Somewhere Along The Line

4. James

There aren’t enough tasks in the world to distract me from the image of Piper standing across the platform and calling me “hubby.”

Hubby.

Lord knows I’m trying, sitting here at my desk as I plead with some assignment to steal my attention. It’s been three and a half hours since we parted ways at the station, and I can’t scrub that final picture from my mind.

Her one raised eyebrow over a mischievous brown eye. The singular twitch of her mouth as she spoke. The lightness in her voice before she skittered across the platform. The way her jeans, comfortably worn, hugged her hips and pulled tight across her ass as she walked away.

My stomach twists into a painful knot as I realize how screwed I am. What compelled me to make the Family Fares offer? Hell if I know. I’m not sure what made me able to talk to Piper in the first place. Maybe I had a contact high from all the Elvis-inspired hairspray floating through the car.

That’s the only plausible explanation because while I am many things—loyal, motivated, decent—I am not impulsive. Or rather, I’m usually not impulsive. Today, I guess I am.

I repeat to myself the words I managed to tell her so confidently, willing myself to believe them:

It doesn’t have to be a big deal.

I can count myself a Good Samaritan and we can exchange occasional pleasantries on the ride in. It’ll be just like any other business arrangement… except that the sight of her waist dipping in from her hips makes me sweat, and I want to wrap her hair around my palm and pull.

Except for that.

Kyle drums his fingers on the doorframe as he ducks his head to enter my office, breaking me out of the daydream. “Hey man, I’m thinking Sombreros for lunch, want to join?”

Every day he asks me, and every day I decline. One, Sombreros is disgusting, and two, taking forty-five minutes out of the middle of the day means adding forty-five minutes to the end. After weighing the very short list of pros and the very long list of cons, saying “yes” is never an option.

I’ve got to hand it to Kyle, though. The man is persistent.

He continues, “Listen, I know how you feel about lackluster Tex-Mex, and dude, you’re not going to offend me if you decide to bail again , but you look like you could use a break.” Kyle says this with concern, his brown eyes narrowing as his fingers continue to drum on the metal frame. “Something is up with your face today and frankly, it’s not a good look.”

I rub my hand over the side of my cheek, pulling and pushing the skin as I weigh whether to scoff. I know he’s right, though I’d never admit it to him. If Kyle could sense something off about me after sixty seconds of standing in my doorway, it won’t take long for others to follow suit.

Maybe I should go out to lunch—I’m not getting anything done in the office anyway.

“Alright, alright, I’m in,” I reply, and I’ll be damned if Kyle doesn’t perform a touchdown dance as I gather my things. “But I’m not splitting the queso with you. Cheese shouldn’t congeal like that.”

We make our way to Kyle’s go-to hole-in-the-wall and slide into a booth that’s not meant for people over six feet. I scan the menu and settle on fajitas, trying to ignore the stickiness of the laminated page under my fingers. This lunch special offers me one crucial benefit—the ability to pick and choose what goes into the tortilla based on look and smell.

It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

“So, what’s your deal?” Kyle asks around a mouthful of chips from the bowl in front of us. I fiddle with my straw, trying to decide if it’s worth opening this particular can of worms when I’m not sure I’ll be able to get the squiggly suckers back in.

“Are you asking me to talk about my feelings, Kyle?” I deflect his question with my usual detachment. “Because if you brought me here so we can share our hearts, you should know I require a significantly nicer restaurant, not to mention a bottle of cab, before putting out.”

“Are you for real right now?” He flicks a chip into my chest with a glare. “Maybe this is foreign to you because you stay shut up in your office for fifteen hours a day, but there’s this thing some people have called friends.”

An exaggerated eye roll accompanies the taunt. “James, we’ve known each other for what, ten years off and on? I’ve always known you have a cold, dead heart, but I didn’t realize it was this bad. If you want to unload, feel free. If not, we can talk about statistical analysis and financial forecasting and pretend you’re not drinking a midday margarita to cope with whatever situation you have going. Your call, man.”

The realization that his perception is entirely, painfully true makes me wince. I tally another point in the easy-to-read column.

How have I gone two-and-oh in the span of five hours?

With nowhere else to hide, and no steaming platter of fajita veggies yet in front of me, I decide to risk sharing.

“Something happened on the train today.”

The words come out slowly, like molasses that clings to the sides of the bottle until it can’t hang on any longer. I’m not sure how much of this story I’m willing to divulge, so I buy time with a long swallow. The curved top of the booth angles sharply into my back; the pain distracts only slightly from the tension in my chest.

“There’s this woman, her name is Piper, and we share the same commute. I’ve been seeing her every morning on the train for weeks, and today we had an exchange.”

To call the situation an “exchange” feels disingenuous, but I’m not sure there’s a more appropriate way to say, “ We were flanked on all sides by costumed men while we agreed to defraud the government.”

“We talked for a few. I’m pretty sure I offended her twice. She called me out on my banker bullshit, I insulted her breakfast, and she griped about how much she’s spending on train fare.”

I study Kyle’s face, looking for a hint about how this story is landing. He gives me nothing.

“It was probably a meaningless exchange,” I continue, “but it has me messed up. Because as you so kindly pointed out earlier, I stay locked in my office for fifteen hours a day, I have no friends, and I keep a cold, dead heart. Flirting on the train wasn’t on today’s agenda, and neither was spending the hours since overanalyzing it.”

I leave the story there for now, not venturing to the part where I offered to create a family commuter account. That’s not a crucial detail for Kyle to know at the moment.

“So, you’re telling me,” Kyle lights up with a smirk now that I’ve (mostly) laid everything out, “that Mr. Stoic-and-Staid, one Mr. James Newhouse, is flustered? Some girl on the train has you all riled up? I’ve gotta be honest, man, I don’t know what I was expecting but this… this is better than I could’ve hoped.”

He leans back in the booth, fingers interlaced behind his neck.

A firm kick to the shin tempers his gloat. He shoots me a glare to show his annoyance, though the kick did seem to bring his energy down a notch.

“Okay, but seriously, this is good. It’s good to see a crack in your armor for once. Sounds like she can keep you on your toes. I hope in six months you’re leaving at seven o’clock every night to take her out, if only so I can stop fighting you for the binding machine for these damn pitch decks in the evenings.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I reply with a shrug, “but this…whatever this is with her… it’s a no-go, a non-starter. You know I don’t have time with all the shit happening at work and everything going on with my dad. Also, I’m pretty sure she hates guys like us. I’d ruin her for all of mankind, given my stone-cold heart, and while I don’t know much about her, I know she deserves better than that.”

He looks at me with incredulity, digging his fork into his enchilada which recently arrived. My fajitas are nowhere to be seen.

“You have got to be kidding. You finally meet someone who breaks through this ,” Kyle motions in my general direction, “and you’re just going to what, ignore her every morning for the sake of your ego?”

“What do you want me to say, Kyle?” I huff, my frustration building. “I haven’t dated in years, not seriously at least, since everything went down with Sydney. You might not remember this, given how busy you were dicking around when we were twenty-six, but I’d planned to propose. I would’ve had she not left me for someone more available—someone not beholden to their job and the needs of their family.

“The demands of my job haven’t changed in the years since, and my family situation is worse than ever. It wouldn’t be fair to wrap Piper up in that mess. It’s a bad idea.”

Our server shows up with a steaming cast-iron skillet to save me before I say anything else.

“Just…don’t write this off just yet. Will you promise me that?” Conviction oozes from every line of Kyle’s face.

I can promise exactly nothing but I nod anyway. I’ve spent more relational energy today than I have in years; I have nothing left to give. The emotional hangover might even be worse than this sorry excuse for a fajita plate.

I should’ve stayed at the office.

The next week comes and goes without incident, and this includes my morning commute. Whatever tension existed between Piper and me on the day of Elvis-gate has thankfully dissipated. While my heart rate still ticks steadily up when I see her on the platform, I’ve been able to control myself enough that our new B Line routine feels borderline business-like.

Piper gives me a nod or an eyebrow raise when she boards and I reciprocate. We find each other as the huddle forms to exit the train and trade a single remark before heading in opposite directions on the platform.

Our growing collection of quips and jests swarms my mind during today’s ride home from work, just like it has every night since the game started.

“Wow, I can’t believe you own khakis, Banker Man. Will add it to my list of notes about you.”

“I didn’t take you for a Led Zeppelin girl, but your shirt suggests otherwise.”

“How’s your tea today? Still going with black or are you hiding mango passionfruit in that travel mug?”

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to take someone’s eye out swinging your tote bag around. I just hope it’s not mine.”

“Ahh, there he is. I was worried the financial district was going to be down a money man today. How would they have coped?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of eating the same thing every morning? You know, I’m still waiting for my share of that breakfast.”

I hate to admit that these little barbs are easily the highlight of my day. The promise of seeing Piper, of making her smile or glare or roll her eyes… it’s enough to get my butt in gear every morning, to make sure I make it on the train.

Not that I have ever missed it, but I certainly won’t now.

This harmless tit-for-tat is exactly what I can handle at the moment. It’s enough to remind me that my heart isn’t entirely made of stone and that I’m capable of something approximating fun, but it’s not so much that it costs me anything. Other than the extra fare money each month, which hardly counts.

It’s good this way.

I haul myself into the house after another late night, releasing a groan as I take in the growing pile of letters scattered all over the floor on account of the door’s mail slot. This is what happens when you’re never around—the responsibilities accumulate until you can’t ignore them anymore.

I grab the stack of mail and head toward the kitchen, kicking off my shoes and carefully dropping my bag on the bench that makes a nook of the foyer.

The microwave clock reads 11:32 p.m., and I note, with appreciation, that it’s not quite as late as usual. After grabbing a beer from the fridge, I settle at the counter, the cold metal of the barstool seeping through to my skin as I rifle through the mail, sorting it into piles.

“Trash, trash, shred, trash, keep…” I dictate aloud, assigning each letter to its respective stack.

There are four items of consequence, the rest a mass of flyers, advertisements, and junk mail. I feed those to the recycling bin with a thud as I thumb through what remains.

First up, a credit card bill even though I am positive I’ve signed up for paperless e-statements at least twice. I set it aside to bring to the office tomorrow. That’s tomorrow’s problem for tomorrow’s James.

Next, my eyes linger on a donation request postcard from a local non-profit. It’s the sort of thing I’d typically toss… if I didn’t have a house full of furniture in the suburbs that I need to help clear out. Based on the stock images plastered across the front, it looks like the organization provides resources for low-income families.

I slide the postcard across the counter where it lands next to the empty fruit bowl. Mom loved helping other people; she was compassion personified. Donating her things to help other families get on their feet feels like the right move.

I vow to give the advert to Dad the next time I see him and tell him to set up a pick-up appointment when he’s ready. Maybe this will motivate both of us to start packing up the house in earnest.

With the postcard out of the way, a notice from our estate lawyer glares at me from the counter. My heart stops for a second at the startling reminder that Mom is not only not here , she’s dead . A shiver sends prickles of cold down my back.

It shouldn’t be shocking, after so many months, but the finality of her death still catches me off guard. I place the letter on top of the credit card bill to look at tomorrow. Maybe then I’ll have the energy to deal with it.

Last but not least, I pick up an envelope from MTA with “Card Enclosed” stamped on the left side under the return address. Adrenaline runs through me as I toy with the envelope, bending it carefully with both hands to feel the edges of the new fare cards tacked to the letter inside.

I tear open the back and peel the cards from the paper, sticky adhesive pulling at my skin as I flip one between my fingers. I take out my wallet and tuck both cards into a slot.

While I knew this letter was coming—I did order the cards in the commuter portal after all—seeing Piper’s fare card in the flesh makes my stomach tumble to my knees. It has been easy enough to pretend the silly agreement we made, an extension of the insanity that surrounded us that morning on the train, only existed in theory. With this physical evidence in my pocket, that’s no longer possible.

This doesn’t have to be a big deal.

The mantra flashes behind my eyes without conscious thought. I swivel off the bar stool and adjust my pants, my hand briefly palming the wallet in my back pocket.

The last swig of my beer tingles on its way down before I toss the bottle in the bin atop the discarded mail, a shrine to the evening’s activities. I suppose I’ll give Piper the card tomorrow morning during our exit meet-up on the train. I could say something like,

“I’m not trying to make a pass at you, but here’s your pass.” ABSOLUTELY. FUCKING. NOT. My face burns in embarrassment from having even had the thought.

Instead, I’ll try something like, “Look what arrived. It’s a great day for free commuting.” Somehow that’s even worse. Why am I so bad at this? It’s likely the whole haven’t-dated-for-years thing.

I’ll just stick to something simple like, “Hey, I got your pass. Don’t lose it. I don’t want to get charged for a replacement.” I could say that if I wanted to look like an asshole… which I don’t.

“Hey, this is for you.” Simple, short, direct. Nothing is implied, there’s no risk of insult, it’s not cheesy, and it doesn’t betray the nerves that spring up whenever I interact with her. It’ll have to do.