“The emergency lights are gonna come on…” Jane says confidently. “Now.”
The emergency lights flick on, washing the whole car in sickly yellow light, and August blinks at Jane suddenly right there, a breath’s space between their faces. She can feel the soft juts of Jane’s hip bones against her, see the buzzed hairs on the nape of her neck and the soft amusement tugging at one side of her mouth.
August has never wanted to be kissed so badly in her life.
A garbled voice crackles over the intercom for thirty indecipherable seconds.
“Anybody catch that?” says the guy in the business suit.
“We’re delayed on account of electrical problems,” Jane says. Her hand is still settled on the small of August’s back. “Indefinitely.”
A collective groan goes up. Jane offers a commiserative smile.
“You speak MTA?” August says.
“I’ve been taking this train for a long-ass time,” Jane says. She removes her hand and strides to an empty seat, slumping into it. She looks at August and nods next to her. “Might as well make yourself comfortable.”
So, there they are. The two of them and a train full of strangers, trapped.
August shuffles over and takes her spot, and Jane smoothly stretches an arm across the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. She has this way of moving through the world like she owns every place she walks into, like she’s never once been told she can’t do something. She carries it well, because she probably has been told what she can’t do—plenty of times—and doesn’t care.
A sideways glance: Jane in profile, chin tilted up to the emergency lights. Her nose is rounded at the tip, kissable. August cannot keep thinking about kissing if she wants to make it out of this alive.
“So, you’ve never mentioned where you’re from,” Jane says toward the ceiling. She’s still got her head back, like she’s sunbathing in the dark.
“New Orleans, originally,” August tells her. “Well, right outside it. What about you?”
“New Orleans, huh?” she says. She lowers her eyes finally, and when she cuts them over, August forgets she ever asked a question. Or what questions are. Or the entire process of speech. “What brought you here?”
“Um, school,” August says. The lighting is already unflattering, so it can’t be helping the shade of red she turns when confronted with significant eye contact from butch girls in leather jackets. “I transferred. I’ve tried a few schools in different cities, but I’ve never really fallen in love with any of them.”
“You’re hoping you fall in love here?”
“Um—”
“Hey, maybe you will,” Jane says, and she honest-to-God winks. August is going to take out a full-page ad in the Times to scream about it. The city needs to know.
“Maybe so.”
Jane laughs. “How’s Billy’s?”
“It’s all right. I’m starting to get the hang of it. I kind of scammed them on my references, so I had to fake it until I figured out what I was doing.”
She raises her eyebrows. “I hadn’t pegged you for a scammer.”
“Well,” August says. “Maybe you’re underestimating me.”
It surprises a laugh out of her, a good laugh, deep in her chest.
Jane nudges her shoulder and leans in, close enough that the creases of her leather sleeve brush August’s arm. “So, what do you think’s their story?”
She jerks her chin toward the professional-looking pair a few seats down. He’s in a razor-sharp suit and she’s in a deep blue dress, her heels practical and pointed at the toe, and he’s laughing at whatever story she’s telling him.
“Those two?” August examines them. “Well, I’ve never seen them before, so maybe they don’t usually take our train. They’re both wearing wedding bands, and she’s got their bags under her feet, so I’m guessing they’re married. They commute together, so maybe they work at the same place. Maybe they met there.” She squints through the low light. “Oh, the cuffs of his shirtsleeves are damp—someone forgot to put the laundry in the dryer last night. That’s why they’re not on their usual train; they’re running late.”
Jane lets out a low whistle.
“Damn. That was … detailed.”
August cringes. She did the thing—the stupid detective thing—without even realizing.
“Sorry, bad habit. I grew up on true crime so I, like … notice stuff.” She twists her hands in her lap. “I know, it’s creepy.”
“I think it’s cool,” Jane says. August turns to check her expression, but she’s watching the couple. “I was imagining them as Soviet spies in deep cover.”
August bites the inside of her cheek. “Oh. Yeah, okay, I can see that.”