The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  There’s a tightness in his voice, but it’s not tension. It’s excitement. It’s determination.

  “You lived with intention from an early age,” I say as I absorb what he’s telling me.

  “I suppose I did.”

  A loud rattle echoes down the tunnel as the train approaches. We talk as it chugs into the station and creaks to a stop. Once we board and the doors close, I ask more questions and he answers, and as we travel downtown I begin to see the watercolor of Flynn Parker filling in. Colors, shapes, details. I start to understand the picture of who he is.

  On the outside, he’s the math nerd. The smarty pants. The tall guy with glasses who aced all his classes, can recite pi to a hundred digits, and has taught himself Japanese.

  But he’s more than that.

  His drive isn’t about numbers or circuit breakers. His drive is passion. The kind that insists on being heard, like a drumbeat. It’s a flame that can’t be extinguished.

  He tips his chin toward me. “What about you and writing? Did you have a nose for news at a young age?”

  “When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

  “Why aren’t you, then?” His tone is completely earnest, and curious as well.

  The answer is easy. “I don’t think I have the vision for it.”

  He frowns. “Don’t say that.”

  I hold up a hand and shake that thought away. “No, it’s okay. I’m not putting myself down. I’m really okay with it. I have no regrets. I’d much rather play around with somebody else’s pattern. It’s what I thought I wanted to do, but it wasn’t what I actually wanted to do, even though I do love making outfits.”

  “But you don’t have the passion for it as a career?”

  “Exactly. But being a reporter absolutely feeds something I love.”

  He leans closer, his palms on his thighs, his eyes holding mine. “What’s that, Sabrina?”

  I love that he’s asking me these questions. I adore that he’s curious. Because that’s what I’m enamored of.

  “I love curiosity,” I answer. “I love understanding things. I desperately want to understand people, what makes them tick. That’s why I do what I do.”

  “Desperation can be a good thing. We should love our careers desperately if we’re going to give so much to them.”

  “Desperate love,” I repeat, liking the sound of that. “Yes, we should love desperately. Especially work, since it’s often more reliable than the romantic kind.”

  He laughs lightly, one of those you’re preaching to the choir laughs, and I wonder if he’s had the shit kicked out of him by love too. If perhaps he’s so passionate about work because, like me, he’s been on the receiving end of a steel-toed boot. Maybe someday I’ll ask, but it doesn’t feel like it should be an interview question.

  “So, you do love what you do?” he asks.

  “I do, Inspector Poirot.”

  “And you also love understanding new things?”

  “I do.”

  A slow grin forms, and he strokes an imaginary mustache. “You’ll like where I’m taking you, then.”

  “The abandoned subway station, you mean? I read that we can see it on the train at the turnaround. You can catch a glimpse as the train loops around before it heads back uptown.”

  “That’s true. You can absolutely see it through the window. But you can also take a tour if you know the right people.”

  My eyes widen as surprise courses through me. “You arranged for a tour?”

  He shrugs happily. “I thought you might like that.”

  I do. I do like it.

  And I like him.

  Which is the thing I most can’t afford right now, and the list of things I can’t afford is miles long.

  16

  Sabrina

  Scads of New Yorkers scurry off the six line at the last stop. They exit, heading above ground or making connections, continuing with their day. But we stay on.

  “Come here,” Flynn says, offering his hand as the doors close.

  I take his palm, standing, and he guides me to the scratched, dirty window of the closed door. We peer out, staring at the tiled wall of the platform, his hand pressed to the small of my back. It’s hard for me to not think about his touch. It’s gentle and firm at the same time, and my mind can’t help but assemble images of his hand sliding under my shirt, along my flesh.

  I suppress a tremble as the train chugs out of the station, heading into the curving loop at the bottom of the line. “You have to smush your face against the window to get a really good view.”

  “Commencing smushing,” I say mechanically. I look at him. “Am I like the robot you built as a kid?”

  He scoffs. “If I’d designed a robot that looked and sounded like you, I would still be building robots.”

  A blush creeps across my cheeks. A flutter skids down my chest. I will them away, doing my best to ignore these sensations. It’s pointless to linger on them. When this story ends, I’ll still need to focus on work, finding a job, and perhaps covering his business regularly—a direct conflict of interest to any flutters, no matter how they make me feel. I can’t entertain the idea of whether we could try again then, because it’s not a possibility. I’m simply going to enjoy the time with him for what it is.

  An interview. A fun interview. The phone in my hand, recording us, is a reminder of that.

  We stand by the window as the train rumbles forward at a more leisurely pace this time, as if it knows that its job is to let us catch a glimpse of the past.

  “Look,” he whispers, almost reverently, pointing to what’s beyond the scratched glass as the train curves into the loop.

  I gasp quietly. It’s like entering a time warp. We’ve slipped back decades. The old, abandoned station is a marvel of days gone by. It’s New York in another era, with vaulted ceilings made of glittering tiles, and stained-glass windows, with mosaics lining the walls. Brass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, hearkening to days when New York was a city of splendor and gold.

  “It reminds me of where we met. The hotel. It had that olden glamour feel,” I say.

  “Yes. This is the same. The city in days gone by. This station was the crown jewel of the transit system, and yet they had to shutter the station because it couldn’t accommodate the longer trains. It could only handle five-car trains. It was too curved, too round, so in 1945, they shut it down,” he tells me as we circle past it, the tracks serving as a mere turnaround, offering a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t view into what once was.

  “Why is this your favorite place? Because you only catch a glimpse of it?” I offer, trying to understand what excites him about the abandoned stop.

  He shakes his head. “It reminds me that we can all become obsolete at any moment. It reminds me that success is fleeting.” He sweeps his arm out wide, gesturing to the grandeur that has no purpose anymore. “You can have the best transit system in the entire world, and if you don’t plan for the future it can be shut down.”

  Nodding, I let that little nugget of insight soak into my brain. A part of me almost hates how quickly I agree with him. I want to quiz him, to poke a hole in his argument, like a good journalist. But I can’t because his observation rings wholly true. “I can see that. It’s like a beautiful warning.”

  “Precisely. A reminder that at any moment we might be shut down.”

  “Haven?”

  He nods. “This station is incredible, and I love it, but I don’t want my company to become a relic.”

  “Can I quote you on that?” I ask, because this feels personal, as if we’re diving into territory that needs the consent confirmed.

  “Of course.”

  He points to the station as we leave it in the rearview. “This is a recognition that there is so much to look out for—the past, the present, and the future. You have to adapt to the changes so that your train can keep using the tracks.”

  “Love the metaphor.” I study his face for a moment. “You kind of re
mind me of old New York.”

  “I should be shut down?”

  “No,” I say, adamantly. “I mean you. There’s something about you. You’re thoroughly modern, but I could see you fitting into the Gatsby era.”

  “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” he says, quoting the last line in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most famous work. “Another warning not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Or, wait. Should I not quote Fitzgerald? Same rule as T.S. Eliot for you, Miss English major?”

  “Exactly. You’re asking for trouble,” I say, smiling, since I’m amused, maybe even overwhelmed by Flynn. He has so many layers. I want to keep peeling away at them, peeking at what lurks inside. “You’re an interesting man. You’re not just a math nerd. You’re a Renaissance man.”

  “Is that so?”

  I nod resolutely. “You are.”

  He shrugs, and his lips curve into a smile. It’s one of those I’ll take it grins, and I love it.

  When we exit, I turn off the recorder and tuck my phone away. I’ve accomplished some of what I’ve come to do today. I understand what motivates him. He’s a man of learning, not only a numbers guy. He finds inspiration everywhere. That’s what makes him tick.

  Perhaps he’s figured out it’s my jam, too, because I love the tour.

  He’s a member of the New York City Transit Museum, and they offer private tours for its members. A docent shows a small group of us through the once splendid subway station and I drink in the mosaics, the architecture, the feel of old New York, as well as the stories of the master artisans and the architect who worked on this station.

  For an hour or so, I feel as if I’m transported to another era, as if I’m in New York before my own time and before all my own troubles. On this fine June evening, I’ve made my great escape and I’m existing in a slip of the past, a whisper amidst the storm.

  When we’re done, I thank the docent and we head aboveground.

  “That was amazing,” I say, practically bouncing. “I’m almost ashamed I’ve lived here so long and I haven’t done that.”

  “Don’t be ashamed. Be glad you did it. I think there are so many things right in front of us that we don’t do. We don’t always take advantage of what we have. I try as much as I can, but you can’t get to everything.”

  “Do you try because a great idea for work might come from doing something unexpected?”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “I suppose it’s a welcome by-product if it happens, but no. I like new experiences in and of themselves. I like learning for learning’s sake. I do it for that reason, whether it has an obvious benefit or not.”

  There he goes again, amassing points he isn’t even trying to earn as he stimulates my mind with his thirst for knowledge. He’s everything I like, and exactly what I must avoid.

  He’s a risk I can’t take.

  But he’d be a risk no matter what. Even if it wasn’t a conflict of interest to date him, it would be a hell of a conflict to my wounded heart. I already like Flynn Parker too much for my own good. I can only imagine how much it would hurt when he left me.

  Because he would. We’d date, and laugh, and screw, and talk, and visit all the hidden spots in New York.

  Then he’d leave.

  He’d be done.

  He’d break my heart.

  “By the way,” he says, “do you know there are several other abandoned subway stops around the city? You can see some of them when you ride the train if you know where to look.”

  “I’d love to see them,” I say wistfully, hoping I’ll do as he suggests, hoping I’ll take advantage of everything that’s truly in front of me.

  I’ll be doing it alone, but I’ll do it. I want to experience all that the city has to offer. Now that I’ve ditched the dress, it’s time to immerse myself in living again, experiencing things anew.

  He looks at his watch. “Come to think of it, I don’t have anything going on at the moment. Do you want to check them out now?”

  My skin tingles. The birds sing. The sun kicks its heels in the sky.

  But a voice reminds me—he’s a risk you can’t take.

  I silence the voice. There’s nothing risky about doing this because nothing will happen with Flynn. Not now, and not in two weeks.

  “I do want to.”

  I’m not dating him, and we’re not together, nor can we be, so he can’t hurt me. He can’t stab me in the back with a rusty serrated knife and move halfway around the world, going radio silent.

  Flynn is work, and we are professionals who like spending time together. There’s nothing more to it, and my heart is safely locked in the steel cage I built for it with the remains of my failed un-wedding.

  That’s what I tell myself as we ride past the Worth Street stop and he points out the shuttered station’s name on the tiled columns, then the closed Eighteenth Street station that’s now merely a home for graffiti.

  When we finish checking out the hidden treasures of the city’s transit system, I feel refreshed and vibrant, like I’ve gone on a great date.

  In an alternate world, this date would lead to me taking him back to my tiny place, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and yanking him close. He’d push me against my kitchen counter, spread my legs, and fuck me. A spark tears through me like a fire lit and roaring as I imagine Flynn parting my thighs, tearing off my panties, and filling me.

  So deep.

  So good.

  I could get lost in him. I could get lost in his kiss, his rough and tender touch. I could disappear into bliss, and let it consume my hurt. The pleasure would burn away any lingering ache from the past.

  We could be Angel and Duke again for a night.

  But us too. I want to know how it feels to be us and to be them.

  I want that because this feels like the best date I’ve been on in ages.

  That’s why when I’m home that night, I resist every urge to text him and tell him what fun I had. I abstain from sending him math jokes or grammar puns. That would be something I’d do post-date and this—this was work.

  That echoes through my mind as we set a time for our next interview. Because that will only be work as well.

  That way, he can’t become Ray.

  He can’t leave me for no reason.

  Because I won’t let him in.

  But he texts me the next day. As the duke.

  17

  Flynn

  Duke: What’s your favorite place?

  Angel: Too many to name.

  Duke: You made me pick.

  Angel: Made you pick? Did I twist your arm?

  Duke: Yes. My wrist still hurts from your sheer, brute strength.

  Angel: I’m powerful.

  Duke: Like a genie. Incidentally, you’d look good in a genie costume. Just saying.

  Angel: You’d look good in many costumes—an earl, a prince, a pirate, a bandit, a highwayman . . .

  Duke: You have such a fascination with olden times.

  Angel: Yes, I do. Regency, Victorian, historical—give me breeches and I’m a-swooning.

  Duke: Next time, I’ll be donning a waistcoat and a top hat.

  Angel: I fainted in a most ladylike fashion. See? It really does work.

  Duke: Excellent, m’lady.

  Angel: Also, I’m so sorry I hurt your wrist with that hard twist I gave. That was cruel of me.

  Duke: Now that I think of it, maybe that’s not why my wrist hurts. :)

  Angel: You’re naughty.

  Duke: Naughty? Me? Why would you say that?

  Angel: Your wrist hurts? Okay, my fingers hurt!

  Duke: My wrist hurts from racquetball. Did you think I meant something else?

  Angel: You know what I think you meant.

  Duke: Spell it out for me. What did you think I was doing that made my wrist sore?

  Angel: Gee. I wonder.

  Duke: You need to get your mind out of the gutter, Angel.

  Angel: You led it there, Duke.


  Duke: Somehow, I think you can find the gutter on your own.

  Angel: Guilty as charged. But back to favorite places. Why do you want me to pick one?

  Duke: Hello? Our next interview. You’re allergic to offices, and since I took you to one of my favorite spots, it’s your turn to choose one for our next chat. Name some.

  Angel: My favorite place in all of New York City is New York City. :)

  Duke: Clever.

  Angel: But I’d also have to add Central Park, the hidden underground gin joint in Chelsea, the small Elevator Museum in Tribeca, the Starry Night locksmith in the West Village, one of the street artists in the East Village, the Met, and I think I would probably also love Gramercy Park.

  Duke: Tomorrow, let’s do the Elevator Museum. I’ve never been.

  Angel: I’ll be there.

  Duke: Also, why did you say you think you’d like Gramercy Park?

  Angel: It sounds lovely, but I’ve never been there.

  Duke: You haven’t?