Somewhere Along The Line

21. Piper

Two Months Later

I wrap my arms tightly around my chest as I clear the steps of the courthouse. The winter wind bites at my cheeks, nipping them red—the tenderness of my skin echoing my heart. I don’t know why I’m doing this today, watching James give his testimony.

Getting his text last week inviting me to the hearing was like taking a shot of straight cortisol; I’ve been jittery ever since.

After two months, I had come to terms with never hearing from him again. There was nothing left to say after the fight at his dad’s house and how I responded to him showing up on the train three weeks later. I know I was too standoffish, though the same thoughts run miles in my mind justifying my behavior:

It caught me off guard, seeing him back on the train.

He didn’t give me any time to prepare for the interaction.

I had just gotten myself to a non-teary state when he came back into my life. It’s understandable I’d try to protect myself.

While true, these thoughts don’t quell the gnawing at my conscience when I think about my last exchange with James. If I’m willing to be honest with myself, I’m here at the courthouse for a few reasons. To make sure I won’t be arrested for fraud, first and foremost. To support someone who was once a friend. To hopefully get some closure, or maybe a final memory that’s not me handing him my Family Fares card.

If I’m really honest, the buzz that accompanied his message rattled my bones, sparking the small flicker of hope that managed to survive my weeks of tears. While I don’t want to let myself wish for it, I wonder if he’s felt the same.

A rush of warm air tickles my face as I swing open the gilded door to the government building. I let my arms relax before I unwind my scarf and take off my coat, pushing both through the x-ray machine as I stride through the metal detector. The heat in the building stands in contrast to the aesthetics of the place, all white marble and cold metal.

I have no idea where I’m supposed to go next and I’m not about to text James. Maybe I’ll figure it out… or maybe I won’t and I’ll tell him I tried, hopefully receiving the closure I want without having to see him.

There’s still time to bail.

An officer walks by, taking pity on me standing helplessly in the lobby, and asks where I’m trying to go.

“The smoke bomb trial?” The case must have a formal name, something like “The State vs. Criminal” (as if that’s more official), but I have avoided learning anything meaningful about the proceedings.

I can’t dwell on that day, how it ignited the spark between us that burned too bright and then burnt out too fast. It’s better to ignore it, though that’s not possible now. Every memory of September 28th, and the incident that enshrines them, will be in front of me today.

The officer knows the case I’m talking about and directs me to the elevator, up to the third floor, second door on the right. I didn’t realize a courthouse has many small courtrooms and not a single grand one like they show on TV. It makes me wonder what else is happening here and what other lives have been upended by a single moment they have to relive today?

The thought makes me feel less alone.

The hallway is nearly empty as I slip in the back door, the courtroom more crowded than I thought it would be. The State invited everyone who witnessed the incident to attend, though I didn’t get a call—James’s phone number was on the account, and it makes sense they’d assume I’d be here given my husband is testifying.

I recognize a few folks, people who continue to ride on the B Line and occasionally join my car, though they’re people who mean nothing to me outside of the air we share for fourteen minutes each morning.

The way it should’ve been with James.

There are available seats in the back of the gallery and I find one, dropping my bag on the ground and laying my coat on top. My hands slide back and forth over my legs as I wait.

When does this start? How does a hearing work? My stomach rumbles, demanding a breakfast I forgot to eat.

I peer ahead to the front of the room where a center aisle splits two tables and the judge who sits directly across. There’s a witness box to the right, and seeing it sends a shiver down my spine. I cannot imagine if I had to testify today. What a gift that my statement was bad enough no one thought to call me.

Next to the witness stand is the jury box, which is mercifully unfilled since this is a preliminary hearing.

As I’m taking in the space I catch a moving head, someone rising halfway from the attorney’s table on the left. James. I recognize him immediately. He turns to scan the crowd like he’s looking for someone. I wonder if his dad is here somewhere, or maybe Kyle from work.

It’s not every day you participate in criminal proceedings.

Why does he have to look so ridiculously good? He’s wearing a blue suit, and it’s tailored to perfection. He moves to button the jacket out of habit as he stands, tucking in a tie with a pattern I can’t make out from here. His hair is neat, shorter than when I last saw it, and he’s wearing his glasses.

The combination of the frames with the suit lights me up with desire. Stupid body betraying my heart with this reaction.

It’s bad enough that I’m having flashbacks of our “trial practice,” the memory of his mouth on my neck scattering sparks across my skin.

James’s gaze trains on the gallery as he scans each row, his shoulders tight. I resist the urge to glance away as he reaches my section, though I’ve half a mind to slide between the seats and cover myself entirely. He catches my eye and softens, a visible exhale making his chest concave as he holds my stare.

I want to wave because that’s what we do, but it's not appropriate here. Instead, I nod and he returns it. We each give a soft smile. He seems grateful I’m here, and as he turns back to his seat, I realize he was looking for me.

That small glimmer of hope stirs in my chest.

The judge bangs a gavel and the room quiets except for the shuffle of pants in seats. James straightens in his chair. The trial has been going for days now which means we won’t hear opening statements—they will jump straight to witness examination.

A woman, whom I'm guessing is the state’s prosecutor, calls a man I don’t recognize to the stand. The questions begin once he’s sworn in.

It's wild listening to another person recount the events of the day question-by-question. My experience was so insulated, bound from beginning to end by James and his body in relation to mine. I never considered what other people might have seen or felt—or how they interpreted the noise and the smoke—without the lens of clinical anxiety.

Hearing this man’s testimony is like watching an old home video; my memories of the day collide with additional details I missed in person. The more the witness talks, the more I’m glad I missed those details. James made sure my only focus was my own breath. I wonder if my breath was his only focus too.

My palms turn clammy the minute James is called to the stand, the day’s second witness. I rub them against my pants, but it doesn’t stop the sweating. James takes his seat and catches my eye again.

Does he want to know I’m listening? Or is he seeking reassurance from me like I used to get from him? I give him another soft smile.

“Please state your name for the record.”

He clears his throat. “James Newhouse.”

“Do you know the defendant?” The prosecutor points to a man sitting next to the other attorney. He looks young, late teens.

“I don’t.”

“Have you seen him before?”

“Only a few times, in the same car on the B Line train during morning rush hour.”

The questions come rapid-fire, quick and to the point. James doesn’t look flustered as he answers them. “Just tell them the truth,” I remember him saying when I spiraled about the possibility of testifying. He’s taking his own advice.

“Was the defendant present in your car on the morning of September 28th?”

“I saw him on the train that morning, yes.”

“What were you doing on the train on September 28th?”

“I was commuting to the downtown station where I exit to walk to my job.”

“Did you notice anything amiss when you boarded that morning?”

“No, everything seemed very typical.”

“What was the first indication that something was unusual?”

James shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting between the prosecutor and my side of the gallery. He clears his throat again. They haven’t asked about who he was sitting with or talking to on the train. So far, it doesn’t seem like he’ll have to perjure himself today.

“I heard a loud sound, like a pop.”

“What happened next?”

“I dove down between the seats,” he answers.

“Why did you dive between the seats?”

“It was on instinct. I didn’t do it consciously.”

“Then what happened?” she asks.

“The car started to fill with smoke. People started coughing. I moved from the window to the aisle to position my back toward the rest of the car.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I had someone with me.” James and I lock eyes again. “I wanted to protect her.”

Heat rises behind my ears.

“Protect her from what?”

“No one knew what was going on, whether it was a bomb of some kind or a gunshot. I wanted to put myself in harm’s way if there was going to be harm. Not her.”

My eyes start to water, a sharp, stinging pain growing behind my nose as he recounts the events. I never asked what the incident was like for him. Hearing it now cracks me open.

“Did you believe you were in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Because of the noise and the smoke. Because trains have been the site of attacks in the past.”

“Is that why you ducked down? Because you believed this was an attack?”

“I…” James pauses for a second, glancing down at his lap and pulling slowly on his fingers as he thinks. “I believed it was an attack, yes, though I didn’t know what kind or the possible magnitude.”

“What did you think might happen?”

“I thought we might get shot, or that there may be an explosion of some kind. That something would happen to Piper, the woman I was with, whom I was trying to shield. I… knew I’d rather have something happen to me if something was going to happen. I didn’t want to be in a situation where I survived and she didn’t, or where she got injured and I could have prevented it.”

“Were you worried you might get injured or you might not survive?”

“Moreso for Piper.”

“Why was that? Did something about the environment lead you to believe she was at greater risk?”

“No, I… I didn’t believe she was at any greater risk. I just… I love her…” James glances down briefly and takes a deep inhale, “... loved her, and protecting her was my primary concern.”

My mouth hangs open as James continues, a quick glance in my direction with the most intentional, albeit brief, eye contact I have ever seen. It’s a laser that sears through the scar tissue in my heart, bisecting it until the red pulsing flesh is exposed again. His words reverberate deep in my chest.

James loved me.

He loves me.

Whether it was a slip of the tongue or intentional, his use of past and present tense makes me sweat from more than my palms. I’m growing warmer by the second, desperately wishing I could peel off some layers of clothing. Positioning my cold water bottle against the side of my neck is the next best option.

The incident on the train occurred when? A week after we met? Three conversations deep? James couldn’t have known he loved me then. Right?

All he knew of me was that I’m clumsy and poor and am consistent with my breakfast.

The attorney continues her line of questioning, but I hear exactly none of it. Thoughts and timelines swirl in my mind until I can’t concentrate over the thumping of my heart. It’s taken weeks to convince myself James never cared about me, to believe the mess of words that roared out of his mouth in his backyard.

But what if… what if he wasn’t trying to convince me, but rather himself?

Holy shit.

Something happens and people start moving, standing to stretch, rolling out their necks, gathering their things. I wish I knew how James’s testimony ended, to get a read on his expression at this moment, but I can’t find him amid the crowd gathering en masse at the courtroom door.

Is this it? Is our whole charade really, truly over now? Relief settles in my chest as the weeks and months of anxiety about this trial finally dissipate. But it’s met with a sinking feeling in my gut, the relief quickly turning to something else. Regret, or maybe disappointment, that the final tie between James and I is now cut.

My eyes are down and unfocused while I remain in my seat. A tornado of thoughts and feelings rips through me, wreckage of the last few months of my life swirling around in the periphery of my mind.

I blink alert when a pair of shoes enters my field of vision, Cole Haans with a large scuff on the toe. James’s voice greets my ears before I see his face.

“Thanks for being here.” I don’t look up. “For coming down here today.” He takes a step closer, and if I lift my head, I will be eye-level with his crotch which is the last thing I need right now. James turns and sits in the seat to my right and we sink into the same position we have always assumed, my knee pressing lightly into his leg.

My heart waits for his left hand to settle on my thigh. I shouldn’t expect it right now, not after everything, but it’s a gift when it comes. Neither one of us acknowledges it.

James turns to face me, and I swivel to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are magnified behind his glasses, flecks of gray and green catching the light, and they’re filled with an emotion I can’t discern. He's the picture of perfection with his hair carefully styled, his tie perfectly straight, and his suit custom fitted so it looks poured onto his body, but that’s not the man I see.

I see a James who is as messy as I am, who keeps people away because he can’t stand the thought of hurting them or allowing himself to be hurt. He wants a tidy outcome, and that’s not how love works even when it works.

“We’re adjourned for lunch,” James says quietly, as though he doesn’t want to startle me. Doesn’t want to make me jump and pull my leg out from under his touch. “Any chance you’d join me? I have a few things I’d like to say if you’d let me.”

My heart softens with the words, their familiar kindness and lack of expectation, the type I’d come to expect from him before he became someone else.

There he is, my soul whispers.

There’s my James.

I nod, trying to temper any trace of eagerness that may spill out from my throat before I decide how to feel. I bombard my brain with positive self-talk, the strategy I’ve been working on with my therapist thrown into overdrive:

I can have lunch with James.

I can hear him out, maybe tally up some points for my own closure.

We can eat a meal and catch up.

It doesn’t have to be a big deal.

You’re not as breakable as you think.

“Sure,” I reply, grabbing my bag and sliding my water bottle into it. “I’ll follow you out.”