Chapter 10 It’s For A Good Cause, Right? #2
“God, my feet are killing me,” Alice groans, throwing her feet onto the green and blue plastic cushion across from her.
She tosses her purse onto the seat and throws her forearm over her eyes in dramatic fashion.
“I definitely have popped blisters on my ankles, but I don’t want to look at the carnage. ”
Chuckling, I brace a hand against the shelf that runs along the top of the car and step over Alice’s extended legs.
I rid myself of my suit jacket, tossing it onto her purse, and quickly loosen my tie, adding that to the pile too.
My fingers stop after two buttons of my shirt pop open. There. Now my flushed skin can breathe.
“Never again,” Alice mutters. “Next time I need to go somewhere fancy, I’m wearing flats. Or I’ll bring emergency socks in my purse like we’re at a middle school dance. I don’t care how stupid it looks.”
I worry my lip, holding back my amusement as I dig in my pocket. Tucked where my cash used to live in my wallet are a few bandages.
“Here,” I say, plopping onto the seat across from her. I grab one of her feet and pull it into my lap. Alice squeaks, hands bracing against the cushion as if she’s been knocked off kilter. “I have bandages. And they’re the hydrocolloid ones.”
“Oh?” Alice says, eyes wide and cheeks flush. “So swanky.”
“More like prepared. Though, I must give credit where it’s due—Jessa slipped me these before I left.”
“Ah. That tracks.”
“Yeah?”
“She needs to be in control even when she’s not here,” Alice snickers.
I huff a silent laugh through my nose, shaking my head. She’s not wrong.
I push Alice’s dress past her ankle, my finger brushing over the smooth skin of her calf. She flinches, pulling back.
“I can take them off—”
“Nope.” My fingers wrap around her ankle firmly. “Let me help you.” I peer at her over the rim of my glasses. “I want to help you.”
The icy blue shock in her irises melts into vibrant glacial waters. She relaxes, and her foot settles in my lap.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“This is the eleven-eleven train to Meadowbrook, stopping at Woodside, Jamaica, New Hyde Park, Mineola…”
The conductor drones on in their heavy accent, and I resume my work, deftly unbuckling the strap of Alice’s heel and sliding it off her foot. It gets tossed onto my suit jacket, the pile of our belongings slowly growing.
My fingers caress the top of her arch and trail up to the harsh, red indents around her ankle. I rub them away. Slowly. Methodically. And when my hand naturally slips higher, thumb massaging into her calf, her sharp intake of breath has my lips twitching.
“Are you ticklish?” I ask.
“Not particularly,” Alice rasps.
Her skin is smooth and warm, and I’m tempted to reach higher. I would give her whole body a rub down if she asked—but she didn’t, so I make my descent back to her wounded heel.
“Please stand clear of the closing doors.”
The train beeps three times and its doors slide closed. The car jerks into motion as I rip open the bandage. I twist her foot to reveal the broken blister, and gently place the bandage over the exposed, raw skin.
I take my time repeating my actions on her other foot, and once I’m done, I pull her dress skirt back into place and pat her shins.
“There,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says, softly.
The train rumbles, and we stare at each other, lingering in the intimate moment. A melancholic longing shines in her expression, and I wish to wipe my thumb over the glistening tear track that cuts through her blush. It’s a devastating sight—raw in its realness.
When did she start to cry, and why is it that something as simple as me placing bandages on her wounds pulls such emotion from her?
What has happened to this woman, that she carries such a heavy weight?
Alice’s tongue darts out to trace along her bottom lip. She looks as if she wants to say more, brows pinched, but the loud squeak and slam of the train car door interrupts her. One of the conductors clamors down the aisle, keys jangling from his belt.
“Tickets please,” he says.
Alice pulls her feet from my lap and shows him our tickets on her phone.
He clicks his hole-punch on a strip of paper and notches it at the top of our seats, judging us with a deadpan stare.
He tongues his cheek but doesn’t say anything more as he turns to leave.
The metallic slam of the train door closing behind him sounds like punctuation, ending the quiet moment he walked in on.
My buzz makes me brave, and I decide that now is a better time than any to ask the question that’s been on my tongue since we sat down at the gala.
“Alice?”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you wear those rings as a necklace?”
Alice sighs, head falling forward. It hangs low as she stares at her lap, and her fingers lace together. Her thumbs circle each other, as if she’s soothing herself.
“About that,” she says, voice attempting to be light and airy, but coming out rasped.
“I didn’t move to Meadowbrook because my grandma died.
At least, not completely.” Alice lifts her head, but her attention strays out the window, and her reflection overlays the blurred backdrop of sleeping neighborhoods.
“I was married—am married? I don’t know.
Becoming a widow at twenty-seven was confusing.
The government considers me single during tax season now but it’s not like I chose to be apart from him. ”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know what else to say in response to this information.
Jessa is going to freak. Ori… I don’t want to be near Ori when he finds out. We care for her, but their bond is different, and now it’s infinitely more complicated.
I just won’t say anything. It isn’t my secret to tell.
There, problem solved.
“It’s okay,” Alice says, as if it’s instinct to placate others of her pain. “Well, it’s not, but you know what I mean. Saying thank you to pity never sits right.”
“I don’t pity you, Alice. But I do feel like an asshole for coming onto you like we have.”
She releases the window from her somber gaze and turns to me with a quirked brow, studying me like she does the art books she flicks through at the library.
“Flirting won’t kill me,” she deadpans. “Nor will it summon Ryan’s ghost, if you’re worried about being haunted.”
I blink at her, and it takes me a second to realize she’s trying to crack a joke.
“Are you joking with me right now?” I ask, needing to be sure.
“Half joking and half serious,” she says, a sad smirk tilting her lips. Alice moves, switching from sitting across from me to next to me. Her hip bumps into mine, our thighs flush. Her head brazenly drops onto my shoulder, and my body stiffens. “If I wasn’t okay with it, I’d say so.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?” I whisper into her crown.
“Why didn’t Jessa say you two were together before asking me to the beach?
” she volleys back. “Some things you just need to work up to.” Her shoulder rubs against mine as she shrugs.
“People get weird about grief. Then they get tired of it. I liked that you didn’t know,” she whispers. “Promise me you won’t get weird?”
“I promise,” I say without hesitation. I would certainly try my best.
A beat passes between us, and we make it through two stops before Alice breaks the silence.
“You’re not going to ask how he died?”
“No, you don’t have to tell me,” I say. “I rush a lot of things in life, Alice, but I want to take my time getting to know you.”
“That’s not the response I expected. Others ask.” Alice yawns, and her feet brace against the seat across from us as she curls into my body heat.
“We don’t have to keep talking,” I say. “About that or in general. You can close your eyes if you’re tired. I’ll wake you when we have to switch trains.”
Alice yawns again, this one more drawn out.
“Thanks, Harley,” she says, and the somber tone doesn’t make it sound like she’s thanking me for being her personal pillow or alarm clock. It sounds like she’s thanking me for not prying.
It’s confusing, because everyone deserves patience and understanding. Especially when it comes to death.
I can only hope she’ll give us the same when it’s time.
My lips find her crown, and I gently place a chaste kiss atop it. “Not something you need to thank me for, Alice.”