Chapter 2
The driver said boarding again, louder this time, and tapped the lever. The doors didn't close. They stayed open because I was standing in the sensor line, because Julian was standing in the sensor line, because my suitcase was bridging the curb and the first step. The yellow trim flashed every time the light hit it. Someone behind me sighed and rolled their own bag around us.
Julian didn't look at the bus. He looked at me. Sweat ran at his temple and he didn't wipe it. "Elise, please. Not here," he said.
I hated being called Elise in that tone on a sidewalk where anyone could hear. The air tasted like hot concrete and bus exhaust. My low bun had come loose at the nape and a strand stuck to my neck.
"I have a seat," I said. I gestured with my free hand toward the open door. My voice shook now. "I paid. I signed. It's done."
"It's not done until it's filed," he said, quiet. "You know that."
That landed. My lawyer had said thirty days in New York. Signature wasn't final. I hadn't told him I'd already mailed the draft. I felt the handle slip a little in my palm.
A teenage girl with earbuds stepped past us and got on. The driver stared straight ahead at his mirror, professional patience thinning. "Miss, board or step back," he called. His voice had that midday flatness.
Julian finally took his hand off the handle, just an inch, palms up like he was showing he wasn't going to grab. "Step back with me. Two minutes. Then if you want to get on, I won't stop you."
I looked at the bus steps. The rubber was worn in the middle. I looked at the glass shelter with my bench, the route display still saying Gate 6. I thought about the apartment on 9th I'd booked for three nights, the check I'd written, the gas station coffee I planned to buy on the way because I wanted something normal to do with my hands.
I made the choice. I pulled the suitcase back off the curb. One wheel caught, then cleared. I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The doors hissed. The bus pulled away without me, orange stripe sliding past, and the blast of hot wind it threw hit my blazer and pushed the hair at my forehead.
We stood there with the traffic filling the space where the bus had been. Julian exhaled like he'd been holding it since he'd run to the stop. I didn't look at him.
"You missed it on purpose?" he asked.
"No," I said. "You made me miss it."
He nodded, accepted that. "Can we get off the curb?"
I followed him three storefronts down to a diner with a cracked vinyl awning because I didn't know where else to stand without blocking everyone. He carried nothing. I pulled the suitcase. Every rotation of the four wheels buzzed against the sidewalk joints. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of coffee and grill oil. We took the booth by the window so I could keep sight of the street, the shelter, Gate 6 empty now. The waitress left two waters and didn't ask.
Julian slid his phone face down. His hands were damp. He folded them. "I got your papers yesterday," he said.
May you like
I kept both hands around my water glass. The ice cracked. "Then you know."
"I know you signed," he said. "I didn't."
