Love and Other Train Wrecks Read online

  dedication

  FOR MY SISTER, KIMBERLY,

  MY FIRST-EVER READER AND FAN

  contents

  Dedication

  Part One: The Train Ammy: 11:23 A.M.

  Noah: 11:29 A.M.

  Ammy: 11:45 A.M.

  Noah: 12:04 P.M.

  Ammy: 1:23 P.M.

  Noah: 1:31 P.M.

  Ammy: 1:43 P.M.

  Noah: 1:48 P.M.

  Ammy: 1:51 P.M.

  Noah: 1:55 P.M.

  Part Two: The Unknown Ammy: 2:22 P.M.

  Noah: 2:29 P.M.

  Ammy: 2:35 P.M.

  Noah: 3:18 P.M.

  Ammy: 3:43 P.M.

  Noah: 3:50 P.M.

  Ammy: 4:02 P.M.

  Noah: 4:29 P.M.

  Ammy: 4:43 P.M.

  Noah: 4:51 P.M.

  Ammy: 5:01 P.M.

  Noah: 5:21 P.M.

  Ammy: 5:34 P.M.

  Noah: 5:45 P.M.

  Ammy: 5:53 P.M.

  Noah: 6:05 P.M.

  Ammy: 6:19 P.M.

  Noah: 6:31 P.M.

  Ammy: 6:36 P.M.

  Noah: 6:38 P.M.

  Ammy: 7:18 P.M.

  Noah: 7:33 P.M.

  Ammy: 7:44 P.M.

  Noah: 8:02 P.M.

  Ammy: 8:11 P.M.

  Noah: 8:14 P.M.

  Ammy: 8:32 P.M.

  Noah: 4:57 A.M.

  Ammy: 5:03 A.M.

  Noah: 5:08 A.M.

  Ammy: 5:12 A.M.

  Noah: 5:16 A.M.

  Ammy: 5:31 A.M.

  Part Three: Homecoming Noah: 7:02 A.M.

  Ammy: 7:18 A.M.

  Noah: 7:22 A.M.

  Ammy: 7:28 A.M.

  Noah: 7:37 A.M.

  Ammy: 7:52 A.M.

  Noah: 8:06 A.M.

  Ammy: 8:12 A.M.

  Noah: 8:29 A.M.

  Ammy: 9:18 A.M.

  Noah: 9:46 A.M.

  Ammy: 9:48 A.M.

  Noah: 9:50 A.M.

  Ammy: 9:53 A.M.

  Noah: 9:56 A.M.

  Epilogue Ammy: 11:02 A.M.

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Leah Konen

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  THE TRAIN

  AMMY

  11:23 A.M.

  THE TRAIN ISN’T AS ROMANTIC AS I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE.

  I’m usually not that fanciful, but come on, it’s a train. I’d imagined steel bar carts rolling down the aisle, people looking out the windows watching the country roll by, newspapers spread wide, and conductor hats tilted just so. Women in dresses and stockings and men in suits.

  I guess I’ve watched too many movies.

  And I’ve learned by now that nothing is like the movies. Especially nothing this year.

  I’m currently on the Amtrak, a train that looks like a silver bullet but hardly moves like one, heading along the Eastern Seaboard. The seats are itchy blue polyester with a print that must have been designed before I was born, and there isn’t a bar cart in sight. I haven’t even seen a place to get food, despite walking three cars up.

  As I look out the window, all I see is a kajillion shades of gray. Patches of dirt and what should be grass. Slabs of concrete and factories that look like they came straight out of a Dickens novel—and Dickens isn’t even my thing. An industrial wasteland. I touch my hand to the window. It’s cold and icy, unlike the swelter in here from too many people wearing too many layers.

  The train is crowded. There’s a guy in a suit, a disheveled type who looks like he may have been off of work for a while but still wears his jacket, tie, and slacks like it’s Miss Havisham’s wedding dress. He’s got a Rorschach print of sweat on the white button-down beneath his crumpled suit jacket.

  And there are certainly no ladies in dresses and stockings like you’d see in an old movie, at least not that I can see. Mostly everyone is dressed like me—in jeans and a chunky sweater, with a pile of discarded scarves and hats and gloves, paraphernalia designed for the cold outside, not the heat in here.

  Everyone is on their phones or tablets, and though the ticket taker was wearing a cool, flat-topped conductor hat, he had a decidedly gruff way of saying, “Tickets, please!” that made it clear to all within earshot that he’d like to be just about anywhere but here. It’s all so far from quaint and romantic. But, then again, so is this whole stupid last-minute idea.

  My phone rings, and I stand up to get it out of the overhead carrier, nearly hitting my head in the process. At five foot eight, I’m just tall enough to make the clearance tight. My red leather bag, a birthday gift from my dad, mailed express from Hudson, New York, three days after my birthday, is wedged in between my big rolling suitcase and three or four shiny plastic bags that read “Century 21.” I tug at it with two hands, but in the process, my suitcase starts to come down, too. My red bag falls on the floor, but I manage to catch the suitcase before it does any major damage.

  In front of me, I see a middle-aged man looking at me like I’m the most helpless thing on the planet. His wife stares intently at the plastic bags, as if I’m going to mess up whatever they have in there (sorry, not sorry). If those two hadn’t put so much stuff overhead, I’d have had a little more wiggle room.

  My phone stops ringing while I’m still holding the suitcase with two hands, and I shove at it a couple of times, but it doesn’t seem to want to go back in with the plastic bags all tilted over now, so I lower it down slowly and plop it onto the seat next to mine. I know I’m probably not supposed to take up a whole seat just for my bag, but it’s a five-hour train ride and I’m only in hour three and, to be honest, I’d like to avoid having a chatty neighbor at all costs.

  I sit down and lean over to grab my red bag off of the floor when my phone starts ringing again.

  “You going to get that?” The woman in front of me whips around. Lord knows what she had in those bags to make her so frustrated with me. Or maybe it’s just the New York way.

  I give her a shrug as I fish in my bag for my phone. Everyone on this train seems to know how to do the whole train thing a lot better than me.

  But that’s not quite my fault. I wasn’t exactly planning on this trip. Until I called Kat, my almost-stepsister, last night, I had actually 100 percent decided against going. Something I’d decided months before.

  Come. Stay with us for the week. You’ll regret it if you don’t. It will be easy.

  This is not easy, not by a long shot.

  I dig through the books and random stuff I shoved in my bag this morning as my phone continues to ring. My shoulders tense up, waiting for the woman to say something again, but finally I find it stuck between Madame Bovary and Norwegian Wood. As I suspected, it’s Kat. I swear she’s the only person our age who prefers calling to texting.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling the uptick in my pulse as soon as I answer.

  It’s not her that makes me nervous, but the whole situation.

  Family isn’t supposed to do that to you. But family is supposed to be a lot of things that, in the last year, I’ve realized it isn’t.

  “Tell me your text wasn’t a lie. Tell me you’re actually on the train.” As usual, Kat’s voice has that bubbly, uppity tone, like a Valley Girl who’s had too much coffee.

  “I am indeed on the train,” I say. The woman in front of me again whips her head around, like I’m talking too loud, even though I’m talking at a totally normal volume level, IMHO.

  Kat squeals, and I jerk the phone away from my ear instinctively. “Oh my God,” she says. “I’m so excited. You’re literally going to rescue me from the Dumpster fire that today promises to be.”
r />   Normally, I would take the opportunity to explain to her the difference between figuratively and literally, but I’m too preoccupied with my mom’s words from this morning.

  How could you leave me today of all days?

  Whatever “Dumpster fire” Kat thinks she has on her hands, whatever’s going on with Sophie’s dress or Bea’s hair, it’s nothing compared to my last twenty-four hours.

  “You know I’m not going to be all jumping up and down with glee for my dad and your mom, right?”

  “I know,” she says. “Duh. Me either. But still, your dad will be happy. He’s been moping around all week. He misses you.”

  I roll my eyes and stifle a bitter laugh. I’m sure he does. I’m sure I’m the first thing on his mind right now. I’m sure it’s all Ammy, Ammy, Ammy in his head. I mean, who wouldn’t be thinking of the daughter they abandoned when they’re about to marry a hot yoga instructor ten years their junior?

  I’m an afterthought to him, a footnote on his new life, reminding him of his old one. I even found out about this stupid ceremony from Kat before I heard about it from him.

  Kat doesn’t wait for my reaction. “When do you get in?”

  “One thirty,” I say. “You can still pick me up, right?”

  “’Course,” Kat says. “At the Hudson station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sweet,” she says. “P.S. I told Bea, but not anyone else.”

  I sigh. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  I can practically hear Kat roll her eyes through the phone. “She’s my sister. And your soon-to-be stepsister. She won’t tell. Plus, she’s super excited.”

  Kat’s words hit me harder than they should. Soon-to-be stepsister. This is really happening, even if, legally, it won’t really count for anything. Bea and Kat all dressed up. Sophie, my soon-to-be stepmom, in some boho off-white outfit. My dad professing his love for a woman who is decidedly not my mom.

  My eyes flit to the train doors ahead, and for a second, I wish I could run into the vestibule, pull the emergency brake, and tell them to turn the train around, take me back to Virginia, where I could give my mom a hug and tell her I’m sorry and that I’m still Team Mom, no matter what.

  But I know at the same time that going back wouldn’t be any better. That what my mom and I had is already lost, lost in a way that I never fully realized until last night.

  “I’m excited to see you guys, at least,” I say finally.

  “All right, I gotta go help my mom steam her stupid dress. See you soon.”

  And in her Kat way, she hangs up before I have the chance to say anything else.

  I stare at my phone, wishing we could talk longer, wishing I could tell her how scared I am that my mom won’t forgive me for this, that I’m doing the completely wrong thing, that my dad doesn’t even really want me to be there, that his new family is enough for him.

  But I shake my head, forcing the thoughts aside. I refrain from opening up my messages, going into the rabbit hole that is the convo with my mom, which I muted about an hour ago out of mental health necessity.

  Instead, I flip between all the social networks and scroll through photos of people gathered with their families doing family things for the holidays. Of Dara and her brother getting on the plane to Universal Studios. Of the smartest girl in my high school on a road trip back from South Carolina. I feel that familiar gut stab of jealousy I get every time I see a photo of an even somewhat nuclear family, and I bite my lip, trying to ignore it.

  Deep down, I know my dad will be happy to see me. He wants me to be there. At least that’s what he told me on the phone last month. But still, I know that if I didn’t come, it would all go on just fine. I’m not his only family anymore. Mom’s not even his family at all. We’re second place. And that hurts.

  I look out the window, seeking a distraction even in ugly industrial scenery, but it’s totally dark, and I can only see subtle hints of graffiti against concrete tunnel walls.

  We must have reached Penn Station, and I didn’t even realize it. I lean my head against the glass, feel the cool, damp condensation, and tune out the sound of the doors opening, of the footsteps invading.

  I want to sleep until I get there, not worry about any of this anymore. I want it to be tomorrow, I want this stupid day to be over, and I want to be sitting in Kat’s room, watching Friends reruns and deciding what overpriced Hudson joint to hit up for brunch.

  My eyes are fully closed when I hear the voice, urgent and impatient.

  “Excuse me.”

  And then again, before I even have a chance to move.

  “Excuse me. Can I get in here?”

  NOAH

  11:29 A.M.

  YOU CAN ALWAYS TELL WHEN SOMEONE HASN’T BEEN on the train before. Normally, I try to help them. I give them the old rundown, tell them you have to push the button to get the doors between the cars to open, let them know where the food station is located, and warn them to avoid the Santa Fe chicken wrap at all costs; it’s kind of fun. Today, though, I’m too damn nervous to even care about it. I’m too preoccupied with Rina.

  The train is weirdly packed for noon, when no one should really be commuting. I’m guessing a lot of people are still off for the holidays like me, even though it’s January 3.

  The girl looks half asleep; the condensation from the window has matted down her short, dark brown hair.

  I point to her bag, the dead giveaway. It’s the ultimate rookie mistake. “The train is full. So, uh, you need to move that.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Yeah.”

  She stands up. She’s tall, and I’m worried she’s going to hit her head on the ledge, but she doesn’t, just barely. Then she hoists the bag above her head.

  I drop the flowers in the seat and go to help her, grabbing the edge of the bag for balance. I catch a faint scent of peppermint coming from her hair.

  “I got it,” she says sharply. She gives it a firm shove. It slides in like a puzzle piece.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Are these bags yours?” I ask, gesturing to a trio of Century 21 bags.

  She shakes her head, and I’m not too surprised, because she doesn’t exactly look like the type to be cruising cramped aisles for discount designer crap. I lean over her and give the bags a push forward, so they’re not in our space. A lady in front of us gives me a look, but she knows train travel protocol well enough not to argue. I shove my backpack on top and grab the flowers before sitting down, setting them on my lap.

  The girl glances a touch too long at the flowers, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I carefully examine the petals. Two of the flowers are ever so slightly smushed.

  Will Rina notice? Yes.

  Will she care? Hopefully not.

  The girl’s ticket is clutched in her hand. She’s wearing a thick, oversized hunter-green sweater and faded jeans. She’s definitely the academic type, probably heading to a college tour of Bard, the liberal arts school near my town.

  Rina used to go on about Bard students who’d come to the restaurant where she worked two summers ago. She said they were all special snowflakes going on about trigger warnings and all that. She hated the ultra-liberal, touchy-feely aspect of the school.

  On the flip side, she loved the people who came up from the city, even though a lot of them were just as snowflake-y, if you ask me. It’s half the reason why I added Hunter to my list last year. Why I decided, eventually, to go. Even though the Bard students never bothered me. Even though Rina and I once got into a long debate about whether or not trigger warnings should be a thing. She won, not because she was right, but because Rina is good at winning arguments.

  Rina’s a city girl at heart, even though she was raised in the country. She’s got a no-bullshit way about her. It fits right in. She loves visiting her dad there. Loves getting lost looking for cheap handbags and sticky bao in Chinatown. Loves riding a Citi Bike over to Prospect Park. Loves dragging me through Century 21, fillin
g up her own plastic bags with discount designer crap that, yes, I’ll admit, does look good on her.

  She was the one who came with me on my initial visits to Hunter, because that was when my folks were being completely self-involved and not at all on top of things. She was the one who convinced me that life could be pretty great on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

  I arrange one of the smushed petals so it doesn’t look so smushed, review my handiwork, decide, or hope, that it’s good enough.

  I steal a glance at my seat partner, who’s now reading Murakami. She’s definitely a Bard girl.

  Honestly, I think Rina’s biggest issue with Bard is that it’s so close to home. It would never be enough of a leap for her.

  Apart from the stupid price tag, I probably would have been okay with staying close if it hadn’t been for Rina. But unlike me, Rina needs adventure. Give her a month of really living there and she’d probably know the city better than I do. She’s the type who’d turn down a street she didn’t know and never look back.

  I’m the type who looks back. It’s how I lost her. But I’m going to fix that with this trip. I’m not going to doubt myself, or us, anymore.

  I tuck the flowers into the seat pocket in front of me and shrug out of my jacket. Then I glance around. Across from us, there’s a guy tapping away on a dinosaur of a laptop in a suit that’s seen better days.

  I pull my messenger bag, the one I use for class, onto my lap and retrieve my Kindle, then tuck the bag neatly beneath my seat. I’ve done this commute from my crappy, cramped dorm in the city to my parents’ midcentury ranch in Lorenz Park, just past Hudson, three times now. But it’s always been to visit my folks. Go home for fall break. Get laundry done. Snag a frozen casserole for my mini dorm freezer. The typical first-year-of-college drill.

  I’ve never gone home for this reason.

  I adjust the flowers ever so slightly, afraid they might get crushed even more if I’m not careful.

  I try to focus on the words on the screen, but they blur before my eyes, melding together and jumbling around like ABC soup. I can’t get Rina out of my head.