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LILY:I’m with Theo and about to get in the pool.
I stare at her response for a few seconds, waiting for thebut.It doesn’t come. Finally, I write back.
ME:No prob. I understand.
Lily has fought hard to get herself back into the water after surviving our crash. Being a part of the swim team matters to her, and I think it might help her heal. And if Theo is encouraging her, that’s a good sign for both of them. I can’t fully take credit for this reconciliation, but I did promise Anika in my prayers that I would nurture it.
I wait a few more minutes, hopeful that Brooklyn will chime in and offer to come get me. When she doesn’t, I call. Three rings and I get sent to voicemail.
Maybe she’s busy.
Brooklyn works in the Mayor’s Office, so late hours are common for her. I envy her serious side. If I could somehow find that in myself, I think people would understand what I’m capable of. There are those who get it—the people I influence. At least, the ones Iusedto influence. Social storytelling is powerful. But it’s not for the faint of heart. And as tough as I thought I was, maybe I’m not tough enough.
Flipping to James’s profile, I send him a message in hopes that he sees it. When he pings me back almost instantly, I bite down to hold in my smile. The stranger to my right whose angry eyes have only seemed to narrow more is still staring at me, which ratchets up my guard. The old me would have live streamed this train ride and flipped the camera around on him to show my followers where I was and what was happening. I knew people would have my back. Now, I’m afraid they’d root him on. All because I haven’t engaged with anyone digitally for a while. People are fickle beasts.
ME:I’m coming back late. Can you meet me at the station by Welles?
JAMES:On my way.
His quick response warms my belly, but I hold my reaction in and instead keep my phone handy in case I need to make any emergency calls. As we close in on my stop, I gather my bag close to my chest and get to my feet, opting to stand near the door. I bend forward to peer out the window, recognizing the form of the guy leaning against one of the pillars while wearing black jogger sweats and a white T-shirt. He was working out, I bet.
As the T slows, Mr. Creeper leaves his seat and moves closer to me, not quite to the door, but not taking another seat either. I brace myself, ready to kick if I need to, then pull the handle on the door to sound off an alarm and race out of here. When the stranger reaches into the front breast pocket of his jacket, my breath hitches, and a shot of acid seers up my esophagus. But within seconds, he’s holding his phone up and pointing the camera at me and talking.
“It’s totally Morgan Bentley, guys. I’ve found her. Spotted! And she’s not with some mystery CEO—she’s still in high school!”
Fuck you! Jerk! Creepy loser!
Those responses flash through my mind, and months ago, they would have flown out of my mouth along with a swift middle finger and then a backlash of my fans descending on whoever this guy is. But now, I merely stare at him with my mouth agape and tears pricking at my eyes.
The train inches to a stop and the doors rush open, and I begin to step off but am quickly held then stepped around by James. He must have seen my reaction through the windows, or maybe he was watching this guy get closer as the train neared. Whatever prompted him to be suspicious, I’m relieved he’s here. I’m equally terrified of the fallout from his actions.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You like making women uncomfortable? Huh? You get off on that?” James lunges at the man a few times, each time scaring him back a few steps. But the guy keeps his phone going, along with his running commentary. If I could only pause the universe for a second, I would have warned him. This is how these things go. An entire industry is built on this type of conflict. People live for it, watching it from the comfort of their pajamas while they hide under their covers at night and mindlessly scroll.
Before the doors close, James slaps the creeper’s hand and sends his phone sailing across the inside of the train before slipping out onto the platform with my wrist clasped in his grip.
He’s breathing hard. I know the kind of shape he’s in, so it must be the adrenaline coursing through his body. As the train pulls away, I jog alongside it, enjoying the view of the scumbag who filmed me scrambling around the floor in search of what I hope are pieces of his phone. I stop when the platform ends and fold my hands over my head while I catch my breath, watching the glow of the inside train lights fade as the tracks disappear through the woods.
“That’s probably going viral, huh?”
I huff out a sharp laugh and turn to face James, who is also standing with his arms over his head.
“I mean, the end was pretty epic,” I say.
He chuckles as he continues to pace in a large circle. I move closer to him, stopping to pick up my bag that I discarded before sprinting—well, sprinting for me—after the train.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I say, my heartbeat somehow growing faster even though my body is at rest. James holds an arm out toward me, pulling me into a hug at the side of his body when I’m within reach.
“Pretty sure I’ll be riding the train with you from now on.” He gives me a little squeeze as we walk, and I expect his arm to fall away from my shoulder. Instead, he leaves it draped around my neck as we head toward campus.
“Isn’t your internship somewhere else entirely?” I’m not even sure what James does for his.
“I’m working with my mom’s accounting firm. She’s more of a freelancer, really, but under a big umbrella company. She thought it would be good if I learned how to keep books if I want to eventually open a small business.” He shrugs, but his answer is nothing like I expected. Maybe it’s naïve, and a bit judgmental, to assume he’d be into sports or physical therapy or something like that, but business . . . I can identify with that. Maybe I can help.
“You know, business is kind of in my blood,” I say, putting on a smooth tone as if I’m a real mover and shaker. I suppose in some ways I am.
James laughs, his body rumbling next to mine with the sound. I love the way it feels tucked under his arm, and the warmth of his body makes me bold enough to slip my arm around his back. He looks down at me as we walk when my fingers run along the back of his shirt and grip the other side to hold on.
“I don’t think I’m quite cut out for Bentley-sized business. Besides, from what you told me, I don’t think I’m good enough at chess.” He grimaces and I reflect his expression, remembering my full voicemail and the several IGNOREs I pressed on my phone today when my mom called. We still haven’t talked. I’ll forgive her eventually; I can’t help myself. I feel bad for her because as much as she puts herself in these manipulative situations with my father, where he coerces her to trick me into doing his dirty work, she also knows no other life. I think without the vapid drama that comes along with being Mrs. Christopher Bentley, my mom’s identity is vague.Undefined.
