Someone clears his throat.
Oh shit, it’s Rupert.
I totally forgot he was sitting there.
“The romaine and goat cheese salad looks quite good,” he says, staring down at the menu.
“Oh. Yes. Yes, I was thinking of ordering that too.”
Rupert slides a Montblanc pen out from the middle of his leather journal and opens the journal to a blank page, smoothing it down with his long slender fingers. “I’d love to hear about what you do at the Getty Museum, Birdie.”
“Yes. I would love to tell you about my job.” I turn to Eddie, who is still leaning back against the wall and resting his head against his fist, all languid and sexy-like. “You probably don’t need to hear me talk about this yet again. Why don’t you order something to take back to the room? A burger, maybe.”
“Is that what you want me to do, Bird?”
No, I want you to put your mouth on my mouth and your hands on my everything, and I want your big hard cock inside me and I also want you to be my friend forever.
“Yes. That is what I want you to do, Eddie.”
He slowly stands and squeezes my shoulder with his big, strong hand. “Okay. I’ll order from the room. You can have my beer.”
I may have imagined the slight tremble in his voice. I hope I did. Because if I actually hurt him by asking him to leave, I couldn’t bear it.
“Thank you.”
“Enjoy your lunch.” He addresses Rupert as he lets his fingertips drag across the back of my bare neck, sending shivers down my spine, awakening some gorgeous, terrible ache in my belly, in my heart.
What a jerk.
“I’m quite sure I will,” Rupert says.
“Cheers,” Eddie says with a flourish.
And then he walks out.
And he’s flirting with his butt as he goes.
I don’t know how he does it, but I swear, he’s doing it.
And I can’t look away.
And I wipe away one stupid hot tear from the corner of my eye.
I hope he isn’t sad.
I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.
I hope I don’t do anything stupid.
I hope I don’t think about him the entire time I’m talking to Rupert, but so far, no luck.
“Where would you like me to begin?” I ask Rupert.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you tell me about your university degrees, actually. Start from there.”
I start to tell him about what I studied at UCLA, but all I’m thinking about is the way Eddie looked at me that first time he walked into American Lit class and sat down next to me. I’ve spent the past six years trying to forget about it, but now, all of a sudden, I can’t remember why.
The really great thing about trains versus planes? The observation car—and all of the different cars that you can walk through and to, if you’re a little bit tipsy and a little bit antsy. If you don’t want to go back to your room to be alone with Eddie. If you don’t want to go back to Rupert’s room to continue talking with him. You can go to the observation car to enjoy the view and make so many new friends…with a bunch of little kids who aren’t going to flirt with you or hit on you.
And I’m definitely not thinking about how good of a dad Eddie would probably be or how cute our babies would be. I’m not thinking about Eddie at all right now. I’m thinking about what Simon would say.
“Simon says touch your nose!” I declare to the group of five kids who’ve gathered around me. “Simon says stick out your tongue!”
It started with two little kids, when their harried mom asked if I’d watch after them while she went back to her room to look for her phone. And then a couple more parents asked me to look after their kids, and now I’m drunk Mary Poppins in the rear corner of the lounge car.
“Rub your head and bark like a dog!”
The four-year-old boy rubs his head and barks. The other kids don’t and then laugh at him because: “She didn’t say ‘Simon says!’”
“You’re out!” his older sister says. “You lose! Yoooouuuu looooose!”
The little boy pouts.
I can’t deal with another pouty sad little boy today.
“Okay, okay, nobody wins or loses at this game. Sometimes we just get confused, and that’s okay! Why don’t we just start another game—would you like that? What other kind of games can we play?” I ask the pouty little boy because don’t be sad, little boy.
He smiles at me and says, “Can we sing songs? I think you have a nice voice.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know about that—but okay! What should we sing?”
“Oh oh oh oh oh!” His sister’s hand shoots up. “‘Baby Got Back’!”
“Ohhhhh I know I know I know!” another little girl shouts. “The new Rihanna song!” She’s five.
“I don’t know that one.”
“Seriously? It’s like, really popular.” She raises her eyebrows at me and gives me sass face.
“Why don’t we do a round of ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’ You know that song, right? Do you all know what singing a round means?”
“Yeeeessss,” they all shout out together, rolling their eyes.
“That’s a baby song!” one of them complains, followed by a chorus of complaints from the rest of them.
Tough crowd.
“Well, let’s start with a baby song, and if we do it well, then we can graduate to something a little more grown-up. Like an Eminem song.”
I divide us up into two groups of three and lead them in the round. This is great. I’m not thinking about Eddie’s penis at all right now.
“Row, row, row, your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream – now you!
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream – keep it going!
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.”
Crap. Now I’m thinking about Eddie’s penis.
14
Eddie
The One with the Not at All Skinny Fingers
This has been a long day. Time does not fly when you’re on a train. But I don’t regret not flying to New York.
I’ve been getting messages on Instagram all day. Some of them are from fans of mine who want some clarity about whether or not Alana and I have broken up and who the “Girl on the Train” is so they know who they should be following. Some of them are from fans of Alana’s who think I’m an asshole and an idiot for even looking at any other girl. Some of them are guys who have an opinion as to who is hotter—Alana or the “Girl on the Train”—and they’re pretty much tied at the moment. Only about half of the people have complimented me on my performance in the video, which is disappointing.
People can be very disappointing.
Alana is very disappointing.
My inability to predict just how disappointing she’d be is disappointing.
But the thing is—I’m not all that disappointed about her. I’m disappointed in myself for fooling myself about her for over two months. I’m disappointed in myself for trying to fool myself about Birdie for six years. And I’m disappointed in myself for not taking the high road in my unscheduled journey to head Sir Rupert Skinnyfingers off at the pass.
The only person who isn’t at all disappointing is Birdie.
I can’t blame her for wanting me to leave her alone at lunch. I was being an ass. She’s the one person from LA who brings out the best in me and I was behaving like a little shit. I’ve sobered up a little. I did take a nap after lunch and I did feel better afterward.
And I made my way over to the observation car to do some reading.
But then I saw Birdie in the corner, surrounded by a bunch of little kids. Singing. And it felt lik
e my heart would explode. I had to leave. She’s never talked about wanting to get married and have kids, not around me, anyway. But seeing her like that made me want those things, and I can’t seem to see myself doing or having those things with anyone except her. It’s a feeling that I’ve had ever since I was home in Ohio for Christmas. Now it’s become a thought. It won’t be long before it becomes a goal.
And she has no idea.
But she was so happy for me when she found out about my meeting with the casting director. That made me happy. We had dinner together in the room. That made me really happy. I won’t be completely happy until Rupert Borington is completely deterred, but at least she declined his invitation to join him in the dining car again. I’ve been on my best behavior, but I’ve also been gesturing with my hands and flexing my fingers a lot, just to remind her how not skinny they are.
Nancy has already removed our dinner trays and turned down the beds. When I asked her for an extra blanket, she told me they only have one extra, so we might have to share. And then she gave me a knowing wink. Birdie and I are both wearing sweats because it’s gotten pretty cold on the train now that the sun’s gone down. She’s returned from the restroom with her wavy hair all loose and wild, her face scrubbed clean. She smells less like wine now but more intoxicating than ever.
She’s used some kind of body lotion, I think, probably all over. And now all I can think about is how soft and smooth her skin is. And having my hands all over her.
She puts her cosmetic bag into her overnight bag and then gets her winter coat out from the closet. “I think I’m going to use this as a blanket tonight. You should wear your jacket.”
“Good idea.”
She notices the plain white sheets on the lower bunk. “What happened to your own sheets?”
“They’re in my bag.” I give her a meaningful look.
She doesn’t get the meaning. “Why? You should use them.”
“I will have to launder them first before using them again.”
I watch as she puts two and two together and comes up with a wet spot. Her blue eyes widen. Her cheeks turn an enchanting shade of pink. She looks away and holds her coat in front of herself, like armor. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, anyway… Wear your jacket to bed.”
“I will.”
She holds my gaze for about three seconds, and it feels like she’s going to say something. I know I want to say something, but I’ll wait for her to go first.
But then my phone starts dinging with notifications. We hadn’t been getting cell service for about an hour, and I can just tell, from all the dings, that it’s Alana.
“Were you going to say something?”
“Nope. You should check your texts. I actually need to text my parents.” She gets her phone from her handbag and climbs up to the top bunk with her iPad and her coat.
I spot her—to make sure she doesn’t slip and fall again. And to get a good look at that sweet ass in those gray sweatpants. I don’t even feel guilty about it.
When she’s settled in bed with her big coat on top of her blankets, I check my phone.
ALANA: Having a nice time with your Juliet?
ALANA: I’ve had an amazing time defending you to people.
ALANA: Everyone thinks I should dump you.
ALANA: I think you just need some boundaries.
ALANA: So here’s an ultimatum…
ALANA: Get off the train in Chicago and fly the rest of the way here.
ALANA: Never see that girl again.
ALANA: And I will pretend this never happened.
ALANA: Otherwise…
ALANA: You will never get to see me in this, in person…
ALANA:
Yeah. It’s a good image. It’s a hot image. It’s a semi-naked image. She’s wearing exactly the kind of thing I always pictured her in two months ago.
And I already know I’ll never get to see her in it or out of it, in person.
And I’m fine with it.
“Is it Alana?”
“Yeah.”
“You should take a walk and call her.”
“Nah. I’ll call her when we’re in Chicago. At the hotel.”
She holds my gaze again, and I wait for her to say something.
But she doesn’t.
“Okay, well. I’m gonna read.” She switches on the light on the wall, turning away from me.
“Me too.” I sure as shit don’t want to watch Sherlock.
“Oh, shoot,” she whispers.
And I know she forgot to take her glasses up with her. “Where are they?”
“In my cosmetic bag. In the overnight bag. The black one.”
I unzip the overnight bag and pull her eyeglasses case out of the cosmetic bag. And when I zip the cosmetic bag back up, I just happen to notice a strip of condoms. Which is interesting. And they’re regular sized—which is sad.
“Oh shit, wait—I’ll get them!” She bolts upright and turns to see that I’ve already got the glasses. She squeezes her eyes shut, scrunching up her whole face.
I’m sure she’s expecting me to give her a hard time about them. But I won’t. I just zip up the weekender bag and then hand her the eyeglasses.
She takes them from me without looking at me. “Thank you,” she mumbles.
“You’re very welcome.”
“Shut up.”
“I just said you’re welcome.”
“I hear what you’re thinking and shut up.”
“Okay.”
I grab my jacket from my duffel bag, along with another pair of socks because my feet are already cold in only one pair and wearing this jacket doesn’t do much good either. Those two thin wool blankets aren’t going to do much for me. Serves me right for not bringing a proper coat. And I really need to not bring up the condoms, but it can’t be helped.
“I’m not judging you for being prepared for sex, Birdie.”
She hides under her big coat. “Shhhhh! Shut up shut up shut up!”
“Why are you so embarrassed?”
“I’m not. Stop talking.”
“Okay.” I don’t know why it bothers me that she’s planning to have sex with someone on this trip, other than the fact that I know she wasn’t planning on having sex with me. And I’m sure Lord Scarfington has to have his condoms custom made so they don’t slide off.
But I don’t make a comment about that because—high road.
The speaker on the wall crackles, indicating another announcement from Gavin the conductor, who seems to think he’s hosting a late-night FM radio show. “Good evening, everyone. Gavin the conductor here with my last announcement for the night until we reach our next stop. Unless, of course, something goes terribly, horribly wrong… But nothing will go terribly, horribly wrong. So go ahead and settle in for a good night’s rest. But baby, it’s cold outside as we make our way through Kansas. We’re looking at below freezing temperatures out there, so you may find it a bit chilly on board too. I’m told we’re out of blankets. Hopefully you’ve brought along some warm clothes and socks to sleep in and an extra blanket. If not, maybe there’s someone special you can cuddle up to—for purely thermogenic reasons of course. I know there’s someone I’d like to be cuddling with, but I won’t be able to see her for a week. So, if you’ve got a special someone nearby…don’t be shy. Keep it warm, people. Gavin, out.”
Birdie’s coat is shaking, and I know she’s laughing under there.
“Keep it warm, Birdie,” I say. “Eddie, out.” I switch off the main lights and climb into bed.
Fuck.
It’s cold.
It’s so fucking cold.
I let out a heavy, annoyed sigh.
“You’re cold, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you put on more clothes?”
“These are the only sweats I brought.”
“Put on a sweater.”
I don’t respond.
“You only
brought those thin sweaters, didn’t you?”
“I was planning to buy a coat in New York.”
“You were planning on being naked the whole time.”
My stubborn silence is the only answer she needs.
“Oh, Edward.”
“I’m fine. Read your book.”
I turn on the wall lamp beside me and open up Infinite Jest. It’s too fucking cold to read. I think my eyelashes are frozen. How can it be this cold inside the train?
This is the perfect way to end a weird fucking day that started out great.
I close the book, drop it to the floor and turn off the light. Maybe being asleep will warm me up. I mean, I know exactly what would warm me up right now, but I also know it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to change tracks that abruptly. I may never have been down this particular road with a woman before, but I know better than to do that.
Maybe I should ask her to be my fake girlfriend—worked for Declan.
But no. I’ll do my own thing.
Birdie’s a planner. I like a good plan too.
New goal for February: Make Birdie comfortable with the fact that she will be mine.
I’ll take my time and get it right.
“Eddie. Eddie, wake up!”
I wake up. I realize my teeth are chattering. I am so fucking cold I might actually be dead.
I turn onto my back, but I can’t see anything in the dark because something warm and heavy is being placed on top of me. It’s not Birdie, unfortunately, but it does smell like her.
“Turn around.”
“What?”
“Lie on your side, face the wall.” She sounds so annoyed with me. I’d find it cute if I didn’t have hypothermia.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I will lie with my back to you. It’s fine if your back touches me. If you need to do that, to warm up. But that’s it. Just your back. No butt stuff.”
I mean. I may be half-dead, but I have to laugh at that.
A Very Friendly Valentine's Day Page 9
