Love and Other Train Wrecks Read online

  The girl next to me seems equally distracted. She’s got a finger holding her place in her Murakami and is wriggling around and sighing loudly.

  She looks like she’s trying, unsuccessfully, to make the most of the foot or so of space between her knees and the seat in front of her.

  She catches my eye briefly before looking away.

  “Not quite the romantic train trip you imagined?” I ask.

  She stops messing with the scarf at her feet and looks right at me. “Um, what?”

  I was trying to make a joke. The train definitely wasn’t what I expected the first time, what with the stale sweat around me and the uncomfortable seats.

  She doesn’t seem to take it that way.

  Should I mumble never mind? Maybe.

  Should I turn back to my Kindle and try to read? Probably.

  But the thought of spending the next two hours wondering about how Rina will react to my arrival feels unbearable all of a sudden.

  “First time on the Amtrak?” I ask, trying to sound cheerful.

  She bites her lip and crosses her arms, her coat inching into my space. Her eyes are wide, too far apart, like she’s perpetually surprised, and her chin edges to an almost point, kind of like an angry heart. She is sharp everywhere that Rina is not; Rina with her wavy chestnut hair and her round face and that way she has of puffing her bottom lip out when she wants something.

  “What’s it to you?” the girl asks.

  I laugh. It’s like she’s trying to go full New Yorker on me, even though her generic suburban accent—and her lack of understanding of the basic train rules—would have me guessing otherwise.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

  She rolls her eyes and turns away.

  Oh well.

  I glance back at my Kindle but still can’t focus, so I tuck it in the pocket in front of me, retrieve my phone, and open up my messages.

  I want to text Rina. So very badly. I want to talk to her again.

  Of course, the problem remains of what to say:

  Hey, I’m planning on coming by yours tonight for a grand gesture that will hopefully win you back. You around?

  How’s things? Been a while!

  Do you think of me ever? I think about you ALL the time.

  I close out of my messages. Anything I could say would come across as utterly ridiculous. That’s why I have to talk to her in person. That’s why I have to stick to my plan.

  I’d love to stalk her on Facebook or Instagram. I’d love to make sure she doesn’t have a new boyfriend, even though Danny told me that Cassie told him that she didn’t. I’d love to just see some recent photos of her, but she blocked me on everything last summer, as soon as we broke up. Rina clearly likes to make a clean break. I guess I can’t totally blame her.

  Apparently Cassie also said she thinks Rina misses me sometimes.

  I check my feed, and there are my parents, in a selfie taken on the ship, Bermuda views behind them. I’ve tried to remain positive about this whole thing, but I’m still kind of mad at them for ditching me this year and leaving our house empty for Christmas break.

  It’s not like Christmas is that important to me. We’re Jewish, for one thing, so it’s not like it’s ever been a huge deal for us. Still, I always enjoyed our sad fake tree and shiny tinsel. I’m glad that my dad moved back in and they called their trial separation quits, but as sweet as it is, I’m not sure that this “love renewal cruise” was entirely necessary. At least not a twelve-night one. I get nervous just thinking about how much they spent. Money was tight last semester, and that was with a small scholarship, my part-time job, and student loans. If they can’t help me out with things like books and lodging, it’s going to be tough.

  I wasn’t completely alone for the holidays, at least. My roommate at Hunter, Alex, did let me crash with him in his parents’ ridiculous Dumbo loft for a few days. It was fun seeing the fancier side of the city. We had lox and capers on Christmas morning, and lobster and mussels on Christmas night.

  Even so, I would have rather been back in Lorenz Park with my folks, unwrapping gifts under the tree and ordering buckets of Chinese takeout.

  And with Rina.

  I briefly glance out the window at the skyline getting farther and farther behind me, giving way to the ugly suburban sprawl that is Yonkers.

  I guess I should thank my folks, really. It was their trip that made me realize just how much I missed Rina. It was their trip that reminded me that sometimes people can split up and still get back together.

  That’s what happens when two people love each other.

  I glance back to my phone, flipping through my feed, but there’s nothing interesting.

  So I pull my Kindle back out because there’s really nothing else to do.

  “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. It’s dead.

  The girl turns her head and gives me a look, all of a sudden smug.

  “You know, the funny thing about real books is that they don’t need batteries.”

  AMMY

  11:45 A.M.

  THE GUY NEXT TO ME GIVES ME THAT KIND OF DOOFY look that generically attractive guys always have. Like they’ve grown so used to their ultra-symmetrical faces pleasing the masses that they’ve never learned to manipulate their features in socially appropriate ways. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or angry or what, but I don’t really care. I had to shoot something back after the (sexist?) comment about me not getting the romantic adventure I’d expected, which only made me angrier since, to be totally honest, he kind of hit the nail on the head.

  But he doesn’t have to know that.

  I adjust myself in my itchy seat and take a quick look out the window. The industrial wasteland has turned to leaf-bare trees and pale gray sky, peppered occasionally with some ugly concrete graffitied buildings. I guess we’re not to the truly beautiful parts just yet. Still, there is a river, and if I crane my head around, I can still see New York City in the background—which is kind of glorious, I’ll admit it.

  Then I look back at the guy, who’s still giving me a blank look in response to my comment. His skin is olive-y, and his hair is curly. He’s wearing a Steelers jersey, dark blue jeans, and has a bright orange puffy jacket tucked beneath a khaki messenger bag with a Taylor Swift pin on the flap—weird. He’s probably in college, studying business or something.

  A bunch of pink roses are tucked into the seat pocket in front of him, likely for whichever sorority girl is falling all over him this month.

  “All I’m saying is, real books are much more reliable.” I tap the front of Norwegian Wood. “You should try them sometime.”

  He laughs, and his blank look turns to a smile that takes up his whole face. “Oh, should I?”

  I steal a look at the flowers again. Roses—so clichéd.

  He’s a classic bro: sporty, boring, basic. And a bro of the worst order, from the look of those flowers. You know, the kind who fancies himself a “good guy.” He probably thinks that just because he follows the Woman Wooing 101 Handbook that it’s all going to work out just splendidly. He’s the type who doesn’t realize that romance is pointless because everyone just ends up hurting each other anyway.

  And I know this for a fact.

  Even people you were 100 percent sure were going to be together forever.

  Dara and Simone say I’m being too cynical. Dara reminded me that her parents split up, too, and she was still pretty much in love with the idea of love. Simone said it was natural to be cynical, but lots of children of divorce go on to have happy relationships.

  But they don’t get it. Because it wasn’t just a normal split. I remember Dara’s parents together. They were miserable all the time. Mine weren’t. I swear the three of us had a thing that worked. Until it didn’t. And when you get blindsided like that, well, it’s hard to just bounce back.

  Stranger McBro-erson is still smiling at me. Is he waiting for me to bat my lashes or something?

  Th
en he cocks his head to the side and squirms in his seat, his feet ramming up against the bottom of the seat in front of him.

  “Murakami?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, maybe a little rudely. “You heard of him?”

  “Ouch.”

  I shrug, and I’m not even entirely sure why I’m being so rude to this guy, but then I look at the flowers again, and they only serve to enrage me.

  Sophie loves roses. There were these ugly little rose illustrations all over the stupid craft-paper invitation she sent. I make a split-second decision to double down instead of backing off, because I’m in that kind of mood, and I really didn’t want to share my row with a chatty stranger anyway.

  “What’ve you got on there, The Da Vinci Code?”

  I wait with bated breath to see if he thinks this is an insult. Most would, but you really never know with these bro types. Just this year, a guy in my AP English class asked if he could do his classics project on James Patterson. Like, for real.

  The guy flips the cover of his Kindle shut and puts it back in his bag. “There’s really no need to be mean.”

  I laugh, but then I see that he’s actually offended. I put a finger in my book. “Hey, you made assumptions about me. You thought I was a silly little girl looking for a fanciful train ride. Nothing wrong with me doing the same about you.”

  He tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to figure me out—and I don’t want to be figured out right now. Then he crosses his arms, muscles bulging against his jersey, a move I’m sure he’s well aware of. A couple of rows in front of us, a middle-aged man lets out a hacking cough, spreading I-don’t-even-want-to-think-what-kind-of-vile-New-York-City germs everywhere.

  Then the lady turns around and gives me her signature shushing look. Outside, the first spot of snow falls through the sky. I feel that familiar leap of my heart that always comes when I see snow, ever since I was a kid. But it disappears just as quickly, because I’m not a kid anymore, and nothing has the same magic as it used to. Not these days, anyway.

  Besides, too much snow and Kat will have a hard time picking me up at the station.

  The guy lets out a scoff.

  “What?” I ask, unable to stop myself from engaging with Mr. Bro.

  He grins. “You know, it doesn’t make you an automatic genius just because you read Murakami. That’s what everyone reads when they want to look smart. Plus, it’s a little full of itself, anyway.”

  “You’ve read Murakami?”

  He sighs, turns in his seat so he’s facing me, and ticks off his big fingers. “Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore, and 1Q84.” He pauses, reading my reaction, and grins. “Don’t look so shocked, okay? It’s not that hard. One page after the next just like any other book.”

  I put the Murakami down and tap my fingers against my knee, ready to win this battle. “So what are you currently being prevented from reading? What’s tucked away on the little Kindle that couldn’t?”

  His grin gets bigger. “Mockingjay. You know, book three of the Hunger Games.”

  I can’t help it. I burst into laughter. “Murakami’s overrated but the Hunger Games isn’t? Jesus.”

  “You know, I said the same thing, until my g—”

  He pauses, and it’s like his smile disappears in a flash.

  “My ex-girlfriend got me to read them,” he says. “And they’re great. You’re only cheating yourself.”

  I look at the flowers again. What is he trying to do, win back a girl? Oh boy, this guy is a caricature of himself.

  I steal another glance out the window. The speed of the train makes the snow look epic, fast and zippy, like we’re at the beginning of Space Mountain, the part before the roller coaster starts where all the stars whip by. The Hunger Games, I think bitterly. My dad was constantly trying to get me to read them last summer, inspired by his shiny new nuclear family. While my mom was popping Ativans to get through the afternoon, he was going on about how Kat was Team Gale but Bea was Team Peeta, and I needed to read them to break the tie.

  Er, no thanks.

  I look back at the guy and feel my stomach rumble. His face is that kind that rests in a smile instead of a frown, like Resting Bitch Face but Resting Happy Face instead. It’s annoying. “Maybe that’s why you love your Kindle so much? To hide away things like the Hunger Games?”

  The guy’s eyes narrow, and then his face falls, his emotions written all over it—Lord knows he would be horrible at poker. He taps his foot, his knee bouncing up and down.

  “Yeah, and maybe you love not having one so you can show the world that you’re a smart person who reads Murakami.”

  I bite my lip. I can see that I’ve upset him, and suddenly, taking out all my anger and sadness and frustration on a train stranger isn’t fun anymore.

  “Sorry, it’s just that I’m hungry and I’m hot, and I’ve had the worst day. . . .”

  But he doesn’t listen. He gets up quickly, flipping around and walking as fast as he can down the aisle that leads to the back cars.

  I turn, watching until he disappears behind the doors to the next car, and then I go back to my book. There’s no law that you have to be friends with your train neighbor anyway, I remind myself. I’d bet a kajillion bucks that my book is about a kajillion times better than some whiny kids-are-killing-kids crap, anyway.

  I don’t care what anyone—especially not my dad, or some basic bro on a train—says.

  But after a minute or so, I set my book down. It’s impossible to read with everything bouncing around like pinballs in my head—what the wedding will be like, what my mom’s doing right now, whether there will ever be a time when I feel normal again, when it feels like things have settled down.

  The snow is coming down harder now, the weather getting all nasty. For the briefest of moments, I think about texting my mom. She loves snow more than a seven-year-old on Christmas morning.

  But I don’t know what to say.

  And I don’t want to see all of the things she’s already said.

  So I gaze out the window, and I watch as the weather gets worse and worse, and I pray that she’ll find a way to forgive me.

  That I’ve actually done the right thing.

  NOAH

  12:04 P.M.

  “WHAT’LL YOU HAVE?”

  The woman has frazzled hair, deep laugh lines, and sounds like she’s been smoking every day for about a thousand years. She’s wearing the classic white-and-blue Amtrak uniform, and the buttons of her shirt tug and bulge, like her body is staging a coup, trying to break free.

  The café car is the same crappy one they always have. It’s only good for beer, according to pretty much everyone. Sometimes, the announcer guy even jokes about how bad the food is here. But it’s all I’ve got right now in the way of sustenance.

  “Can I get a turkey, gouda, and bacon wrap?” I ask. The photo on the board behind her makes it look far more delicious than it actually is.

  She nods. “Anything else?”

  “A Coke,” I say.

  As she starts to ring me up, I think of my neighbor’s words; she said she was hungry and that was why she decided to start a full-on argument with me over the Hunger Games. Which is kind of funny, now that I think of it.

  “Make that two wraps,” I say a little impulsively. I tell myself that I can always eat both if she doesn’t want hers. Or if handing a stranger a sandwich comes off to her as creepy.

  Karma’s like a bank account; that’s what I believe, at least. You have to constantly put stuff in it if you want to make a withdrawal later. And the thing is, I’m planning on attempting to make a rather large withdrawal this evening. It’s the three-year anniversary of my first date with Rina. Or at least it would be, if I hadn’t royally screwed everything up. I’ve got the flowers. I’ve got my apology speech. I’ve even got a handwritten poem. At seven tonight, I’ll be at her door, ready to explain how big of an idiot I was, ready to take her to the place she was always begging me to take her to. I’m definitely
going to need karma on my side.

  The lady finishes ringing me up, and I pay twenty-one fifty, otherwise known as the equivalent of highway robbery, and head back toward my seat.

  I walk through the café car, filled with men and women doing business on their laptops while pounding bottles of Yuengling.

  I tap at the button, and the metal doors start to slide, and I can already feel the cool winter air seeping in from the vestibule.

  The car directly in front of the dining area is just as packed as ours. There’s a din of old-man snoring, peppered with giggles and squeals from a trio of kids eating string cheese.

  It’s Saturday, and everyone is ready to get the hell out of the city and get a little peace.

  I push the button again, breezing through to the next car, our car.

  My neighbor is not even reading her book when I get back. No surprise there, really. I won’t tell her this, but I only barely got through the three Murakami books I read. Norwegian Wood is the only one I actually read cover to cover. For some reason, everyone says he’s the best ever, but I find it hard to agree. Now, the Hunger Games, on the other hand, with adventure and politics and a little romantic drama, is impossible not to like, even if it’s not exactly the height of contemporary literature. But I read enough of those at school. A guy needs balance.

  Instead of reading, she’s staring out the window, which is frosted now from the weather outside, watching snow fall softly as the old brick smokestacks and the more rustic parts of New York State whip by. Once the brick buildings pass, all you can see are leafless trees and the Hudson. There’s something magical about it, even though I’ve done it a few times now. It makes me feel free, like I could get lost in the woods and live my best life or something. . . .

  I shake my head, realizing that I would never do anything like that. I would never let myself be impulsive enough to lose my way.

  Rina’s the type to go out of her way to get lost.

  I’m not.

  On the other side of the river, I see the top of one of the mansions up here that probably belonged to a Rockefeller. My neighbor seems to be warming up to this ride. Maybe the train is kind of romantic when you think about it. Not in the way the movies always show you, but in a different one, a better one, because it’s more real.