Somewhere Along The Line

3. Piper

Breakfast in hand—and both shoes very much on my feet—I skip down the steps of our coach house, shuffling past the main house that sits in front of ours, where my sweet eight-year-old neighbor is arguing with her mom about her hair.

Nostalgia pinches my heart as I think about my own mother and what I put her through in my adolescent years, demanding a different hairstyle every morning and then whining when she dared to touch the brush to my head.

The slight chill of this late September morning is a welcome change as I wave to them through their kitchen window and hurry past. It’s going to be one of those sweater roulette days that will have me tugging on and yanking off my faded, jersey quarter-zip every time I change locations.

We’ll call that my workout for today.

I make the left turn at the light on the corner of my street, jaywalking as I close in on the final two-minute sprint before the B Line train pulls into my station and promptly leaves. I pick up the pace, emulating those Olympic power walkers with their swinging arms and stern faces, the ones willing their legs to go a smidge faster without breaking into a jog.

Who am I kidding? This is my workout for the day.

I spot the elevated platform, swipe my fare card, and take the stairs two at a time until my feet screech to a halt. They echo the sound of the incoming train.

While I may be a mess, all wild hair and frayed jeans and overstuffed tote, I’m not late for the train today. That’s a win.

Minding the gap, I step into the third car and freeze.

Holy shit.

A burst of laughter escapes my lips. The city’s annual Elvis convention is today. KingCon, as it’s called, is a day-long bar crawl that stops at nearly every music establishment in the city, offering nostalgia, strong drinks, and the chance for grown-ups to play hooky.

Does 7:26 a.m. feel like an appropriate start time for the public pre-game that’s happening currently? Not in my mind, but these folks have other ideas.

The car is packed full of impersonators—tall ones, short ones, old ones, little baby college student ones—and these multiplied Elvises (Elvi?) occupy nearly every square inch of space. They croon and snarl and dart hooded eyes at each other as one leads a rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” and the others happily join.

I scan the crowd, playing a surreal game of Where’s Waldo as I look for a single open seat amid the sea of collars and sparkles. Spotting one, I weave my way toward the back of the car, thankful I won’t have to shoulder my bag between two greasy aficionados for the next fourteen minutes.

I plop down with a heaving groan and settle myself into the plastic curve of the chair, bumping my knee against the guy staring out our shared window. His pants communicate a not-here-for-Elvis vibe.

“So sorry, gosh, what a morning, yeah?” I say as I search through my bag for my sausage balls, planning to eat and scroll and wonder what compels a person to attend KingCon. “If you had told me when I woke up this morning I’d step into Graceland-made-over, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

The man clears his throat and shifts his knee to the right, breaking our point of bodily contact. He turns his head, and we meet eyes. My stomach plummets to my feet.

“Wow, wow , okay…” I sputter as my gaze traces the hard lines of Banker Man’s face, the way his nose curves down just a bit at the end, his perfect white teeth giving a slight bite to the corner of his bottom lip. The rise and fall of his chest silently occupy the seconds as I figure out what the hell is happening and what to say next.

“Wow. So sorry. I need to stop saying wow. I don’t know why I’m saying it. I don’t mean wow. I guess I mean… hi?” I say it like a question, offering up my words in both apology and invitation.

A pink flush creeps up my neck, made worse by the heat this man’s body throws in my direction.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you,” I say. “Again. Literally. I guess also figuratively but mostly literally… for the second day in a row.” I bring my focus to my faded jeans, smoothing my hands down my thighs as I steady my breath.

“Wow, indeed,” he replies, and in that small moment I think I catch the hint of a smile. It’s nothing more than a wisp. He settles back into his seat, his long legs careful not to nudge mine. “I mean… hi. ”

“Are you mocking me?” I blurt, unsure if I can handle any more embarrassment in front of this man who’s only ever seen me at… not my best.

Who I am on the train each morning, even outside of the last twenty-four hours, is not what I’d put on Instagram.

He senses my defensiveness and softens, catching my eyes with an expression that might betray fondness if I believed this man knew what fondness is.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing, to be honest,” he says. He looks around and gives an amused sigh, scrubbing his right hand through his hair. “This Elvis thing has me feeling like I’m in a simulation. Let me try this again.” He takes a deep breath. “Hey.”

“Just hey?” I squeak, desperate for him to say something, anything, to make up for the avalanche of words I unloaded a few moments ago.

“Okay, how about…” he bites is bottom lip in thought again, nestling it between his teeth. I try not to stare as he releases it and takes another breath. “Hey, I’m James, and I accept your apology for bumping my leg. And you were right yesterday, I am a banker. I didn’t know I was so easy to read.”

He looks relieved to have gotten the words out.

“How was that? Better?” he asks.

What would be better is if it wasn’t one hundred degrees on this train, but I refuse to peel off my top layer. Not in front of this man, this James , who looks like he’s never sweat a day in his life.

“I will accept that,” I reply, forcing an expression that I hope projects confidence and doesn't betray the chaos erupting in my chest. “And yes, you are easy to read. I know your type from a mile away.”

“Do you?” His eyes quirk, prodding me with a look that asks me to prove it.

“Yep. You own the same pair of pants in approximately eight different shades of black, gray, and navy. You answer your phone without thinking, and you agree to whatever is asked of you without reservation. You listen to classic rock, you take your coffee black, you pride yourself on your typing speed and your ability to navigate Excel, and you wonder if your life expectancy is inversely correlated to the number of deals you get across the line.”

I feel a strange sense of pride in nailing him so thoroughly.

I immediately make myself promise to never think the phrase “nailing him so thoroughly” ever again as the blush creeps further up the side of my neck. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

James pauses, searching my face like he’s looking for something he didn’t know he lost.

“You’re wrong,” he deadpans, jostling his tumbler. “It’s black tea, not coffee, and I have ten pairs of identical neutral pants, not eight. Better luck next time.” His lips curl into a cheeky grin before he settles them down in their usual straight line.

He looks like he’s trying to convince himself not to say what he’s about to. “So, what’s your deal, then?” he asks, “other than mowing down strangers on the train and paying concerningly close attention to their pants?”

Heat rushes through me at the accusation that I may have stolen a glance, or several, at the man’s lower half.

“Well, for one, I do not look at everyone’s pants.” Only yours, I think, and only because the way those tailored pants hug your quads should be a crime. “And I don’t usually run into people either.”

“Does miss eyes-up-here have a name?”

“Piper.” The name comes out in a half-whisper. I don’t know if I can keep up this banter for a second longer with what it’s doing to my insides.

“Ah, Piper. Like the Pied Piper. That explains your charisma.”

“Are you mocking me again?” I reply sharply, the difference in volume between this exchange and the last causing the twin Elvises behind us to jump.

“No, I’m really not trying to. Sorry. Piper is a great name. Lovely, even.”

I nod, eyes narrowing, and he nods, a hint apologetic. My phone’s lock screen shows it’s only been six minutes since I boarded this train. We have another eight minutes to go.

James and I settle into an awkward silence, him scrolling his emails and me admiring the get-up of a man in his early seventies who is brandishing a guitar with “Burning Love” embroidered in script on the strap.

“You’re right, you know.” James breaks the tension with a tentative glance my way. “If someone had told me this morning I’d be packed in this sardine can with sixty clones of Elvis, I wouldn’t have believed it either.”

“I’m always right.” Will he call me out given the error I made guessing his beverage a few minutes before? He seems to consider this option but stays silent. I accept the olive branch of his statement and offer him one of my own.

“My question is how these people afford to take a day off work, buy these costumes, and spend all their fare money going between neighborhoods to drink their way around the city. My wallet could never. ”

The words slip out with a chuckle, my brain forgetting for a moment that this man can’t commiserate with my paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle. I let my eyes linger on what must be a father-son pair; they’re identical in features in addition to outfits.

“Maybe they’re all related,” I wonder aloud, pointing to the dynamic duo. “Surely, those two are. Then at least they’re saving money with a Family Fares commuter pass. If I could convince my sister to move to the city, I could pocket some extra cash each month that way.”

James looks at me curiously, and I wonder if he’s decided that a person for whom a bit of petty cash would make a difference isn’t worth his conversation. I can’t blame him. If I had disposable income, I’d look at me funny too.

He takes a beat, chewing on the words and seeing how they taste before spitting them out. “We could create a Family Fares account.”

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 barely not a 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 the fake part 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 commute and a 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.

“Piper!” he yells, with a measure of authority I’d expect from a man in such a nicely tailored suit. I swivel on my heels to face the direction of his voice. “You better keep taking this train so I can bring you your fare card.”

I smirk, rolling my lips between my teeth as I see his wager and decide to raise him one. “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it… hubby .”

If James reacts to this uncharacteristic burst of boldness, I don’t see it. I’m flying down the stairs, two at a time, before I have the chance to regret this morning and the delight that came with it.