Love and Other Train Wrecks

by Leah Konen

  I put my burger down and look at him seriously. Behind him, a burly man comes inside and hangs up his winter hat on the coat stand at the door, scuffing his shoes on the mat. At least we’re not the only customers anymore. Maybe the waitress will hate us less.

  I steal a glance at her, but she’s rolling her eyes while the man isn’t looking.

  Maybe not.

  “Really. What are we going to do?” I ask again. “No cabs. No bus. No train. And I don’t exactly think we can sleep in this diner until your random bus company starts up again.”

  “I don’t know,” he says, popping a fry into his mouth.

  “We have to do something,” I say.

  He nods and pulls his phone out from under the table. “Lyft?” he asks, tapping at his phone. It’s still hooked into the outlet, tethered to this place—just like us.

  “You think they’ll have Lyft?” I take another bite of my burger. It’s half gone already. I pop a fry in my mouth and watch him.

  “It can’t hurt to check,” he says. “What else are we going to do?”

  The snow continues to fall outside, and I devour the rest of my burger while he taps away. Through the window, I can see that it’s starting to get dark.

  I finish the rest of my fries and pray that he has some luck.

  Because we are quickly running out of options.

  NOAH

  4:29 P.M.

  THERE’S A SMALL TV MOUNTED ABOVE THE MAIN counter. The kind that was probably manufactured ages ago, a cube that’s fat and clunky, with a rounded screen. There’s no sound, but the waitress keeps looking up at it, between glances at her watch. I don’t need sound to know it’s not good news. There’s a guy in a gray suit waving his hands around the map, showing us the Doppler. From the looks of it, this isn’t going to let up tonight.

  I glance back down at my phone, checking Lyft.

  Ammy stares at me eagerly, like all the answers lie in this one little app, and I’m the gatekeeper.

  It’s refreshing endlessly, moving lines that show me it’s working, except I know that it’s not.

  Bingo.

  “It says there are no cars,” I say.

  “Should you try it again?” she asks.

  “I’ve tried it probably five times already,” I say. “And Uber, too. We may have to rent a car.”

  Ammy is done with her burger already, and I take a huge bite of mine, then follow it up with three fat fries. The waitress leans against the counter, avoiding any glance at us, looking put out. There are only three customers in here: us and the guy who walked in a few minutes ago. Ammy’s coffee is empty.

  “Do you want more?” I ask, pointing to her cup.

  She shrugs. “I think the waitress hates us. I’ve been trying to get her attention, but no luck.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, waving my hand back and forth like I’m looking for someone at a concert, not like I’m trying to flag down practically the only other person in the room.

  The waitress looks alarmed, so I tone it down a bit. “Could we possibly get some more coffee, please?” I gesture to both our cups. She grabs the carafe and slowly walks toward us, pours some sludge.

  The coffee is hotter than before, steam rising off of it. Thank God, because I’m not sure when we’re going to be this warm again. Ammy pours in a bunch of milk, grabs her cup, takes a sip.

  “You’re funny, you know,” she says when she puts it down.

  “What do you mean?” I take a sip as well.

  She shrugs. “You just are.” Then she pushes her plate away and leans back in the booth. She drums her fingernails on the table. They’re painted red and chipped around the edges. She flakes a bit of polish off and looks at me with that look I’ve already come to know quite well—a questioning one: Are you sure about that? “So don’t you have to be, like, twenty-five to rent a car? That’s what my dad always says.”

  I attempt to get more ketchup out of the glass bottle, banging on the bottom to no avail. Ammy doesn’t ask if I want help, just grabs it from me and gives it a quick karate chop to the middle of the neck. It slides out smoothly.

  “Thanks,” I say. I pop another fistful of fries into my mouth, eating them fast and wiping my mouth with a napkin so cheap you can practically see through it. “You only have to be eighteen,” I say. “It just costs more.”

  She starts drumming her fingers against the table again.

  I shrug. “I have an emergency credit card from my parents. I’m pretty sure this counts as an emergency.”

  Her eyebrows knit together. “Won’t they be mad? Should you call them to check first?”

  I scoff. “They’re in the Caribbean on their cruise. I can’t call them.”

  I stare down at my plate, dunk another fry in ketchup.

  Quite frankly, even if I could call them, I don’t think I’d want to. The cruise was a luxury, with money they don’t really have, because my dad read on some blog that you have to “invest in your marriage.” They took it quite literally. Ever since they’ve gotten back together, they’ve been doing lots of stuff like this. Fancy dinners out. Couples’ cooking classes. A spa weekend in the Adirondacks. It’s good. I’m glad that they’re connecting with each other again. But I’m worried about them, too. Between all the student loans I’m taking, and the fact that I’m majoring in comparative lit, I’m not going to be able to help them if they need me. They’d give me the money if I asked, sure, but I’m worried that pretty soon they won’t have it. That there will be no safety net—for me or for them.

  What will probably happen is I’ll put it on the credit card, and then I’ll pay it off with a good chunk of the money I saved from weekends as a busboy at the fancy Upper East Side French spot. It was the money I was planning on using for my own love-renewal trip, the money I was going to invest in me and Rina.

  The reservations tonight, the ones I probably won’t even be there for now, were at the New American, a restaurant by one of the chefs that had a TV show a few years back. It’s supposed to be good. Really good. You have to book a couple of weeks in advance. Rina bugged me to go all through our relationship. She just wanted us to get all dressed up and go to this foodie spot that she’d read about in the New York Times and New York magazine and all the other publications with the words New York in them.

  I always said no, that we could get ten dates out of the money we’d spend that night.

  You worry too much. Sometimes, you have to just do something.

  It was easy for her to say that, though. Her mom’s house was all paid off. She didn’t have to worry about things of that nature.

  I look up. Ammy is staring at me like I’m an alien.

  “We lost you there for a second,” she says.

  I shove one last fry into my mouth. It’s soggy. Ammy’s plate is already empty.

  “Did you hear anything I said?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “I said I can pay for part of it. The car rental.”

  “You don’t have to. . . . I mean, it’s my fault.”

  She shrugs. “You were only trying to help. And it’s not your fault, really. I should have looked at the map before we left. And we’re here now. I have some money saved up from babysitting these three little brats all summer. It’s fine.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Yes, really. It’s just babysitting money. And I need to get back, too.”

  Not for the first time, I wonder why. What, who she’s going back to. But I push it out of my mind and focus on the good. That she’s forgiven me for leading her in the wrong direction. At least a little bit. It means a lot. From the look on her face, I think she can see it.

  The waitress comes back and sets the check down. It’s twenty-one dollars. We both throw two twenties in.

  While we’re waiting for change, Ammy doodles on her napkin. Little spirals that are weirdly mesmerizing.

  “So how bad is it if you don’t get there in time?” I ask.

  Her doodling st
ops abruptly. She looks up.

  “You know you still haven’t told me where you’re going,” I say, unable to resist.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she says, almost on autopilot.

  I shrug. “Why? I’m a good listener, promise.”

  Her lips form a thin line. All the friendliness that was in her face a second ago leaks out just like that.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I only thought that—”

  She interrupts me. “You know, you still haven’t told me why you and your ex broke up anyway.” Her eyes are on the napkin, and she starts doodling again.

  I shrug. “People break up.”

  “Yeah,” she says, without looking at me. “And they don’t get back together.”

  The waitress comes over with a tray of crumpled bills and change.

  Ammy still doesn’t look up. “You didn’t, like, cheat on her, did you?”

  I nearly spit out my coffee, and my heart begins to race. “What kind of question is that?”

  Her eyes meet mine, and she shrugs again. They’re captivating, those eyes. They practically dare you to look away, like a Renaissance painting.

  Her eyes widen. “Wait, did you? Really?”

  I take a sip of coffee. Caffeine has a weird, calming effect on me. It’s counterintuitive, but it always has. I look down, then back at her. “No. I really didn’t.”

  Ammy breaks my gaze, abandons the spirals, and starts writing out her name in swirly letters, just like Rina used to. She keeps her eyes locked on her napkin. “So you just freaked out and broke up with her, the perfect girl for you, as you yourself said on the way here. For, like, no reason at all? And that’s your biggest regret?”

  “I’m trying to go home and fix things,” I say. “That’s why I’m here, remember?”

  “I’m just asking, what is there to fix?”

  “None of your business.” I practically spit the words out.

  She shrugs, her eyes still avoiding mine. “Well, then don’t get all up in my business, okay?”

  I shake my head, my heart racing faster, my face burning. “You know what? I need to go to the bathroom,” I say brusquely.

  I get up and walk to the back without another word.

  The bathroom is empty, the stall doors open, the three dingy sinks free, the trough of black-and-white-tile urinals abandoned.

  Thank God.

  I head to the middle sink and turn on the water, let it run cold. I cup some in my hands and splash it on my face.

  I reach for a paper towel, but the damn thing is empty, and I end up drying off with the bottom of my shirt.

  I stare at myself in the mirror.

  I didn’t cheat, I remind myself. We weren’t even together then.

  But I look at myself again, and I realize that everything hurts: my head, my bones, the chapped skin around my eyes.

  I didn’t cheat.

  But that’s not the only way to fuck something up.

  AMMY

  4:43 P.M.

  I WATCH HIM WALK AWAY, INSTANTLY FEELING GUILTY.

  I wanted to get back at him for asking me why I’m going to Hudson when I’d made it good and clear that I didn’t want to talk about it.

  And the thing is, it looks like I succeeded.

  The waitress gives me a look, raising her eyebrows just a tiny bit like we’re some high school sweetheart couple who’s just had their first fight. I look away, fiddling with the change instead. I set aside her tip and then divide the bills and change between us, arranging Noah’s in a neat little pile on his side of the booth.

  Then I pull out my phone, load up my maps, and look for the closest car rental place. It’s nearly three-quarters of a mile. I tap their phone number, because maybe they can pick us up—don’t some of them do that?—and it rings six times before someone answers.

  “Hello.” The man’s voice is gruff. Whatever corporate message he’s supposed to say probably went out the window a long time ago. In the background, I hear voices. They’re busy.

  “Uh, I’m calling about a rental car. We’re about a half mile away,” I say, rounding down in the hopes that they’ll be more inclined to help us. “Is there any way someone can pick us up?”

  “Not in this weather,” he says. “We’re slammed over here.”

  “But you do have cars?”

  “We do have cars, yes,” he says.

  “Should I—”

  But the line goes dead. The dude’s hung up, just like that.

  I put my phone back in my bag, begin wrapping my scarf around my neck, preparing for the brutality that awaits us outside.

  I didn’t mean to be mean; really, I didn’t. I just never expected Noah to give me that look. That but how did you know? kind of look. It was the same look Dara gave me when I jokingly asked if she liked Steven, the ultra-nerdy guy in our AP bio class, because she’d been talking about him so much. I didn’t really, until I saw that look.

  He said he didn’t cheat, but regardless, even if he didn’t, he did something he feels really bad about. He wouldn’t have given me that look if he hadn’t.

  Not that it matters, I remind myself. He’s a stranger. Someone I’m stuck with and absolutely nothing more. Because even if I wanted there to be something more, well, I have my promise to myself not to get involved with anyone.

  Not to mention, his heart is pretty much completely spoken for anyway. I glance at the ruined pink roses, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes just thinking about why anyone would ever choose pink freaking roses.

  I force myself to stop, to consider the matter at hand instead of Noah’s bad taste in flowers. I mentally run through the pros and cons of going to the car rental place.

  I start with the cons:

  It’s cold out there (5 points)

  Scratch that, it’s freezing out there (another 5 points)

  It’s three-quarters of a mile, which is almost the same length as the evil point nine miles that got us into this mess (10 points)

  Noah and I aren’t even really getting along right now, so it will probably feel longer (5 points)

  It’s gonna get dark soon (10 points)

  Then I think of the pros:

  We don’t have a single other option, not one that I can think of, at least (a thousand points)

  There’s no need for math this time, that’s for sure.

  The door to the bathroom opens, and Noah walks back to the booth briskly.

  His face is pale, and there are tiny droplets of water on his temples.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He doesn’t meet my eyes, just crumples up my neat little pile of money and shoves it all in the pocket of his jeans like I haven’t even said a word.

  “There’s a car rental place three-quarters of a mile away. They can’t pick us up but they say they have cars. I guess we’ll just walk?”

  He nods, still avoiding my eyes. “Let’s get going, then.”

  Noah shrugs into his coat quickly, and I do the same. In seconds, we’ve got all our things. We manage an unenthusiastic thank-you to the waitress, and then we’re back out in the cold unknown—the unknown that is swiftly getting darker and darker—the bell dinging behind us. Reminding us not so subtly that we’re leaving our warm little hideaway, even if it wasn’t the most hospitable place on earth.

  “It’s just up Main,” I say. “It’s not that far.”

  Noah nods and then steps ahead, leading the way.

  At the corner, he drops the wet, messed-up flowers in the trash can. He doesn’t turn around to check that I’m behind him. When the light tells us to go, he just walks.

  It’s not five blocks before Main Street morphs from cute little drag with sidewalks to two-lane road with a gravelly shoulder, woods on either side. Thankfully, there are LED streetlights. Otherwise, we’d be screwed even more than we are.

  Of course, we are pretty screwed anyway. Because it’s the dead of freaking winter, we are walking directly int
o the wind, and it’s cold as balls.

  It’s just three laps around the high school track, I remind myself.

  Just three laps. That’s, like, nothing.

  I’m extremely tempted to stick out my thumb and hitchhike—or show a little leg like they always do in the movies. But there aren’t that many cars anyway. And I’d risk them not seeing me and hitting me on the side of the road or something.

  Besides, that kind of thing only worked a long-ass time ago, when you weren’t worried that every passing car was some kind of maniac killer.

  After ten minutes or twenty—it’s hard to tell in this weather—I pull out my phone to see how far we’ve gone.

  We’re going the right way, but we’ve only gone a quarter of a mile so far—shit.

  There’s a text from Kat.

  Any word, girl?

  Are you okay?

  I’m cursing the gods of public transportation right now, by the way

  I laugh weakly and then text her back.

  I’m okay but I’m not gonna make it in time

  Keep cursing the gods for me, plz

  Kat always knows how to make me laugh—it’s one of the many things I like about her. She’s not anything like her younger sister, Bea, who’s sweet and soft-spoken, who doesn’t have a snarky bone in her whole entire body. The two fit the older-younger sister pattern almost perfectly. Kat is outgoing, popular—a little bossy. Bea is quiet and reserved but with a rebellious streak, like a girl James Dean.

  Bea is by all accounts nicer and easier to get along with, sure, but Kat was the one who welcomed me that week I stayed with them.

  After brunch that first day, before we picked Bea up, we walked around, hitting all the thrift stores in the main downtown area.

  Kat joked about her mom’s overpriced chakra crystals and how now my dad believes every stupid word she says about “healing energy.” She said it was downright hilarious that someone who read all these books about Buddhism and karma and putting good out in the world felt A-OK breaking up a marriage.

  At brunch, Kat asked for the check when I still had half my sandwich left, because she wanted to go, and she wanted to go right then.

  Because of that, Simone said she sounded a little controlling when I FaceTimed with her and Dara that night.