Chapter 20
Lanston
Trains aren’t aseasy to come by as you’d think, at least not in Montana. We’re going to have to make it all the way out to Whitefish to catch an Amtrak.
The hybrid SUV we take from the lot of a car dealership is brand new, slick black, and has that toxic new vehicle smell that gives you headaches. I’ll never get over how weird it is just to take things as a phantom. It’s strange how real it feels, how the salespeople don’t bat an eye as I snatch the keys from their desk.
My crotch rocket was hard to part with. In a way, I understood how much pain Jericho had felt over leaving Harlow behind. The motorcycle had been a significant part of my life, but Ophelia assured me we could find another throughout our travels.
Jericho and Yelina were jittering with excitement, hardly sparing time for a swift “see you soon” and exchanging phone numbers so we could be in contact later on, then off they went. Their bucket list is taking them to Hawaii first. Yelina swears a vacation she never got will soothe her ghost.
I only give Harlow Sanctum one final glance through my rearview mirror. Emotions swell in my chest, but I’ve felt enough heartbreak and sadness within those walls; I won’t give it anymore. So, I take a deep breath and smile; Ophelia’s hand wraps tightly around mine as we leave the misty mountain institution behind.
Goodbye Wynn. Goodbye Liam. My lower lip quivers but is replaced with hope. My story can begin here. We can leave everything else behind.
I drive.
It’s been a long time since I’ve driven anything but a motorcycle and God, does it feel good to have a steering wheel under my palms again. I prefer a crotch rocket, but I won’t fuss about it. Speeding down the interstate and blaring music with a girl in the passenger seat makes me feel eighteen again. Not that I’m complaining about being forever twenty-nine.
Ophelia scowls at me and turns the music down. I don’t even know what song it is; so many new artists have come out since I died, but I like the tune.
“You could’ve told me you were utterly insane. I would’ve driven us,” Ophelia teases, rolling her eyes dramatically and looking back out the side window.
My brow twitches with her ire.
“Are you so against having fun?” I laugh as I tap the brakes enough for her to jerk forward as she tries biting into her donut. Icing gets all over her upper lip and nose and I have to suck in my lips to keep from belly laughing.
“Lanston!” She shoves the donut in my face, sticky icing smearing over my cheek and hair.
“Hey, I’m driving!” I say urgently, because I’m already steering us off the side of the road going ninety. The dust whirls up behind us and the car nearly tips as I slam on the brakes.
We breathe heavily, icing on both our faces with strands of hair stuck to our noses and cheeks. The donut slides down the windshield slowly, leaving blue streaks in its wake, before flopping on the dashboard.
I look at her, and she turns to look at me. Our eyes are both wide with adrenaline. There is no middle point in which we smile first or giggle; both of us burst into laughter—the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your sides burn.
Tears prick her eyes as she tries and fails to wipe the frosting from her face.
I retrieve some napkins I stuffed into the center console after we picked up donuts and pass her one, keeping one for myself and joining her in trying to get the icing out of my hair.
She’s faster than I am.
The napkin I used is completely worthless; I need an entire handful to get the rest off my cheek. I glower at her. My lip still turned up in a smirk because it’s way too funny not to laugh at, even though it sucks.
“See what you did?” I tut.
She lifts her chin. “You started it.”
I notice she still has a dot of frosting on the top of her lip. My hand moves without even thinking. Her eyes widen as my thumb swipes gently over her skin. Her mouth parts a bit and my eyes linger there, admiring every soft aspect of her.
Ophelia sips in a sharp breath and looks away, her cheeks reddening.
“We should hurry, or we’ll miss the train,” she says, staring out the window and refusing to turn toward me. I narrow my eyes at her. Then I slip my hand over hers. She turns her head, but instead of surprise, I find heat burning in her eyes.
I smile—a simple but charming one. “Don’t worry, Miss Rosin, I’ll get you on that train.” I turn up the radio and it’s a song I actually know this time: “Ride” by Lana Del Rey. My hands return to the wheel and I floor it.
She lets out the sweetest squeal as we’re ruthlessly thrown forward.
“Lanston!”
But after a few moments, she starts singing along to the song, and I join in. I sneak glances over at her, her wild purple hair blowing in the wind, with the window rolled down. Her feet kicked up on the dashboard and all I can think of is how beautiful she looks and all the light she emits into my weary soul.
“Tickets, please.”
We watch in silence as the conductor punches tickets and passes them back to a family of four. The children look nine and six. The mother is smiling pleasantly, and the father makes an excited face at his kids. They cheer and laugh as they hold their train tickets like new treasures. It’s clearly their first train ride.
I smile at their interaction and am envious of the warmth this small family has. Kindness radiates from them; it’s not forced or fake.
My throat grows thick with a lump. I’m jealous of the lack of pain in their eyes, the absence of fear, but so fucking happy that they at least get a chance at functionality. To see the world through a lens of love and care.
“My parents didn’t love me either.”
My eyes snap to Ophelia, wide and shocked. She raises a shoulder, then lets it fall before she pulls out her iPod. Since the train is pretty vacant, we have an entire section to ourselves, but she moves to sit next to me. Our shoulders brush, making my stomach flutter.
I hand her a headphone, not wireless. I grabbed the old-school wired ones on purpose; some intervention is needed occasionally when it comes to the universe. Is it weird that I’m elated that we’re connected with the chords of headphones? It satiates the hopeless romantic in me.
“I didn’t say mine didn’t love me,” I respond absently, letting my eyes drift back to the warmth the family fills the cabin with; their laughter is like a disease, spreading and making others grin to themselves.
I love that most, I think.
The disease of love.
“You didn’t have to say it. People like us just stick out. We can’t hide that part of us. It’s the whisper in our gaze, the shadow on our frowns.” She doesn’t look at me as she talks and then pushes play. Music flows into my earbud, making me smile as I know the song instantly. “Train Wreck” by James Arthur.
My brows pinch together and an incredulous grin pulls at my lips. “Seriously?” I nudge her shoulder and she shoves me back without missing a beat. “You’re going to curse this train or something,” I say.
She lifts her chin, soft strands of hair falling over her collarbone. “Oh hush, we’re already technically haunting it.” Her fingers curl against the soft lace of her dress. The black is delicate and mingles well with the maroon rose fabric sewn in. It looks like there really are little roses woven into her dress.
“If we find another dead passenger does that make this a poltergeist then?”
Her mouth opens just a sliver and she scowls at me. “That’s terrible!” The smile she lets slip betrays her words.
“Thought I’d feel out your morbid joke meter.” I laugh, shoulders relaxing with the somberness of the song. I’m a train wreck, that’s for sure.
Ophelia stares at the family across the way. The same envy burns in her gaze. Her brown and green speckled eyes flash at me and I straighten. “Did you ever want children?” she asks, voice cold as stone.
My answer is instant. “No.”
“Why?”
I sink into my seat and put my feet up on the ones adjacent to us. My black sneakers blend well with the fabric of the chairs. “I hate the thought of becoming my father. Cold and absent. I know I’m not that way, but still, I worried enough never to want them.” My words taste like dirt. It’s not worth the breath to even speak of him. “You?”
“Nope. I love being independent and spending all my time on things I enjoy.” She smiles proudly. Most people would think that’s selfish, but I admire her for saying it so boldly—unapologetic and firm in her choice.
And why shouldn’t she? Be happy with yourself. You don’t have to have children just because your parents insist. No one lives your life except you.
“Things like dancing and your unruly plant collection?” I taunt her and she squirms in her seat, trying to get comfortable.
“Yes, and now, apparently, you too.”
I look at her with subtle surprise. “You enjoy me?” Most people get annoyed rather quickly with my dreariness. I prefer to be alone, as Ophelia does, and yet it seems we share this small sacred thing, wanting to bathe in one another’s company.
She nods sleepily. Her shoulder bone presses into my arm, but I don’t say a word; her warmth consumes me. “I don’t want people to see me, but I like that you do. You’re handsome, too, so that helps.”
I chuckle, my eyes are growing heavier with each breath. “You think I’m handsome?”
She doesn’t respond, but the next song, “Jealous” by Labrinth, loads on her music player.I grin like the hopeless romantic I am, leaning back in the uncomfortable train seat and resting my head against hers.
This feels a lot like a love story. Perhaps this time, it can be mine.