Chapter 14 Game of Phones
GAME OF PHONES
LUKE
The cool Sunday night air wraps around Sage and me as we stand on a private platform at King Street Station, watching the train car approach.
"That's... that's not a regular train car," the ruby-haired innkeeper beside me says slowly.
"No," I agree. "It's not."
The restored 1920s Pullman car gleams under the platform lights, all polished mahogany and brass fixtures.
It's attached to the regular Amtrak Cascades heading north, looking like a piece of history that got lost and decided to stick around.
"You own a train car." Her voice is flat. "An actual vintage train car that you just... attach to regular trains?"
"Technically, it's a rail car. Trains are the engines that—"
"Luke."
"Yes, I own a train car."
She turns to look at me, green eyes wide. "Why?"
It's a reasonable question.
Connor asked the same thing when I bought it seven years ago, right after everything between Veronica and me, between Kevin and me, fell apart. And I'd given him some bullshit about investment potential and historical preservation.
The truth was simpler and more pathetic.
I needed somewhere to go that wasn't tainted by memories of her.
"I like trains," I say instead.
"You like trains," she repeats. "So you bought one."
"Part of one."
"Right. Of course. That's a totally normal response to liking something." She's fighting a smile now. "I like pizza, so I'm thinking of buying Italy."
"That's not how Italy works."
"That's not how trains work either, but here we are."
The conductor approaches—Clayton, who's been handling my trips for three years and still looks at me like I might be slightly unhinged.
"Evening, Mr. Sterling. Ms. Winters. We'll be departing in five minutes."
"Thank you, Clayton."
Sage waits until he's gone to whisper, "He thinks you're insane."
"He's not wrong." I offer her my hand. "Shall we?"
She takes it, and I help her up the steps into the car. Her reaction is immediate and gratifying.
"Holy shit."
"Eloquent."
"Shut up. This is..." She turns in a slow circle, taking in the restored interior. "This is incredible."
The main salon is exactly as it was in 1923.
Velvet seats. Crystal decanters.
Wood paneling that gleams like honey.
The modern additions are subtle.
WiFi. Upgraded electrical. A state-of-the-art coffee machine hidden in what used to be a coat closet.
"The bedroom's through there," I point to the rear door. "And there's a small observation deck at the back."
"Bedroom?" Her voice rises. "This has a bedroom?"
"It's a sleeper car."
"Right. Of course. Silly me." She collapses into one of the velvet chairs. "Is there anything else I should know? Secret helicopter? Submarine you attach to ferries?"
"The helicopter isn't a secret."
She stares at me.
"That was a joke," I clarify.
"Was it though?"
The train lurches gently into motion, and Seattle begins sliding past the windows. Sage immediately presses her face to the glass like a kid, watching the city lights blur into streaks.
"I forgot how pretty it is from the train," she murmurs. "Derek always insisted on driving. Said trains were for people who couldn't afford cars."
“Sounds like something an ass would say.”
"Yeah, well, I was engaged to that ass." She turns from the window. "What does that say about me?"
"That you have excellent taste in transportation but questionable taste in men?"
"Had. Past tense. My taste has improved." She pauses. "I think."
There's a question in her eyes that I'm not ready to answer. Instead, I move to the bar. "Drink?"
"God yes. Whatever's strongest."
I pour two whiskeys—the good stuff, because if I'm going to have this conversation, I need liquid courage. The train picks up speed, smooth and steady, carrying us north through the darkness.
"So," Sage says, accepting her glass. "A private train car."
"Yes."
"That you bought because you 'like trains.'"
"Yes."
"Bullshit."
I look up sharply. She's watching me with those too-perceptive eyes, curled in the chair like she belongs there.
"I call bullshit," she continues. "Nobody buys a train car just because they like trains. They buy model trains. Maybe take a scenic railway tour. They don't purchase rolling stock."
"Rolling stock? Someone's been doing research."
"I googled you. Sue me." She takes a sip of whiskey. "So? What's the real reason?"
I sink into the chair across from her.
Outside, the suburbs give way to darkness punctuated by the occasional light. We're in the nowhere space between cities, just us and the rhythm of the rails.
"I bought it seven years ago," I say finally. "After my divorce."
"You were married?"
"For eight years." The whiskey burns, but not as much as the memories. "Her name was Veronica."
Sage doesn't push, just waits.
It's one of the things I'm learning to appreciate about her. She knows when to be chaotic and when to be still.
"We met at Stanford. Both computer science majors, both ambitious, both convinced we were going to change the world." I stare into my glass. "We were perfect on paper. Everyone said so. Complementary skill sets, shared goals, similar backgrounds."
"On paper," Sage repeats softly.
"She was brilliant. Scary brilliant. The kind of person who could look at code and see poetry." I pause. "Also the kind of person who could look at people and see opportunities."
"Ah."
"You know the type?"
"I was engaged to the type."
"Right." I take another drink. "We built our first company together. Sold it for enough to start three more. The power couple of Silicon Valley, they called us. Young, successful, unstoppable."
The train rocks gently, and Sage tucks her feet under her. "What happened?"
"Kevin happened."
"Kevin?"
"My cousin. My father's brother's son. We were both only children, grew up more like brothers than cousins." The words taste bitter. "He was my best man at the wedding."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes." I stand, needing to move. The car is small enough that pacing is more like controlled falling, but it helps. "I found out by accident. Came home early from a conference in Tokyo. Cliché, right? The husband who catches them in bed?"
"Luke..."
"Except I didn't catch them in bed. I caught them in my office. At my desk. Using my computer to transfer company funds to an account in the Caymans."
Sage sits up straighter. "They were stealing from you?"
"Embezzling. Had been for months." The laughs that leaves my body is bitter. "The affair was just recreation. The real relationship was crime."
"Holy shit."
"That's what I said. Right before Veronica tried to convince me it was my fault." I turn to face her. "I worked too much. I cared more about code than people. I was emotionally unavailable. I drove her to it."
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?" I sink back into my chair. "She wasn't wrong about the working too much. Or the emotional availability. I was a terrible husband."
"Being a workaholic doesn't justify embezzlement and adultery."
"No, but it explains why she looked elsewhere." I drain my glass. "Kevin was everything I wasn't. Charming, spontaneous, present. He listened to her complaints about me and offered comfort. Among other things."
"Still bullshit. Also, gross. Your cousin? That's like... Game of Thrones level messed up."
I snort. "Connor said the same thing."
"Connor's smart." She stands, wobbles slightly as the train takes a curve, and I catch her elbow. "Thanks. Still getting my train legs."
"Sea legs."
"Train legs. I'm coining it." She doesn't move away from my steadying hand. "What happened next?"
"Lawyers. Lots of lawyers. Criminal charges for the embezzlement.
Divorce proceedings that made the Napoleonic Wars look friendly.
" I guide her to the window where mountains are starting to appear in the darkness.
"She tried to claim half the company was hers.
Might have succeeded if the prosecutors hadn't found evidence of the affair going back two years. "
"Two years?"
"Mmm. Turns out I'm very unobservant when I'm not looking at code."
"Or maybe you trusted your wife and cousin not to betray you," Sage suggests. "Crazy concept, I know."
We stand at the window, watching darkness punctuated by distant lights. Her shoulder brushes mine, warm and solid and real.
Her voice lowers to decibels that are almost inaudible. I can hear her swallow.
“Then what happened?” She asks softly.
I try not to shut my eyes.
This is the part that usually makes my chest burn, making breathing feel impossible.
I wait for the fire to crawl up my throat, but for the first time in seven years, it stays at bay.
Finally…
"She died," I say quietly. "Three months after the divorce finalized. Car accident on Highway 1."
I hear the pop of Sage’s mouth falling open. Her fingers find mine, and squeeze.
"I'm sorry."
So am I.
Sorry that the woman I once thought was the love of my life died.
Sorry I couldn't be what she needed. Sorry I wasn't enough.
But mostly I’m sorry that for so many years I couldn’t separate the grief from the anger.
She betrayed me, destroyed my family, and stole from me.
And still I loved her.
My fingers tighten around Sage’s. “And you called your life a ‘mess.’ Mine is thirty shades of fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Sage agrees. “It’s all pretty fucked up.” Her tiny fingernails curl softly into my palm. “But also human.” Her voice is a rasp. “And I like this part of you.”
“The disaster part?”
“The real part. The part behind the steel curtain you keep up.”
I glance up, my gaze ticking up to Sage’s beautiful face, my gaze taking in her small pointed chin, her full pink mouth.
My eyes linger on the curve of it, the small bow shape of her lips when the train finally begins to slow.
Shit. We’re nearly here. Approaching Alder Ridge.
Forty minutes that felt like seconds and years simultaneously have apparently passed.
"So that's why the train," Sage breathes out. "Somewhere that was just yours. Untainted."
"Untouched by memories, yes. I've taken exactly twenty-four trips in seven years. Always alone." I look at her. "Until tonight."
"Luke..."
"You're the first person I've told. About all of it. Connor and the others know the basics, but not...Not how it felt. Not how it still feels. Like…” The words stick in my mouth. “Like I’m defective. Like when it comes to love or romance or any of it, that I’m always going to, I don’t know…
malfunction. Like my internal code when it comes to this shit just isn’t written right. ”
The train slides to a stop at the small platform. Through the window, I can see the inn in the distance, lights warm against the November darkness.
"We're here," I declare.
"We're here," Sage echoes., but doesn't move.
We stand frozen, hands still linked, both knowing that stepping off this train means stepping into something else.
Something that has nothing to do with business partnerships or SafeStay or professional distance.
"Luke?" Her voice is soft. "Do you want to come in? For coffee? Or..." She pauses. "Not coffee?"
I look at her—hair mussed from the chair, whiskey-bright eyes, lipstick long gone—and know I should say no. Should maintain boundaries.
Should remember that I'm still broken from the last time I let someone in.
"Not coffee," I say instead.
Her smile is slow and sure. "Good."
Clayton appears to lower the steps, professional enough not to comment on our linked hands or the way Sage is looking at me like I'm something worth wanting.
"Have a good evening, Mr. Sterling. Ms. Winters."
"Clayton," I nod.
We step onto the platform, the brisk fall air sharp after the warmth of the train.
The inn glows like a promise, and Sage tugs me forward.
"Come on," she says. "Before I lose my nerve."
"Sage—"
"No." She stops, turns, puts her free hand on my chest. "No more talking. No more sad stories. No more exes or cousins or embezzlement or flexible twenty-two-year-olds. Just us. Can we have that? Just for tonight?"
I cover her hand with mine, feeling my heart beat against our joined palms. "Yes."
"Good." She stretches up, kisses me quick and fierce. "Then let's go."
She leads me toward the inn, and I follow, leaving the train and its memories behind.
Tomorrow I'll remember why this is complicated.
Tomorrow I'll think about boundaries and professionalism and the walls I've built to keep myself safe.
But tonight?
Tonight I'm just a man following a magnificent woman into the warmth and light, hoping that I don’t fuck it up like usual.
The inn door closes behind us, shutting out the quickly cooling night, and Sage turns to me with a smile that promises everything.
"Welcome back," she says.
And for the first time in seven years, I actually feel that way.
Welcome.
Home.
Found, in some strange way.