by Meg Maguire
He shook his head, and the train doors opened at the Charles stop, icy winter wind gusting inside to pepper Caitlin’s bare legs with goose bumps.
“I was a camp counselor when I was teenager,” Mark said. “Then I worked full time at the Y as a youth sports coordinator for a couple years in Hartford, then got a chance to transfer to Boston. All my closest friends had gone off to college, and I didn’t want to wind up like my dad and my uncles, all still farting around in the same neighborhood where they grew up, so I jumped on it. I figured eventually I’d save up enough to do the school thing, but with my salary and Boston’s cost of living…”
She nodded her commiseration.
“But it’s all working out, I think. I’ll probably get appointed as director when my boss retires next year, which is a nice promotion. Plus, it’s a lot of fun, and really satisfying. When I don’t want to strangle the kids, that is.”
The train trundled back underground, and Caitlin was disappointed her stop was coming up.
As they squealed through Park Street Station, she asked, “Were you always sporty?”
Mark shook his head. “I was kind of a lump, actually. Hands glued to a video-game controller. Then when I started high school, my folks were on the verge of splitting up, and I joined the track team just to have an excuse to avoid being home during all their fighting.” He paused, blinking. “Sorry. That was probably TMI, as my girls would say. It’s late. My social filters have gone to bed for the night, I think.”
“I just got dumped at an office holiday party by a guy I didn’t even really like all that much. Is that TMI?”
He grinned. “Probably. Guess we’re even. Shit, you got dumped, dressed like that?” He gave her legs an appreciative glance. Not sleazy—not that Caitlin would have minded so much.
“He must have been drunk,” Mark said. “Or blind.”
“Neither, I’m afraid—”
The speaker chimed. “Now approaching…Downtown Crossing. Change here for the Orange Line.”
She stood, checking that her coat was covering all the important, drafty places. “Well, this is me.”
Mark stood. “Me too.”
“Oh. Where do you live?”
“You know where the Chinese Evangelical Church is?”
She laughed—the name of that place always made her scratch her head. Huh. They’d be getting off at the same stop. Getting off together, her brain repeated with a juvenile snicker. “Yeah, I know the place.”
“Not far from there. You?”
“Not far either, but down Tremont a block and through that little park.”
The doors hissed open, and they headed for the Forest Hills platform together, Caitlin’s clop-clops sounding too loud to her ears.
“You rent?” Mark asked.
“No, condo. Tiny little walk-in closet of a condo, but this time of year my job hardly ever lets me go home, anyhow. My cat must worry where his next meals are coming from.” Did I mention I live alone with a cat? Just got dumped, workaholic who occasionally eats half a bag of shredded mozzarella cheese for dinner? With chopsticks? Get on this hot mess with your man-broom before someone else sweeps me up!
“What do you do?” he asked.
“There’s no way to make it not sound boring, but I’m account manager for a financial firm. Nothing too evil, I promise. I specialize in small-business loans and investments. Leave the corporate stuff to my more ambitious colleagues.”
“Cool.”
She laughed. “If you say so.”
Caitlin slowed on the stairs, out of practice at walking in heels, and they stood among the other late-nighters, waiting for an Orange train.
“You must be freezing in that,” Mark said.
“A little, but it’s only five minutes’ dash to my place. Plus, I dress up maybe twice a year, so I can channel my inner twenty-year-old idiot and suffer the elements in exchange for wearing cute shoes.”
He glanced at her feet, and she modeled one for him. “Those are cute.”
“I know. Cute as a basket of yawning puppies.” She gave Mark a quick once-over. “When I saw you at the Red Cross, I thought you must be a construction guy. You had paint all over your pants.” And quite sexy arm muscles behind your shirt.
He looked perplexed a second. “Oh, no. Sadly, that was only evidence of how overdue I was to do laundry. Those are my crappy jeans I wear when I have to help with a mural or paint banners for games or whatever. But if they trick women into thinking I’m some kind of capable roughneck, maybe I’ll put them into regular circulation.”
She laughed, just as headlights winked from the dark tunnel. Twenty minutes ago she couldn’t wait to be in bed, now she was almost sad how soon she’d be home. Ask me out, she beamed to Mark.
Yeah right, dum-dum. You told him you just got dumped. If he’s smart, he’ll run screaming, and if he’s a creep, he’ll think you’re all vulnerable and easy.
Who cares? He’s hot. Maybe I am easy.
Well, not quite. Not in practice. She wished she was the kind of girl who’d just take him home tonight, let him peel off her fantastic dress and hey, why not keep the shoes on? But she most certainly wouldn’t be wishing all that come morning, after he disappeared down the hall and out of her life.
“After you,” Mark said, gesturing as the doors slid open.
The car was packed with animated young adults heading home to Roxbury and Jamaica Plain from the clubs, leaving no room to sit. They were only going two stops, anyhow. Caitlin tucked herself into a corner by the far door, and Mark joined her, seeming to position himself in such a way that she might avoid having her legs leered at by their fellow riders. Chivalry or jealousy? Didn’t matter. Either reason made her bite her lip to keep from grinning.
Their fists were an inch apart on the metal pole, and if his drifted down to butt against hers, she wouldn’t relocate her hand. Come to think of it, his face was awfully close to hers. And he was a lovely height, maybe six-one, tall enough to make a slightly-taller-than-average girl in three-inch heels still feel adequately loomed-over. Woman, that was. Not a girl. Though she certainly felt like a college kid again, and her glass of consolation chardonnay had worn off an hour ago and couldn’t be blamed for this giddiness.
She studied Mark’s five-o’clock shadow, thinking idly how nice he’d look with shaving cream all over his face—that open face with its easy smile, temporarily stern to keep from getting nicked. Chest bare, towel knotted at his waist, the squeak of his palm across the glass as he cleared the fog from the mirror . . .
Here, let me help you with that… How do you like your eggs? Call in sick to work and have sex with you all day? Oh, Mark, I really mustn’t. But I will. Paint my front hall wearing nothing but your mangy work jeans, you say? Excuse me while I orgasm.
“Caitlin?”
She started, blinking to bring his face into focus.
“Sorry. You said your name’s Caitlin, right?”
“Yeah. Oh, yes. Sorry, the time must be catching up with me.” Pardon me while I redress you in my mind. And…there we go. Now I can form words.
“I asked if you got time off for the holidays,” Mark prompted.
“Yeah, I do. My company’s year-end craziness wrapped up this week. Me and most of the people in my department are taking the week after next off, through New Year’s.”
“Doing anything special?” he asked as the doors opened at Chinatown.
Are you thinking of asking me out? If so, will I look cooler if I say I’m busy or if I say I’m doing absolutely jack shit? Oh, well. Let’s be honest. “I’m doing jack shit. I can’t wait.”
He laughed, and his smile made her lady-region twitchy and demanding.
“Sounds good.”
“Next stop, Tufts Medical Center. Doors will open on the right.”
No. Boo. Ask me out. Ask me out now. Prey upon my recently dumped, vulnerable ego.
“What about you?” she asked. “Get any time off?”
He shook his head.
“Kids are all off for winter break, which means I’m even busier than usual.”
“Bummer.”
He shrugged. “I’m not real big on the holidays, so I don’t mind. I mean, Christmas is only fun if there’s kids around. Me and my older sister have been slacking in the baby-making department, so I’m not missing out, staying in Boston. I’d just as soon hang around work and watch the kids there get all wound up about it.”
“They make you dress up like Santa or anything?”
He laughed. “Thank God, no. Our facilities manager is…how can I put this delicately?”
“Built for the role?” she ventured.
“Yes, very diplomatic.”
“Tufts Medical Center. Doors on the right.”
The train slowed as they rumbled into the long, tiled length of the station. Mark edged through the crowd, and Caitlin followed in his wake, wishing she weren’t quite so close and could discover what sort of butt one got from running around with kids all day.
They exited the car. The station was chilly, which meant it had to be even icier outside. Caitlin hugged her gifts to her chest as they stood on the platform. “I usually go that way,” she said, nodding toward the less popular Tremont Street exit.
“Me too.”
Oh, goodie.
They meandered toward the far end of the station, and she was pleased to note he seemed to be dawdling as well. Ask me out. Ask me ooouuut.
“So,” he said as they boarded the escalator.
“The final outbound train of the night has now departed. Thank you for riding the T.”
“So,” Caitlin echoed.
“You’ve been single for like an hour.”
“Four hours.”
“Oh, okay. That’s totally different. That’s enough time to recover, right?”
“Recover for what purpose?” She stepped smoothly from the escalator, feeling confident in a way that usually only arrived shortly after her third glass of wine in a dimly lit bar.
“I know I’m just some guy from the Red Cross, but could I maybe have your number? Maybe call you some time, see if you want to meet for a drink? Maybe right after we both donate so you’ll be a really cheap date.”
“No alcohol for twenty-four hours,” she said, quoting the techs’ release spiel.
They passed through the ancient floor-to-ceiling turnstile one at a time, its revolving metal teeth ushering them into the drafty corridor that would take them up to the street.
“Okay, fine. A coffee then. Or a drink the next day, once we’re both allowed to do heavy lifting and vigorous exercise again.”
What kind of vigorous exercise? “Yeah. I’d like that.” Caitlin’s heels clicked to a halt on the bricks, and she smiled at him, hoping her hair still looked fantastic and no traitorous zits had decided to make surprise appearances. The cold licked at her legs, but she couldn’t care less. She was flirting with Mark, and she’d happily suffer through worse for the chance.
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a phone, queuing up a new contact. “Okay, shoot.”
“Six-one-seven…”
“Six-one-sev—” The phone beeped three times, and the screen illuminating his face went dark. “Oh, shit. Stupid battery.” He woke the phone back up, but it died immediately. “Damn. You have a pen?”
She frowned her apology.
“Well, I’ll just have to remember it, then.”
She told him the number, and he nodded, repeating it several times. “That’s my mom’s street number, plus the Dingoes’ center’s jersey number, then three four, which is Paul Pierce’s number… Okay. I got it.” He squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his hands, an epic charade of memorization. “Mom, Justin, Paul Pierce. Mom, Justin, Paul Pierce.”
“Shall I take yours, just to be safe?”
“Yeah, good idea.”
Caitlin opened her tiny clutch purse and frowned. She checked her coat pockets, but she already knew it was a lost cause. “Crap. I switched bags at the last second before I left my place. I don’t have my phone.”
They went through another digit-memorizing rigmarole, and hopefully one of them would recall the other’s number by the time they each got home in ten minutes and could write them down. If they didn’t, it just wasn’t meant to be. But she dearly hoped her phone would buzz with a text not long from now, a Testing, testing from Mark, something like that. Something to put a smile on her face just before she fell dead asleep.
“Maybe when we go out,” he said, “I could wear a tux, and you can look like the slob.”
“You don’t look like a slob. You’re not even wearing your painting pants.”
“True.”
“I’m the one who looks out of place. I look like I should be stumbling home after too many shots at Tequila Rain or somewhere… Is that still a place?”
He laughed, flashing her that amazing smile again.
Quit smiling like that, or I’ll sexually assault you in this subway tunnel.
Just then, the overhead bulbs went dark, leaving them in the dim glow of the emergency lights.
“Last call,” Mark said with a sigh.
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” They headed down the corridor toward a metal gate that opened into a recessed brick courtyard a little ways off the street. “Though I’m quite happy to go home, frankly. That was a long-ass day.”
“Agreed. Well, ladies fir—” The gate rattled with Mark’s tug but didn’t open. He took the handle in both hands and leaned way back, but nothing. Pushed hard against it. Nothing.
Another spirited, fruitless shaking, then his blue eyes swiveled to Caitlin’s face. “That’s not good.”
Chapter Four
“The other side must still have someone working,” Caitlin said.
They’d taken the unpopular route, barely more than an emergency exit. The more civilized, main lobby boasted ticket kiosks and an actual human being on duty beside the plastic gates.
“Only one way to find out,” Mark said, heading back toward the platform.
“Oh…” Caitlin halted as they neared the turnstile, heart sinking.
“Shit.” Mark jogged ahead and pushed at the metal bars, but it was as useless as she’d feared. It was a one-way, revolving-door-style setup, only designed to let people out, lest someone sneak into the station without paying their fare.
“Okay,” Caitlin said, mustering calm. “Okay. There’s got to be an emergency something-or-other, somewhere.”
She headed back toward the street and heard Mark following. The cruel, cold breeze swirled around her naked legs. A small plastic window winked in the streetlight leaking in from outside. “Here we go.”
Mark stood beside her as she opened the tiny door and punched the button labeled Emergency Intercom. They waited for the speaker panel to crackle or hum or for a human voice to answer her summons, but nothing. She pushed the button and held it down. “Hello? Help?” She let it go, but still nothing. Mark took a turn pushing and speaking and listening in various fruitless combinations. They shared a long, nervous look.
“Let’s keep searching,” he said. “There’s got to be a fire alarm, right?”
“Right.”
They squinted in the dark corridor, but an extinguisher mounted by the gate was all they found.
Mark sighed loudly, voicing Caitlin’s exact frustration. “Fucking MBTA.”
“Indeed.”
He headed for the turnstile, gripping the bars and shouting. “Hey! Hello! Anybody down there? We’re locked in!”
They waited, but no reply arrived. Mark jogged back to the other end, rattling the gate barricading them from the street. “Hey! Hello!”
It was no use. They were in the theater district, but the tourists would have cleared out an hour or more ago, and the bars were all closed or closing, and hardly anyone was likely to be walking past in the direction of not-very-much. Even if someone did, what would they make of people yelling from a dark corridor in the middle of the night? I
f it were Caitlin passing, she’d probably glance fearfully down into the shadowy brick courtyard and walk faster, maybe have the courtesy and concern to dial 9-1-1 as she beat it the fuck out of there.
Mark sighed again. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” she agreed softly. “Shit.”
He woke his phone again, but it went dead immediately with a defeated bloop. “Shit shit shit.”
“Don’t panic. It’s what? Maybe one-thirty?”
“I think so.” He pocketed his cell and rubbed his face with his gloved hands.
Caitlin took stock, looking for a bright side. She was trapped in a subway corridor with the cutest, most charming man she’d had the pleasure of getting asked out by in months. Life could be worse. Unless she lost a toe to frostbite. That might not be the best way to kick off a would-be courtship.
“This thing starts running around five,” she said. “Even if we can’t reach anyone, neither of us will drop dead in three and a half hours, not of cold or hunger or thirst, right?”
“Nah, we won’t.” Mark shook his head a bit too energetically, faking calm.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”
“No, no. Just…” He made a dramatic shuddering noise. “Feels weird. Being locked in. I’ve gotten so used to being the lone adult in a room or a bus full of kids, the one who fixes stuff. Just frustrated.”
“Understandable. This ever happen at the Y?”
“Nope. No practice in this particular crisis.” He studied her in the scant light and smiled. “Better it’s you and me here, and not me and fifteen under-rested, over-sugared adolescents, like the time I was on a bus that broke down in Western Mass.”
Just him and her? Better indeed. “Sounds very Lord of the Flies.”
He laughed. “Nearly.”
“What’d you do?”
“Games, fun. Distraction. Trick the kids into thinking it was a sleepover.”
“I wish I’d brought pajamas,” Caitlin said. And slippers, and a nice fluffy robe.
“If we’re stuck here until the morning, we should set up camp closest to the platform. Maybe they keep the station heated through the night.”
“We can only hope. Less breezy, anyhow.”
