Love and Other Train Wrecks

by Leah Konen

  In my AP English class this year, Mrs. Everett assigned us Plato’s Symposium. Explained that our use of the term platonic is completely misguided, and that a platonic romance is actually one in which you find your other half, that Plato’s story tells of how everyone was divided and went looking around for the other piece to complete them.

  Though Dara and Simone couldn’t have cared less, I found it fascinating. First, that we were all going around using the term completely incorrectly. Smart people, too.

  But second—well, that someone as smart as freaking Plato could believe that such a love exists. That he could subscribe to something so cheesy, so obviously fake. Two halves searching the earth for each other? Please. Those lofty, stupid ideas were likely responsible for all the evil shit in the world, like my dad leaving my mom, like Sophie believing it was okay to just break up a marriage because she met a guy she thought was cute on an REI trip.

  Like everyone who’s ever said “love will find a way,” “love is all you need,” or “love is the answer” and meant it unironically. Because love isn’t the answer, a lot of the time. At least not romantic love. Sometimes, the other kind—the loyal kind—is what really matters.

  And yet—

  When Noah was on top of me, when we kissed for hours, I couldn’t help it. I thought of those words: platonic love.

  And I thought—who knows? Maybe Plato was onto something?

  NOAH

  7:37 A.M.

  AMMY USES THE SUPER 8 WAFFLE IRON TO MAKE A waffle for both of us, while I load up on eggs, bacon, orange slices, a muffin, and a bowl of Cheerios.

  I take a seat about as far from the old guy who lent me money as possible, and I dig into my Cheerios.

  After a few minutes of waffle cooking, Ammy joins me.

  She carefully forks half a piping-hot waffle onto my plate. There’s no room, so she plops it on top of my eggs.

  She tries to take a bite, but as soon as she raises it to her lips, she puts it right back down. “Too hot,” she says.

  “Want some eggs instead?” I ask.

  “I’m okay,” she says. She takes a sip of coffee.

  She looks pensive, intellectual, all of a sudden.

  “Random question for you.”

  I take another spoonful of Cheerios. Nothing feels right between us now, like where everything was easy before, it’s now all off. “What’s that?” I ask cautiously.

  She stares at me for a second, like she’s not sure whether she wants to ask. Then she touches her waffle with one finger but doesn’t start cutting it or anything. Finally she opens her mouth to speak. “What do you think about platonic relationships?” she asks.

  I put my spoon down. Raise an eyebrow.

  On one hand, she could be hinting at the fact that there will be nothing between us, ever, if I understand platonic to mean what everyone else thinks it means.

  On the other?

  She reads Murakami. She knows I’m a comparative lit major. She’s exactly the kind of person who would know what Plato really meant.

  I take a sip of coffee, biding my time, wondering what in the hell she wants me to say. A half hour ago, I was only hoping to get us both where we’re going without any more fighting.

  But now?

  Between the way she looked at me when I came into the room, with kindness in her eyes, and the way she looks now, asking me this strange, leading question . . . I don’t know.

  I put my coffee down. “I think it’s real, especially when you meet the right person, someone you just click with, you know, right away . . .” My voice drifts off.

  She stares at me a second, and in her eyes I know it for sure: she knows exactly what Plato meant.

  She hesitates, and it’s like she’s standing on the edge of some sort of precipice in her mind, waiting to make a decision.

  After a second or sixty—I can hardly tell—she drops her gaze. Cuts at her waffle quickly, like she’s trying to destroy it, break it apart.

  “Got enough food?” she asks without looking at me.

  I’m a little surprised by the quick change of subject, but I smile, cock my head to the side. “I’m kind of a nervous eater,” I say.

  “What’s there to be nervous about?” she asks, looking at me straight again.

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Seriously,” she says. “We only have—what?—a couple of hours left together, tops. And then we’re never going to see each other again. And neither of us is ever going to tell Kat about anything. So why are you nervous?”

  My face falls, and I shove a spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth. Then another. And another.

  When I’m done scarfing them down, Ammy looks me in the eye.

  “Did you think that just because I felt bad for you being stuck out in the cold I was going to be okay with betraying Kat?”

  I shake my head.

  “Or that just because you read Plato’s Symposium, I’m going to, like, want to date you in secret or something?”

  Of course I didn’t.

  Did I?

  “I just—”

  Ammy puts her fork down. “You just thought if you did one sweet thing for me, if you said the right words—whatever—that I’d forget about that tiny little fact that you and I are a completely horrible idea?”

  “No, really, I—”

  Ammy pushes her chair back. “You know what? I’m not hungry.”

  She stands up quickly.

  I get up to follow her, but she turns around and looks at me, glaring. “Don’t follow me, okay? We’re not in a movie. It’s not cute.”

  Then she stomps out of the room, and I’m left staring at my huge plate of food and trying to avoid the pity-filled looks from everyone around me.

  I take another spoonful of Cheerios, but they’re somehow already soggy.

  AMMY

  7:52 A.M.

  I TURN AROUND TO CHECK THE BALCONY ONCE I GET to the room. Noah hasn’t tried to follow me. After the look I gave him, I’m not sure who would.

  I’m assuming he has a key, that I haven’t forced him out into the cold again. At least he has shoes, I remind myself. I’m not a totally horrible person, because he has shoes.

  I slip the key in the slot so hard and fast that nothing happens. I do it again. And again. And again. I stomp my foot and let out an audible sigh. Luckily, there’s no one around. No one to see me being a child and throwing a tantrum over a computerized key entry system.

  I push the card in again, slowly this time. I swear it’s like the CIA up in here.

  My eyes begin to water, but after a pause that seems almost endless, the little light flashes green and beeps. I turn the knob and push the door open.

  The room is a mess, and the second I walk in, I get a flash of last night. Of Noah on top of me. The weight of his body. His lips.

  I shake my head, pushing it away, focusing on the feeling, the confusion, the insanity, of seeing those photos of him and Kat in his bag.

  I pull my suitcase up onto the bed and start to arrange it. It’s a mess of books, clothes, my dirty socks from when I changed them in the art museum, the ticket from the train ride, an errant Skittles wrapper, and a bunch of playing cards that Noah swept off the bed last night.

  I start with the cards, even though they’re his. Something about having his stuff all mixed into mine really bothers me. Only serves to remind me that our lives were already stupidly intertwined before he even sat down next to me.

  Reminds me that the worst coincidence in the world is stealing the only thing that’s given me happiness in a while.

  I pick them up, one by one, trying to calm my nerves. My thoughts. Everything. I should never have asked Noah that stupid question. As soon as he said his stupid answer, about finding the right person and that platonic love really is possible and all that bullshit, I got mad.

  I got mad because he said the right thing.

  The thing that I could only dream of someone saying about me.

  I got mad because I was afr
aid that if I didn’t get mad, I would do something stupid.

  Even after knowing everything I did, I was tempted to be like my dad. Throw everything—family, loyalty, all of it—away, just because I had some swoony feelings.

  When I’m done with my bag, I zip it up, then head to the bathroom to collect my toothbrush and toothpaste.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. I don’t have any makeup on, and my eyes are puffy from not enough sleep. My hair is a mess. I haven’t washed it, which means I haven’t dried it and straightened it and all that jazz, so it’s starting to wave, frizz, rebel, and become its natural self. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in front of a cute guy like this.

  I hear the beep of the door unlocking. It must be him.

  Stop it, Ammy, I think. You’ve got to stop this.

  I toss the toothpaste in the bag, tuck my hair behind my ears, wipe any tiny remains of mascara from under my lids with the tip of my finger.

  Then I head out.

  He’s standing there, just in front of the door, looking awkward, like we’re playing that silly game everyone used to play as kids where the ground is lava, and if you touch it, you die.

  I hang by the bathroom door, as if I’m afraid to get too close, too.

  “Is it okay I came up?” he asks. “I’m done with breakfast, so . . .”

  “Fine,” I say, looking away immediately, over to his backpack in the corner. “Are you ready to go?”

  He nods. “Five minutes.”

  “Cool,” I say, as calm, cold, and unemotional as I can muster. “I’m going to check out. Just meet me downstairs when you’re ready.”

  I cross the room, toss my toiletry bag into my suitcase, zip it up again, and grab my key on the nightstand. I grab the pack of cards, too.

  “These are yours,” I say, chucking them onto the bed.

  “Thanks. Do you need help carrying your stuff?”

  “No,” I say brusquely, avoiding his eyes.

  “Okay, then,” he says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, nervously, but I just grab my suitcase, toss on my coat, and push past him.

  In seconds, I’m out the door.

  I pause, listening to the door shut behind me, taking a deep breath of the fresh winter air. It’s like, for a second, all the bad stuff is locked away, in that room. Like we can leave it there, like you’d leave a glove on a ski slope or a new book on the seat of a train. You’d remember it, miss it, maybe, but it would be gone. No way for it to come back and haunt you. Because there would be no real way to get what was missing back.

  I walk down the balcony slowly. The sun is higher in the sky now, and the brightness is welcome after the dark of the motel room. The air feels good now that there’s not a biting wind—crisp, but not too cold. The lack of snow is refreshing.

  I pause at the top of the stairs, roll my suitcase just up to the ledge and then stop.

  I let myself do it, just for a second.

  I imagine turning around, abandoning my suitcase, shoving the plastic card in and out however many times it takes to get the door unlocked, swinging it open, seeing his face, his eyes, his body, the whole essence of Noah, running up to him, wrapping my arms around him, and kissing him until we fall back onto the bed.

  It sends a warmth, a heat, through my body, a contrast against the chill around me.

  I turn for a second and stare at the door.

  But then I turn back around, grab my suitcase, lift it up, and start down the stairs.

  NOAH

  8:06 A.M.

  WE PULL OUT OF THE PARKING LOT IN SILENCE. There are fifty-five miles left on the drive, just over an hour. She’ll be home, to Rina’s, by nine fifteen. I know she’s missed everything that she wanted to be there for. But at least she’ll be there.

  It’s weird how even if I hadn’t met this girl, I was destined to fail from the beginning. I somehow managed to decide to profess my love for Rina on the day her mom was getting married.

  The roads are slushy, last night’s blanket of white tainted with dirt and grime and exhaust. It reminds me how beautiful things can change.

  The phone lady doles out directions. She’s the only one talking in the car.

  It’s silent for a few miles before I can’t take it anymore.

  “Maybe some music?” I ask. “If that’s okay?”

  I laugh to myself, remembering my demeanor just the night before: “Want to get us hooked up with some tunes?” I was so happy then; there was so much promise.

  I wanted to be with Ammy then, that much was already clear. I was telling myself that I still owed everything to Rina, but I knew that wasn’t how it was going to turn out.

  She did, too.

  We were taking our time, enjoying step after step to the inevitable destination. I knew it when we hugged in the Enterprise, when we got in the car, when we stepped into that motel room, when I sat down on her bed, when we pretended, for however long, to care about Go Fish.

  “What do you want to listen to?” she asks. Her voice is as monotone as the phone lady’s. Not angry. Not excited. Just . . . empty.

  I shrug. “Maybe something off of yours? Whatever you want.”

  “Okay,” she says. She fishes her phone out of her bag and begins to flick through her songs.

  She’s going through her library, the car weirdly quiet without music, when I hear a rumble.

  She keeps flicking, but then it goes again.

  “Is that your stomach?” I ask, almost laughing, but knowing full well that I don’t have the luxury of laughing with her. Not anymore.

  She shrugs and chooses a song. It’s slow and sad. Subtle, Ammy, I want to say. Very subtle. I imagine a world, an alternate universe, where everything is okay and this is just the beginning. Years from now, we’ll be joking about how we first met, and we’ll finish each other’s sentences, telling how I walked onto her train, how everything went wrong, how we almost lost each other, and then when we get to the part about this car ride, I’ll tease her for playing this song. For being so obvious about it.

  It would be a good part of the story, the part where we would laugh about how it almost didn’t work out. How if either of us were a touch more proud or stubborn or lazy, it never would have happened.

  But we’re glad, so glad, in this alternate universe. Because it did work out. It’s still working out.

  That’s when I’d slip my hand in hers, and I’d ask if she needed more wine, and I’d leave her to mingle with the other professors and professors’ spouses while I refilled our drinks at the elaborate oak bar at the speakeasy-style establishment of the annual faculty Christmas party.

  Her stomach rumbles again, shaking me out of my reverie. My silly, pointless reverie.

  “Do you want to stop and get something?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “What’s the point?”

  I grip the wheel tighter as we go right through a pile of slush that the sun hasn’t yet seen fit to destroy. “We have over an hour left, and that’s without traffic. It’s still technically part of winter break for a lot of people, so you never know. Plus, a lot of people probably got stuck last night like we did. Who knows how many people will be on the road? If you want to eat something, you should.”

  She sighs. “I should have just eaten at the motel. It was stupid. Waste food and waste money just to make a point.”

  The road opens up and so does the valley, and with the sun shining down on us it’s really quite beautiful. I should savor these moments, even though she’ll never have me. I’ll still remember that time that I really, truly was inspired by a girl. Cared about her like she was a part of myself. I know it’s only been a day. But when you know, you know, my mom always says. Like with the Cheetos outside the train station.

  She knew then, and I know now.

  Of course, it doesn’t fix a damn thing, because everything is already way too messed up.

  Still.

  I know.

  “It was a good point, at least,” I offer.

  She
scoffs. “Yeah,” she says. “Right.”

  I glance over at her, but she looks straight ahead. Avoiding me. “It was. Maybe I was getting a little ahead of myself. And I did think you were just going to put it all behind you because I did something that wasn’t even that nice or special. All I did was not wake you up.”

  She crosses her arms. “It was nice,” she says. “That’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point, then?” I ask.

  She sighs. “The point is that even though you did something nice—even though you are nice—it’s still not okay, because she’s my family.”

  I take a deep breath. “I know.”

  Up ahead, I see a highway sign adorned with those signature golden arches. “I’m going to stop up there,” I say. “Get you something to eat.”

  She just shrugs. “Okay,” she says. “Whatever you want. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  I’m not sure if she’s talking about the food or us or what, but I take the exit anyway, because if there’s any way we can figure this out, if there’s any way at all . . .

  Well, damn it, I have to try.

  AMMY

  8:12 A.M.

  WE PULL UP TO THE DRIVE-IN WINDOW, AND A MUFFLED but somehow still very loud voice calls out through the black box. “Welcome to McDonald’s, can I take your order?”

  I look at him. “Egg McMuffin and hash browns.”

  Noah rattles off my order, plus a sausage biscuit, and we pull around.

  “You’re eating again?” I ask.

  He just turns to me and shrugs.

  “Right,” I say. “Nervous eater.”

  He nods. “It’s true.”

  I look out the window. “I’m sorry I was so bitchy about that, back in the motel.”

  “You weren’t bitchy,” he says as we follow a shitty old Toyota in front of us, taking our spot in front of the window.

  “I know I was,” I say. “It’s okay.”