by Leah Konen
He shakes his head. “I got it. I won’t.”
And I turn around, drag my suitcase up and over the curb, and walk away as quickly as I can.
I don’t look back, because I know if I do that, every ounce of reserve will be lost.
I know that if I do, I’ll make a mistake.
NOAH
9:50 A.M.
SHE DOESN’T LOOK BACK.
Not even once.
She lugs her suitcase down the road, one step after the next, and I pray that she turns around, runs back, like they do in the movies.
I could stop her.
Run after her, reach out and touch her, hope that she feels the same way as I do.
Then what?
We would make out, right in front of Rina’s house?
A car whips past me, and on the other side of the road, a guy shovels his driveway, and I feel small. Other people are going on, about their days, recovering from the storm, drinking their coffee, reading the New York Times.
Ammy and I are just a blip on the radar.
A non-blip, because Ammy and I will never be anything.
She’s almost out of sight. She still doesn’t turn back.
Another man comes out with a shovel in hand. A woman with a bucket of salt.
A car goes by.
Ammy turns, vanishes out of sight, behind a clump of trees.
It’s over.
I shut the trunk, shuffle into the road, around the side of the car, open the door, get inside. I feel like I’m on autopilot, like a door has shut forever.
I know it’s the right thing to do for Rina. I know she deserves not to be hurt anymore. This is the last time for me on this street—and that’s how it should be.
I load Facebook and find Ammy. It’s an unusual first name, so it’s not hard. The photo is a close-up of her face. She’s got bright red lipstick on, and she looks beautiful. My thumb hovers over the friend button even though I said I wouldn’t. I wish I could, but I know I can’t.
It feels wrong, I think, as I stare at her profile.
It took a train breakdown and a missed bus and a trek through the snow and so many little adventures for me to learn, but I finally got to know what it was like to be with the person who brings out the best in you.
Now I’m supposed to just walk away from that? It doesn’t feel right.
Nothing about it feels right at all.
AMMY
9:53 A.M.
I DRAG MY SUITCASE ACROSS THE GRASS IN FRONT OF the farmhouse.
The gravel drive isn’t exactly suited to a rolling suitcase, and I don’t want to make a lot of noise, because I can’t bear the thought of Kat coming out right now, hugging me, asking me for all the details—everything.
I just want to go in quietly, put my suitcase down, take a deep breath, and mentally unpack all that happened. I stare at the beautiful white house, at the porch with the rickety steps and the red door. At the hanging “NAMASTE” wooden sign that Sophie bought in Woodstock.
I stop at the steps.
I imagine my dad inside, talking over breakfast about the ceremony with Sophie.
He’s happy, I realize. I knew it when I came here last summer.
I hated him for it. It was so unfair, when he’d hurt us so badly.
But the thing is, I hated my mom for being unhappy, too. I hated her for letting him break her like he did. I hated her for expecting me to fix everything by listening to her constantly.
I just wanted her to be a mom. I just wanted her to take care of me.
And maybe that’s why I’m here, after all. Maybe it’s not about the ceremony or any of that. Maybe it’s just that I know that my dad is in a better place to be a parent right now than she is.
Maybe, after everything, that’s really what I needed.
I’m about to open the door and go in when my phone rings.
I check it. It’s my mom. My heart begins to race.
I want to ignore her, do what I’ve been doing for the last twenty-four hours, text her that I’m okay but that I don’t want to talk.
But I don’t.
She might not be perfect, she might have hurt me, too, just like he did. But she’s still my mom, even if she hasn’t been acting like much of one these last few months.
“Hey,” I say.
I brace myself for the yelling, for the rush of anxiety, for the reprimands about me going. For everything.
“Ammy,” she says. “You answered. You’re at Dad’s?”
This time it’s not a lie. “Yeah.”
I can hear her breath catch. I can hear that it’s hard for her, imagining me up here, with them, playing at family when she’s not invited.
“I don’t want to ask you about the ceremony,” she says. “And I’m sorry I did last night. I know it will only make me upset.” She takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for yelling at you.” I hear her voice waver, but she doesn’t stop talking. “I’m sorry for everything since he left. I called my therapist this morning, and I’m going to start getting help again. I know I can’t rely on just you anymore. You have every right to be in your father’s life. I’m sorry, sweetie. I really am.”
I feel tears on my cheeks, taste salt on my lips. My voice cracks even more than hers did. “It’s okay, Mom.”
There’s something so painful about your parents apologizing to you. Something that cuts you to your core. Because you’re supposed to be the one who messes up, not them.
But sometimes that’s not how it goes. Not with mine. Not with Noah’s. Not with Kat’s.
Even parents are human. Even parents make mistakes.
“I know you’re just doing what you need to do. I want you to know that. And that I love you. And that I never want anything with your dad to come between us. Okay?”
I nod, wiping the tears away. “Okay. I’m sorry I abandoned you. I’m sorry Dad did, too.”
She sighs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And your dad, well, he’s not perfect, but I’m not, either. I’m trying to forgive him. I really am. I’m trying to be as strong as you are.”
And that’s what really gets me. That’s what makes the tears stream as I’m standing out on the porch. I wipe them away.
“I love you so much, Mom,” I say.
“I love you, too, baby. Be safe up there. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
She says bye and I love you again, and then she hangs up.
I stand there, staring at my phone.
And then I look back at where I walked from.
He’s probably long gone. He’s probably halfway to his house by now.
And even if he isn’t, I shouldn’t.
But there’s this thing that kills me.
It’s that if my mom can forgive my dad, if she can at least try, then, I don’t know, maybe anything is possible.
Maybe when you’re lucky enough to meet someone who makes you feel like this, well, maybe it means something. Maybe you’re not just supposed to throw it away. Maybe you’re supposed to chase it, like I chased that stupid bus. Maybe you’re supposed to chase it until you’re out of breath.
Still, I made it clear enough in the car that we should never see each other again.
It’s the right thing to do.
It’s the only thing to do.
So I turn back around, grab my suitcase, and take the first step.
NOAH
9:56 A.M.
I CLOSE FACEBOOK AND THEN MESS WITH MY PHONE, trying to find something to listen to. I settle on Taylor Swift, the poppiest album I have. I need something to cheer me up. To distract me. Sad indie music is certainly not going to do it.
I’m connecting it to the Bluetooth when I hear a knock on the window.
I turn, and I can hardly breathe.
It’s Ammy, standing there, like I hoped she would be. Like I imagined.
Except I’m not imagining it. It’s real.
I roll down the window.
“Did you forg
et something?” I ask nervously.
She shakes her head. “Can I get in?”
I nod.
She opens the door and gets inside. Her eyes are a little red, but she looks happier than I’ve seen her this whole time. She looks, in some strange way, relieved.
“Nice music choice,” she says.
I smile. “I had to drown my sorrows with pop.”
She laughs.
I turn it down.
“I wanted to change my answer,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Your answer for what?”
“My biggest regret,” she says. There’s a smile on her lips.
“Okay. . . .”
She takes a deep breath. “My biggest regret is walking away from you.”
My heart starts beating faster. It somehow becomes even more difficult to breathe normally.
She smiles at me. “I guess it’s not really a regret, because I just fixed it. But it would have been my biggest regret if I hadn’t,” she says. “And I don’t want that.”
I don’t know what to say, and she laughs. “All of this sounded a lot more eloquent and less cheesy in my head.”
I laugh, too, but deep down, my heart is soaring, threatening to beat so hard it could send the Mustang shaking. “I don’t want that, either.”
She reaches out, hands me a receipt.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s my number,” she says. “I would type it into your phone, but like I said, paper is better than digital. Call me sometime.”
She leans forward and kisses me, ever so lightly, on the lips.
And then she opens the door and walks away.
EPILOGUE
AMMY
11:02 A.M.
THE TRAIN STILL DOESN’T FEEL ROMANTIC, BUT maybe that’s because I’ve done it four or five times now.
The journey from Bard isn’t long—just a ten-minute ride to the Rhinecliff station and then a little under two hours on the Amtrak. Of course, nothing is long compared to last year’s journey, that’s for sure. Now every time I do this ride, it feels easy.
My bag is tucked neatly in the overhead bin. It’s smaller, but still has wheels. My dad got me new luggage for graduation. My old one wasn’t exactly in the best shape when I arrived at his door last January. My punched ticket is tucked into the seat ahead of me.
I stare out the window. The sun is shining brightly, and the trees are getting fuller every day. Spring is beautiful here. It’s what I learned last year when I came up for my spring break—and again for two weeks in May, after graduation. My mom didn’t argue with me those times. I think she almost enjoyed the time on her own. It’s funny—after last January, something was different. Like, without being angry at my dad anymore—without it consuming her all the time, at least—she finally had the space to get better.
I’m not saying everything magically changed. She still has anxiety attacks every couple of months. She still has days she needs to take Ativan. But it’s okay. We get through it.
She even managed to back my decision to go to college at Bard so I could spend more time with my dad and Sophie and Kat and Bea.
She didn’t like it at first, but she accepted it eventually.
My phone died this morning, so I dig around for my backup charger in my purse and plug it in, because everyone seems to freak out now if I’m not communicative when I’m traveling, even somewhere that’s not that far at all. It takes a minute, but it finally comes to life. There are two new texts.
I open my mom’s first.
Be careful in the Big Apple. Keep your Mace on you! Let me know when you get to Kat’s!
I laugh. My mom is always calling it “the Big Apple.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that she sounds ridiculous.
The next one is from Kat.
So turns out Joey has to pick up a shift at the diner tonight, so it’s just us, girlie!
I smile, because I know what a wild girls’ night in New York will be like with Kat. A double bottle of wine and Friends reruns in her NYU dorm room. She’ll tell me all about Joey, even though I’ve met him three times now and heard about him ad nauseam since they met at freshman orientation. She’ll tell me about their plans. And they have a lot of them.
She’s happy, and it makes me happy.
I shoot my mom back an I’ll be okay, don’t worry text and then assure Kat that I’m so excited for a night of wine and girl talk in her dorm room.
My last visit, just after the holidays, flashes into my mind. Joey was working, and it was just us again, and there was this bar near Washington Square Park that was really chill with IDs. She and I split a pitcher of beer, and she was telling me all about Joey and how much she loved him, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep the secret.
And so I told her.
Everything. How I met Noah on the train. How I never meant to hurt her. How we kissed that night we spent together, how we shared a bed, but that was it. And how, yes, we still texted sometimes. But nothing else. Because we both cared about her. We both didn’t want to hurt her.
She asked me what we texted about, and I told her the truth. How he told me about his comp-lit classes, about a party on Ninety-Third Street, about his dad’s new job at a different university. How I was seriously pondering studying journalism, even though the degree sounded about as useful as a comp-lit one.
I had to take an earlier train back to Bard the next morning. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.
But then she did.
And when she did, she gave me a gift—a big one. She forgave me. She forgave us.
She didn’t have to do it, but she did. Because she cares about me as much as I care about her.
I’m about to put my phone away and pull out a book when I get another text.
I can’t help but laugh, because it’s a stupid nickname. It’s too long, too ridiculous.
But he likes it, so I can’t really object.
Can’t wait to see you, Ammy, sweet and fair.
acknowledgments
A huge thanks to all the people who made this book possible.
To my agent, Danielle Chiotti, thank you for believing in this idea from the start and reading many iterations of Ammy and Noah’s story. To my editors, Kelsey Horton and Alex Arnold, as well as the entire Katherine Tegen team, thank you so much for your sharp insight and impeccable notes. You helped make my “train wreck” of a love story the best it could be.
I am so incredibly grateful to my friends and family around the country who have encouraged me throughout my career. A big thanks, as always, to my amazingly supportive parents and sister. And a special shout-out to Andi Bartz for joining me on my Amtrak research trip—and laughing with me when the train got delayed.
Finally, to Thomas and our dog, Farley, thank you for every weekend, every hike, and every moment spent together in glorious Upstate New York. Without those experiences, I never would have written this book.
back ad
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
www.epicreads.com
about the author
Photo by Kate Lord
LEAH KONEN is the author of The Romantics and The Last Time We Were Us. She is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she studied journalism and English literature. She lives in Brooklyn and Saugerties, New York, with her husband and their dog, Farley. Find her online at www.leahkonen.com or on Twitter and Instagram @leahkonen.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
books by leah konen
The Last Time We Were Us
Love and Other Train Wrecks
The Romantics
credits
Cover art by Helen Crawford White
Cover design by Katie Fitch
copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
LOVE AND OTHER TRAIN WRECKS. Copyright © 2018 by Leah Konen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017938600
ISBN 978-0-06-240250-9
EPub Edition © January 2018 ISBN 9780062402523
17 18 19 20 21 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
about the publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.