Love and Other Train Wrecks

by Leah Konen

  “Hand me your suitcase,” I say.

  Slowly, she pushes it out the window and lets it hang there.

  “You’re going to have to drop it,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll catch it.”

  Her face scrunches up a bit, like she doesn’t quite trust me. Then she lets it go.

  It lands in my arms hard, sending me back a couple of feet again, but I try not to let her see my grimace. I set it down on a slightly less snowy patch of gravel and step closer to the train. “You’re all that’s left,” I say.

  “One more thing,” she says, and then she disappears from the window and returns with the flowers. She holds them out and drops them, right into my arms.

  In all the excitement of the escape, I’d forgotten about them.

  I set them carefully on top of my backpack, then return to her.

  “All right, this is really it.”

  She nods, but she looks scared.

  I hold out my hands. “Jump,” I say. “I’ll catch you.”

  And she does.

  In moments, my hands are around her waist, holding her tight, softening her leap to the ground.

  She looks up at me, and her brown eyes are wide and deep, and it’s like time stops for a second. I have to remind myself to let go of her, to step back, to act normal.

  I have to remind myself that this is all for Rina.

  “You did it,” I say.

  She smirks. “I’m pretty sure we did it.”

  PART TWO

  THE UNKNOWN

  AMMY

  2:22 P.M.

  MY FEET HURT FROM THE JUMP AND MY COAT IS ALL crunched up from where Noah caught me and held me for a second too long.

  I almost would have thought that meant something, but I know his mind is on his ex-girlfriend. Not to mention, my mind isn’t anywhere near romance. Even if there was no ex and it was just me and a cute (yes, cute, even if it’s in a bro-y way) train stranger setting off on an adventure, I still wouldn’t be down for any of that. Not after all the shit I saw transpire in the last year.

  I honestly can’t even believe I followed this guy. It’s not like me—not at all. It’s something Kat would do. Meet some good-looking stranger on a train and set off on an adventure with him.

  But it’s not me.

  My job is to hold my mom together, be pissed off at my dad, and count down the days until I’m off to college. Until last night, when all that changed.

  I look to the left, almost in awe at the snow-sprinkled tracks rolling out in front of me. Slat after slat after slat laid out perfectly like one of those perspective exercises we did in Mrs. Efrom’s freshman year art class. It seems to stretch endlessly into the horizon, almost asking me to drop everything and run down it. Freedom.

  Freedom from what’s back in Virginia. From my mom’s constant discussion about how awful my dad is. From the uptick in my heart when I’m worried she’s about to have a panic attack. From that fear that hits my bones when I wonder if I’m going to turn into her.

  Freedom from all the anger that’s taken over her the last year. Even if just for a second, or an hour, or a day, or a week.

  Freedom, even, from the day-to-day, occasionally tiring gossip between me, Dara, and Simone, from listening to their stories and trying to pretend it doesn’t feel like my whole world is falling apart.

  Just me and the world and a train we’re kissing good-bye.

  And Noah, of course.

  Noah, my fellow reluctant explorer.

  I pull out my phone, shoot Kat a quick text.

  Looks like I might be there on time after all. Don’t worry about a ride.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here before one of the train guys sees.”

  I nod, giving my rolling suitcase its first official tug. It gets caught a little bit in the rocks surrounding the train tracks, but it’s not so bad.

  “Do you need help with that?” Noah asks, turning back to me.

  I shake my head, only mildly miffed that he thinks this weak little lady can’t carry a suitcase one mile through snow. “I’m fine,” I say.

  Noah leads the way. It’s only about twenty or thirty feet to the woods, and as we approach, my heart does a little leap again. Everything looks magical in the snow, like something straight out of a fantasy novel. I think about The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, this movie about teen witches I used to watch when I was a kid.

  “It’s like we’re proper adventurers,” I say as I follow him. “Like explorers. Or frontier people.”

  “Frontier people?” He doesn’t turn back, but I hear a laugh in his voice. “I believe they’re called, you know, pioneers.”

  In seconds we reach the woods. The snow lets up a little bit, the trees creating a canopy for us. The ground is packed down with frost-kissed fallen leaves that don’t get swept away because there’s no one here to do the sweeping. My suitcase starts to roll easier now that we’re away from the blanket of snow.

  I start to feel like maybe this was a great idea after all.

  Luckily, the terrain continues to be fairly flat, and it’s not so bad. As we walk, we make small talk, trading histories in little bite-sized nuggets, like we’re on one of those blind-dating shows that used to play after school on MTV. Noah tells me that he grew up just outside of Hudson, in Lorenz Park. That he loves animals and that his parents regularly take in cats that lose their way, that now they have three. Snowball, Max, and Katniss, the last of which I give him total hell for, because he picked the name. He tells me that he wishes he had the guts to be a vegetarian because he hates all the environmental implications of eating meat but he likes the taste of burgers too much. And that his parents are professors who don’t get to do much professor-ing anymore.

  I tell him my cellophane-wrapped, bow-tied version of the truth, too. That I grew up in suburban Virginia and that we’ve always lived in the same house, this cookie-cutter model that at least ten other people in my neighborhood have, including Simone. I tell him that my dad is an accountant and my mom sells antiques on eBay, which doesn’t sound like a real job, but it is.

  Or at least it used to be—for her. I neglect to mention that she hasn’t gone antiquing in ages. She actually spends hours on Facebook looking at my dad and his new life. She tells me it’s okay, because the market is slow right now anyway. She’s been saying that for months.

  I neglect to mention that sometimes we all used to go antiquing together on the weekends, when Dad and I weren’t hiking and I didn’t have plans with Dara or Simone.

  But I do tell him some things that are real as he walks ahead, leading the way, occasionally turning back to ask me once again if I need help with my suitcase.

  I tell him how my dad and I used to go hiking together about once a month, how we’d spend hours in REI stocking up on all the latest gear. I tell Noah how the woods were special to us, a destination, not an everyday thing. How the sad little patch of woods in my backyard was nothing compared to this.

  I tell him how I tried to be a vegetarian once after I watched this awful video on the internet and how I lasted only three weeks before I found myself at the Wendy’s drive-through at eleven o’clock at night, ordering the Baconator from the passenger seat of Dara’s Saab.

  In fact we talk so much that I forget how much time has passed until we reach a clearing, a stretch of white ground and blue sky.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time and stop short. It’s been far more than twenty minutes.

  “So I know I’m not, like, an official New Yorker or anything, but I would swear on my life that we’ve gone more than twenty blocks already.”

  Noah turns to me. His cheeks are red, and his lips are chapped.

  I realize suddenly how cold I am, as the wind whips against my face.

  He pulls out his phone. “It’s been almost a half hour. Maybe we’re just walking slow?”

  I feel that uptick in my heart again, because he’s supposed to know how long twenty blocks is—Lord knows I d
on’t. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I ask. “We haven’t seen anything like civilization in a while.”

  He taps at his phone. “I mean, I think I’m sure. The towns around here are small, so we might not see much until we’re right on top of it, but yeah, I do feel like we should have been there by now.” He taps some more. “I still don’t have service. And the little dot is stuck back near the train tracks. You?”

  I have to take my gloves off to unlock my phone, and the cold is biting, like tiny fishes nipping at my fingertips. I have a feeling that’s not good. I load up my maps, but it still says I’m in the Bronx, which must have been the last time I had it loaded. “No service, either.” I quickly shove my phone into my pocket, re-glove, and rub my hands together, warming them up. “You only think you’re sure?” I ask, attempting to quell the anger that sits like a weight in my stomach. He’d made it sound so easy, back there on the train. We spent the last half hour shooting the shit. I had no idea I should be freaking out.

  “You’re not serious,” I say. “You don’t really think we could have gone the wrong way?” When I’d made the joke about not being a New Yorker, it was just that—a joke. I expected him to tell me to be quiet and stop complaining, like Dara does when we’re on the fourth lap around the track.

  It’s definitely been more than four laps, I think. Shit.

  Noah puts his phone away, too, and looks at me, a tinge of seriousness on his face, which he replaces fast as can be with a smile. I stop dragging my suitcase behind me. He points to another stretch of woods right in front of us. “Let me take your suitcase,” he says.

  I sigh loudly and it’s easy to hear, too, because we’re in the middle of nowhere, not a car, not even a road in sight. Earlier, we’d seen some side roads through the trees—hints of other humans, at least—but I haven’t seen anything like that in the last ten minutes, maybe more.

  My sigh creates a billow of frost in the air. “I don’t want you to carry my suitcase. I want you to know where you’re going!”

  I’m yelling. Noah, almost instinctively, takes a step or three back, his jaw agape, the expression in his eyes quite obviously hurt.

  I remind myself, suddenly, of my mom. It’s an awful feeling. It sucks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I feel like a child for flipping out like that, but also like an adult, too young and too old at the same time. I shouldn’t have lost it, but I shouldn’t have to deal with all of this, either. I shouldn’t have learned to yell from my parents, the very people who are supposed to teach me to be a good, calm, levelheaded person. I should be concerning myself with Dara and Simone and the ins and outs of high school, what college I’m going to, not all of this.

  Not my mom and my dad and all their mutual bullshit.

  I want out, I think.

  But more than that, I want it all to go back to the way it was before.

  I feel my eyes start to well. I do not want to cry in front of this guy—again, but in the cold freaking wilderness this time. With my luck, my tears will probably freeze to my face, little trails of icicles ruining the little bit of blush and powder that are still left on there from this morning. It was enough to get all soppy-eyed back there on the train, and I really don’t want to do it twice.

  I turn away so he can’t see me, and wipe the moisture from beneath my eyes before it has a chance to freeze.

  Why do I have to be out here freezing my ass off just because my dad had to go and make a new family?

  Why did the stupid train have to break down in the first place?

  Why doesn’t Noah know where we’re even going?

  And the worst part, the part that gets me more than anything.

  Why do I have to be weak, just like her?

  But when I turn back to Noah, his eyes are kind, even though I don’t deserve it for snapping like that. He doesn’t even seem to be asking for an apology.

  And I appreciate it, this pass he’s given me.

  I appreciate it so much.

  His voice is calm. “I think that if we just go through those woods right there, we’ll be right where we need to be. Or I hope, at least.”

  I brush beneath my eyes again and smile weakly. “All right,” I say.

  Because I could use a little hope.

  Right now, I could use a lot.

  NOAH

  2:29 P.M.

  I CAN HEAR HER FOOTSTEPS BEHIND ME, THE CHUG-CHUG of the suitcase dragging over exposed tree roots.

  We’re almost out of the woods.

  Literally, at least.

  But figuratively, I don’t know.

  This is why I thought before jumping, Rina. This is why I could never just go like you always could.

  Ammy takes a deep breath behind me, and there’s the tail end of a sigh as she exhales. “There better be a bus station on the other side of these woods,” she says.

  I’m praying that there is one.

  That I didn’t lead us on a wild-goose chase to prove a point.

  And that I haven’t ruined both of our nights with one stupid decision.

  It’s strange how quickly things moved from good to bad. We were going along, chatting about our lives.

  I didn’t tell her my parents almost split up last year, that they no longer have their professorships out of circumstance, not choice.

  Or that I’m pretty sure they cashed in the last of their savings to take this damn “love renewal cruise.”

  Even so, it was nice to talk to someone.

  Someone who had the patience to listen, who didn’t rush me to just get on with it, say what I had to say, make a damn decision already. . . .

  And then all of a sudden, the moment was over. We were back under the falling snow. Unsure of why it had taken us so long. Hoping against hope we weren’t completely lost.

  We can’t be, I tell myself. There’s no way. I looked at the map. It was only point nine miles.

  I force a note of cheer into my voice. “I’m sure it will be,” I say.

  I see a patch of bright daylight and push through the last couple of feet of woods.

  But that’s when any hope I had gets dashed. Utterly. Completely.

  “Shit.” I stop in my tracks. I feel my stomach sink, guilt already washing over me.

  Ammy doesn’t stop quickly enough. She runs into me from behind.

  I turn, and she must see in my eyes that this is not good news. She presses her lips together, waiting.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “What do you mean? What is it?” she asks. She pushes past me. I follow.

  We stare at it together. The back of a house. A little run-down, with peeling siding and a sagging roof that definitely needs an update.

  The yard is overgrown, filled with kids’ toys—fire trucks, plastic buggies—and there’s a half-torn-up kiddie pool that’s filling with snow.

  Ammy stares straight ahead. “Tell me there’s a bus station right past that house.”

  Despite her earlier anger, she’s at least somewhat calm. Reserved, almost. It’s a relief.

  I see those five beautiful dots that indicate service, finally. But I don’t need to look at the map. As it slowly loads, I fully take in what’s behind the house:

  The Hudson River. Icy. Stagnant. Probably filled with dead bodies if you followed it all the way down to New York City.

  We’ve gone the wrong way. The completely wrong way.

  I point to the map. She follows my hand to all the bad news. “We should have gone right out of the train. Not left.”

  “Are you serious?” she asks, her voice even. “You’re sure?”

  My heart is racing now, my breath getting shallow. “I think the map was flipped around.” I touch the button that recenters it. “I’m so sorry.”

  But she still doesn’t get mad. It’s almost as if she knows that if she does, I’ll lose it, too.

  Ammy stares at the house. She points to a gravel driveway off to the side. “There are two cars. Someone’s gotta be home
. Maybe they can drive us? Or give us hot chocolate or something? Aren’t country people supposed to be nice?”

  But I shake my head, back up slowly as a chill creeps down my spine. One that, for once, isn’t from the winter air. I gesture a few feet in front of us. Two signs I somehow didn’t see before, because I was so concerned about the directions, about the river, about this huge hiccup in our plan.

  There’s one that says, in shaky Sharpie, “I ABIDE BY MY SECOND AMENDMENT RIGHTS TO PROTECT MY PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING!!!”

  And one that must have been ordered off the internet: “GUNS BEFORE BUNS,” with a silhouette of a girl’s ass and the outline of what I can only imagine is an AR-15.

  “Oh shit,” Ammy says softly. “I thought New Yorkers were, like, antigun?”

  But I don’t have time to explain to her that up here it’s different, because that’s when I hear a pop, a loud snapping crack.

  It’s true that I never shot a rifle myself, but I live in the country. I know that sound. My heart goes a million miles a minute, and I grab Ammy’s suitcase, nod to the woods, and yell, “Run!”

  And we do. As fast as we can.

  AMMY

  2:35 P.M.

  “JESUS CHRIST,” I SAY. “JESUS H. CHRIST.”

  Noah still has my suitcase, and we’re on the other side of the woods—finally. We ran so freaking fast I can barely breathe now, the icy air chilling my lungs from the inside.

  “Do you really think those were gunshots?” I ask, more than a little alarmed. “Where the hell are we?”

  Noah turns to me, his eyes jumpy, like he’s scared, at least a little. “Honestly, I don’t know if they were or not. I think they were, though. And I definitely didn’t want to stay and find out if my gut was right.”

  “Yeah, me either,” I say.

  My jeans have gone from frayed to ripped at one of the knees—I guess a run through the woods is much harder on your clothes than a walk—and the inch or so of exposed skin aches with chill. At least the running got us sweating. The rest of my body isn’t quite as cold as it was before. For now, I think.