Man, I would've let myself miss the train.

The next few minutes pass in stony silence until a group of rowdy high schoolers gets off at the Robertson stop, opening seats near the back of the car.

The man darts to claim one by a window the second it’s free, pulling out his phone with an intent look.

Not that I’m looking. At him. Or at his expression. Or at what he’s doing with his perfectly groomed eyebrows, or how his thumb swipes at the screen in a way that feels obscene to someone imagining his thumb and this swiping motion elsewhere.

Which I am not… though the warmth building in my lap suggests otherwise.

I take a deep breath, air pushing at my ribs from the inside out, and find a seat of my own as far away from Banker Man as possible. With both feet planted on the floor, I push my hands down my thighs. It’s a sensory thing, this action I’ve done for as long as I can remember—a means of providing necessary pressure to calm my racing mind.

My therapist says it’s a strategy called “embodiment,” and it works by bringing attention to your body from your head, into the present versus the past or the future. That’s what I need. Because one thing is certain: my body must agree with my brain that this man—and this morning’s pathetic exchange—are not something to fixate on.

It doesn’t matter if he’s exactly my type, over six feet tall with a starched collar and curated hair, plus the ability to make my heart flip at a glance. The fact he’s my type is the reason I can’t spend any energy on him.

I don’t need another banker to come in and destroy my life. I don’t need anyone at all, I remind myself.

It’s not lost on me that this week marks two years since my corporate job (and my relationship with my corporate boyfriend) went up in flames. Every good thing in my life burned down in one afternoon, leaving me without a place or a person to witness the carnage, much less to bandage me up.

I will never let that happen again. The thought of it clenches at my chest, squeezing tight around my ribcage.

I never wanted the job at Fundament. I said as much to Kent, and, like the oppressive big brother he is, he’d already arranged it with HR.

“You won’t make me a fool by quitting before you set foot in the door.” Like the people-pleasing middle child I am... was? ... I complied.

It made sense to put my business degree to use. While I would’ve loved to join a non-profit or an advocacy group, stepping onto the bottom rung of the corporate ladder felt like the smart move. One that could help me manage my student loans, afford an apartment on my own, and bankroll the trips I wanted to take. Gosh, I wanted to take those trips.

So, I set my heart aside, pulled on some (thrifted) Jimmy Choo pumps, and convinced myself that click-clacking away on a computer creating value was what I wanted. Because why wouldn’t it be? That’s what everyone else wanted for me, and everyone else seemed to know me better than I know myself.

It’s no wonder I have anxiety.

And when a handsome, smart, clever, and charming man named Henry joined the firm and decided I was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen? I jumped in headfirst. I’d bring him coffee and he’d bring me salads and we’d sit around the conference table, him formatting pitch decks while I worked to make the numbers tie.

We laughed and climbed and built our American Dream on the backs of the nameless and faceless people we ignored because that’s how capitalism works.

We were happy. It seemed like we were happy.

I thought I was happy.

Until the whole thing went to shit. Until Henry Sierra was screaming at me for fucking up his life and tanking the company, his face burning red and spit flying between his teeth.

That’s enough to make you realize that whatever happiness you thought you’d found wasn’t actually happiness. That existing in a world with people like Henry wasn’t the way to get it.

There will be no more bankers for Piper Paulson.

The chill of the train car’s metal frame radiates from behind me, sending a shiver down my back as I tuck my tote bag across my chest. The warmth from my breakfast seeps through the canvas, and it’s a welcome distraction from the glances Banker Man occasionally throws in my direction. I hate that he’s catching me looking at him, but it’s only because he keeps looking here first.

His fault, I decide.

I fix my attention on how far I’ve come—on all I’ve accomplished since I walked out of the Fundament building and never looked back. The way I made it through that first year living at home given my sudden lack of income in this ridiculously expensive city. How I filled my days helping Mom prep projects for her first-grade classroom and dreaming about a future that felt like my own—not the product of everyone else’s expectations.

It wasn’t all bad, I tell myself now, choosing to ignore the itch that starts on my skin when I think about the twin bed that sheltered me at age eight and again, unwittingly, at twenty-six.

Then there’s Sami, the absolute best college roommate-turned friend-turned adult roommate-turned-wannabe life coach. Sami, who has never once made me feel like I’m anything other than perfection wrapped in sunkissed skin and a graphic tee. It’s hard to believe she can fit so much support and encouragement into her tiny, five-foot-nothing frame.

Sometimes I think her magic is hidden beneath her mass of shiny black curls.

When I got the job offer from Hope First six months ago (after interviewing at no fewer than eighteen non-profits), we spent the night at our new place watching Titanic and drinking champagne, stopping only to discuss how Leonardo DiCaprio went from being the hottest man on Earth to a serial age-gap dater with a surprisingly round face.

It was the start of a new chapter, one I was eager to fill with all sorts of goodness I had been missing, desperately, for far too long.

And now things are looking up. I’ve spent the past two years building a mosaic out of my life, placing one broken shard into the picture at a time, and it’s finally starting to make sense… if you stand far away and squint a little. I tally the pieces I’ve added lately:

A great new job, even if it does pay fifty percent less than I used to comfortably make at Fundament.

The ability to help people, moms and their kids, who need support as they navigate life without a partner.

The cutest coach house apartment with Sami that is slowly coming together, filled with flea market finds in every color imaginable and our very own stackable washer and dryer.

Enough money to buy the groceries I want to buy most weeks.

Painting, even though it’s just with the kids at work on Thursday afternoons. Our weekly painting class lights up a part of myself previously buried under mounds of numbers and paperwork. It’s helping me breathe again.

“Your stop?”

That voice, the never-forgets-a-birthday, always-returns-his-voicemails, custom-tailors-his-clothes voice pops my brain bubble for the second time this morning. I blink up at him towering over me, his blue eyes reflecting bits of silver from the pole he’s grasping as he stands.

“You always step off here. Didn’t want you to miss it.”

He shifts his bag up his shoulder and clears his throat as he steps past me to join the mass of people waiting for the doors.

I’m frozen for a second, maybe ten, as my brain orients itself away from its replay of the last two years and to the reality that I am about to miss my stop.

I jump up with a start, my canvas bag full of notebooks and a sausage ball breakfast, nearly whacking the sweet old lady sitting beside me. “So sorry!” The words are an exhale as I catch my balance, the train slowing with a jolt.

Missing this stop would mean being late for work. With a possible promotion hanging on my performance at the upcoming gala, I’m in no position to slack off. My bank account nods in agreement.

The realization hits me as I move toward the train’s doors. It takes out my senses for a second, the feeling that happens when you stand up too fast and everything blurs. I regain my focus on the back of the man’s perfectly styled head, the head that floats tall above several people standing between us.

Banker Man knows my stop.

Of course, I’ve been studying him these past few weeks, wondering if he’ll continue to ride in the third car of the 7:26 a.m. B Line train. This car filled with comers and goers I don’t recognize, the man’s presence a point of comforting consistency in my otherwise unpredictable days.

So far, he has. Every day he’s here.

Maybe he’s been watching me too?

I let the question swirl in my mind. The thought sends a tingle straight down my spine, sprouting goosebumps on my arms.

The doors open, and I want to say something to him, to tell him thanks for prompting me about the stop. But by the time I’m off the train, he’s halfway down the platform steps, walking toward whatever Important Banker Building he’ll spend his next eight (Twelve? Sixteen?) hours within.

A small ache stirs in my chest as I turn the opposite way toward my building, and I try to smother it. The goal is to feel nothing for this man. Yet, in these past two minutes alone I’ve felt gratitude, then hope, and now disappointment.

Smother, smother, smother.

Tomorrow, I’ll keep my thoughts in line. Odds are we’ll both be on this train again tomorrow.