Geez, what is it with boys and trains?
“Wait.Your familyowns this train?” I shake my head. “I can’t even afford a studio in Queens.”
“To be fair, I do hear the city is quite expensive. I’ve known my fair share of people who got out and are much the better for it.”
I laugh. “Right. That’s my problem. I’d have three trains and a plane if I could just get out of that darn city.”
The train is inching along the tracks now, nothing but a few pedestrians hugging their coats on a platform outside and a few light poles with blinking electric snowflakes to welcome us into the tiny station. Oliver turns to me, then points toward the golden rope above his head. “You ready?”
I step tentatively into the already-crowded space and take a small breath to steady myself. A salty sea breeze sweeps in through the open window by the driver’s seat, mingled withashy coal from the billowing smoke rising from the steam engine ahead. I reach for the cord and see the flecks of a darker ultramarine circling his pupils as he grins down at me. Somewhere in the distance “All I Want for Christmas Is You” plays.
“Anytime now will do,” the driver says, and I realize I’ve accidentally been pressing my hip against his shoulder.
“Oh. Sorry.” I grab the cord and give the rope a pull. As the bell begins to ring, so do my thoughts. What iswrongwith me? Jonas broke up with me four days ago and I’m ready to jump on board with anyone with a hint of testosterone. Am I really that desperate? Am I really that pathetic that I can’t stand to be single for more than five minutes?
“Is that enough?” I ask, after the fourth bell ring.
“Enough to get everybody grabbing their coats. You ready?” Oliver’s eyes are trained on mine, and in them I see it. An unmistakable twinkle.
No.
He couldn’t possibly be attracted to me, too, after I’d made such a fool of myself like that.
He must just be excited to show off the first excursion. It’s his life dream after all. And Elodie is absolutely right. I am just coming off an emotional shock andcannottrust myself right now. I can’t trust my instincts. I can’t trust those gut feelings that have steered me right before. I can’t trust my thoughts. For the foreseeable future—a month? two?—I cannot make any decisions relationally. (I’ll have to be sure to ask Elodie how long she thinks I’ll be suspended fromdecision-making). I can just enjoy the ride, get home for Christmas, andexist.
And whenever I’m tempted to trust myself, I’ll just remember the feeling of that python staring me in the eyes.
Faintly I hear the man in the nutcracker suit wishing passengers a nice evening through the window, and as people in my periphery begin spilling onto the platform, Oliver’s gaze shifts over to the stream of passengers. A moment later the atmosphere has altered. It’s time to get outside.
“Yes. I just need my coat.” As an afterthought, in case Oliver was feeling torn between checking on his dad and getting himself out on the platform to lead the way for the group, I add, “I’ll come with Clarence—that is, if he’ll still talk to me after abandoning him halfway through the game.”
“That’d begreat.” And as he walks after me out of the cab, Oliver looks genuinely relieved. Just as I begin to step against the current of passengers trying to head outside into the biting cold, someone touches my elbow and I turn. “Really, Willow,” Oliver says, his eyes sincere. “Thank you. For everything.”
Chapter6
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
The evening out on the little cliffside town was lovely. With Oliver leading the crowd through the cobbled streets, the group landed at a small inn so ancient, the roof with its moss-covered shingles slanted to one end and the heavy wooden door the tavernkeeper swung open like a piece of paper looked more like it belonged to a medieval castle. Rocks stacked upon one another to form deep wells of fireplaces dug into walls on either end, crackling away and lighting the old tavern with dozens of dripping wax candles. The smell of butter and mead and fish was thick upon each table laid out with oyster knives and cocktail forks and seafood crackers.
Clarence and I paired together without a word, and sure enough, the evening was one of harmony and laughter. With a life of travel he’s gained more than his share of fascinating stories. Many of them included Oliver, naturally—the littleboy whose life was spent on the tracks with his dear old mom and dad. Some of the stories made me laugh; others were so sweet my eyes wandered toward Oliver as he spoke. Overall, though, had I had any concerns about looking like a fish out of water before dinner, by the end, even the couples around us were leaning in to listen.
It was funny.
I was booked on the train with Jonas as my partner, then Ian in a madcap plan, but the reality was that I was going to be paired with a seventy-eight-year-old World WarII veteran turned world adventurer with a bad hip and a bowl-full-of-jelly laugh that filled the room. And that was just fine with me.
Oliver, for his part, looked only more handsome as he took charge of the group, at ease in his position of authority as though he truly enjoyed mingling with each of the passengers. He stopped by our table a few times, but as couples finished their meals and trickled out to stroll the streets arm in arm, each guided to a particular spot or store by his advice, he was always left standing at the door. The whole evening, I’m not sure he sat once, let alone ate any of the lobster surrounding him.
I retired to my quarters when we returned, and the room, though smaller with a pair of bunk beds lining the wall instead of Christmas trees and wingback chairs, suited me well. The softCharlie Brown Christmassheets, thick red down comforter, and feather pillow were like slipping into a cloud, and for the second night, sleep on the softly rocking train came quickly and soundly, even with the soft whistle that came every few hours through the night.
As for the breakfast they carried out in the morning? Well, there were no words.
“Ready to switch?” I say, holding my section of the newspaper for Clarence with one hand while my other rests over the silver platter sitting on the pop-up table over my lap.
His frown deepens as he hands me the funnies and takes the world news, his eyes fixated on my gleaming platter.
I lift it, and immediately steam rises to tickle my cheeks. Three thick slabs of French toast fill up the plate, coated in confectioner’s sugar and bathed with butter. A healthy serving of lush red strawberries, grapes, and mandarin oranges fill a small porcelain cup beside it, and three crispy pieces of bacon topped with crystal granules sparkle at me. I pick up one piece of bacon and take a bite, feeling the almost immediate need to close my eyes and sigh. “Brown sugar,” I say, more to myself than to Clarence. “That’s so clever.”
“Hazel’s recipe,” Clarence replies. “Bake at four hundred and top with just a bit of brown sugar.”
