Chapter 2 #2
The train rocks beneath me, metal wheels screeching through tunnels slick with rain.
I stand by the door, one hand gripping the cool pole, the other scrolling through congratulatory texts.
The car smells faintly of wet wool, coffee, and the metallic tang of brakes, all with the undertone of urine, which makes my nose wrinkle.
Someone hums along to music leaking from their headphones, their head bobbing to the beat.
Outside the glass, lights smear across the dark, the city moving too fast to focus on any one thing.
When I finally reach my mother’s stop, the night air hits, warm and damp.
It’s a short walk to her house from the subway station, and the rain has finally stopped.
The familiar sound of the corner bodega radio playing old Sinatra mixes, and the scent of garlic and fried onions wafting from the apartments above, fills me with nostalgia.
By the time I knock, I can already hear her voice through the door.
“Finally!” she says, ushering me in with a kiss to both cheeks. “You don’t call, you don’t visit, it’s like I have no child at all.”
“I texted this morning, Ma.” I resist the eye roll at her reprimand, but barely.
I love my mom, I do. She’s the sweetest, kindest woman, but she also thinks I should be pushing out babies by now, not following my father’s dreams. My father’s death hit us both hard.
Witnessing a parent or partner die, when it was meant to be a simple trip to get ice cream, scars you in ways you never get over.
But we both handle it differently. Which is why there’s no way in hell I’m telling her what happened earlier.
“That doesn’t count. Texting is what you do when you don’t have time to talk.”
I laugh, hanging up my coat. “You’re still using a flip phone. You can’t text.”
She waves a spoon at me, red sauce dripping onto the tile. “Exactly.”
The apartment smells like home, basil, tomato, lemon cleaner, and the faint vanilla of her favorite candles. It’s small, cluttered with framed photos and rosary beads, but it’s warm.
We eat in the kitchen, the rain starts again against the window.
She talks about the neighbor’s new dog, the cousin getting married, the weather being “untrustworthy.” I let her talk because listening to her feels like letting the world slow down for a while.
My mother lives a full life here; she has friends who have been by her side since she was a child.
They helped her get by when my father died and allowed me to chase my dream without too much guilt.
Then she says, “I saw your article.”
I freeze halfway through a bite of soft noodles. “You did?”
She nods, eyes sharp despite her soft smile. “You should be careful, tesoro. These men… they don’t like people shining lights where it’s dark. You remind me of your father when you get that look, all fire, no fear.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “I’m fine, Ma. I check my facts, I protect my sources, and I don’t take unnecessary risks.” I ignore the niggle of warning from earlier.
Her gaze softens. “You take after him.”
“I take after you,” I say. “You taught me to speak up.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Then maybe I regret that lesson. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
We talk about lighter things after that, Christmas plans, her wanting to put up decorations early, me pretending to protest even though I’ll help her anyway. By the time I’m heading out, it’s close to ten.
At the door, she hands me leftovers and frowns. “You should get a car, Isabella. It’s not safe riding those trains so late.”
I laugh, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I don’t need a car, Ma. The train always gets me where I’m going.”
“Still,” she says softly, “sometimes it’s not about where you’re going, but who’s watching when you get there.”
Her words follow me down the hall, quiet as footsteps.
Outside, the rain’s eased again, but the street glistens under the yellow streetlights. I pull my coat tighter and start toward the station. The air smells like rain and oil and night. A single drop lands on my wrist, cool and sharp.
And though I tell myself it’s just the city being itself, loud, alive, indifferent, a small voice at the back of my mind whispers that tonight, it feels like the city’s holding its breath.
The platform’s almost empty when I reach it, the fluorescent lights flickering above the slick concrete. A train howls in the distance, brakes screeching as it slows, the wind it drags whipping my hair into my face.
When the doors slide open, I step inside with all the late commuters, a man in a suit scrolling through his phone, a teenager with earbuds, a woman asleep against the window, everyone in their own private world. The air smells stale, the floor gritty under my heels.
I find a spot near the doors and wrap my fingers around the pole just as the train lurches forward. My reflection flickers in the dark window, tired, proud, alive.
My stop comes faster than I expected. As the doors open, I step forward, and someone shoves me hard from behind. My balance tips forward as I thrust my hands out to try and save myself
My knees hit the platform, my palms scraping against rough concrete. The sting burns sharp and real.
“Shit.” I look back, but whoever it was has already gone, swallowed by the press of bodies spilling out of the car.
A few people glance over. No one stops. No one cares. Gotta love the big city.
I push to my feet, brushing grit from my hands, ignoring the blood beading along my skin. “Asshole,” I mutter, straightening my coat. But I can’t help but wonder if this was another warning.
The train doors close behind me, and the sound echoes down the tunnel, a metallic sigh that follows me all the way up the stairs.
My whole body aches now, first from the tackle to the ground from Mancini and then the shove from the train.
This day can be over already. It started high, but it’s ending with me slightly bruised, to say the least.
By the time I hit street level, the night air feels heavier. The city hums like it always does, alive, indifferent, but for the first time all day, the buzz under my skin doesn’t feel like adrenaline. It feels like a warning.