You, Again(68)

“I want you,” he says. An indecipherable sound escapes Ari’s throat, but it’s not a word. She’s certain she’ll hear that phrase—that specific serious intonation of it—in her head forever. Like the best part of a song. The bit of “Hey, Jude” that builds into the na-na-na-nanana-nahhs. The part that gives you goosebumps.

“I just…” she hears herself say. “I don’t want this to change.” She gestures in the space between them. “I can’t lose this.”

“We aren’t losing anything.” He holds out his hand, his eyes shifting from hopeful to resigned, as people brush past them and she stands there, paralyzed.

The gap between the car and the platform might as well be a giant chasm. Ari could walk it back. She’s good at shoving down inconvenient feelings. Josh’s always bubble right up to the surface.

“Stand clear of the closing doors please.”

The doors jerk and start to slide again and the only thought banging like a drum in her head is that she can’t stand here on the platform and watch this train pull away. She can’t let Josh be one more person who leaves her behind.

Ari reaches for his hand and he pulls her inside just in time.





18


THE TRAIN SHUDDERS AND HEAVES forward, slamming Ari against him. It’s an unsexy collision, despite the new, uh, context established two seconds ago. Her unwound rainbow scarf snags on one of the closures on his coat.

They should probably be sharing a passionate kiss, or at least, like, making eye contact. But Ari rearranges herself so that they’re both standing side by side, with their backs against the doors. Facing him feels impossible. Like being pushed out onstage without knowing her lines.

Kind of an ironic fear for an improviser. But this is different.

At least he doesn’t turn his head, either. That’s a small relief.

The train bumps along and she counts the remaining stops in her head. Broadway…Thirty-sixth…Thirty-ninth…Queensboro Plaza…

There’s a look on his face that’s reminiscent of his expression during the New Year’s Eve countdown, but it’s different under the fluorescent overhead lights. Clearer. More obvious. Underlined in bright red pen. No lingering questions.

Except their relationship has been nothing but questions up until this point, so what the hell happens when there’s an answer? Right there? An I want you staring her in the face? Literally.

He doesn’t say anything, but Ari feels Josh shift his hand so that their fingers are interlocking. He strokes the pulse point of her wrist with his thumb and aren’t we going to talk about this? The car empties and fills up again, multiple times. Ari takes this trip every day but this time it seems both endless and like it’s playing in fast-forward.

“This is…Times Square. Transfer here for the…” She feels Josh squeezing her hand tighter, like he’s afraid she might jump out.

A family clutching giant M&M’s store shopping bags crowds into the car, forcing Ari several inches closer to him.

It’s stuffy in here. No air circulation at all. Just heat.

Okay. Think. When there’s too much pressure, you let off steam. It’s very logical. Mechanical. Maybe even what the friendship needs. They’ll do it and get it out of their systems. Maybe even go back to being friends.

Sure. Yes. She’s still friends with Gabe, after all.

“It’s showtime!”

“Fuck,” Josh mutters, stepping back as a dance troupe filters into the car. Booming music kicks in and the tourists eagerly join in on the kind of arrhythmic clapping only a family from northern Minnesota can produce; the New Yorkers instinctively wince and push themselves against the walls as the aerial gymnastics start.

Ari sympathizes. “Showtime” dancers are basically the street canvassers of the NYC subway system, except with a slightly higher likelihood of kicking a bystander in the face while somersaulting off the ceiling of a moving train car.

When a sneaker comes within an inch of Ari’s head, Josh pulls her behind him, tucking her into the corner near the door.

It’s both a chivalrous gesture and a convenient way for Josh to maneuver them into a face-to-face position. Actually, more like her-face-to-his-chest.

If she’s flushed, it’s because she never feels comfortable when she’s not facing an exit. Which he probably doesn’t realize because she feels funny admitting that to people. Radhya picked up on it after a couple months of living together. Ari had chalked it up to feng shui; Rad called bullshit and rearranged the furniture without saying anything more about it.

But Josh doesn’t know that and it’s too weird to mention it now, so she looks straight ahead, right into his shirt, which is peeking out from his unzipped, heavily insulated parka. Her stomach is one giant, tightening knot.

“You’re warm.” Josh’s voice is barely audible over the thunderous bass of the music. The back of his hand feels like ice against her cheek.

She nods and he lowers his hand down to her coat, slowly undoing the oversized buttons one by one, brushing his fingers against the front of her dress as he moves down, down, down. It doesn’t help at all. Every passing fantasy she’s had about Josh is playing out in her mind’s eye and the way he’s looking at her kind of indicates that he can see this montage, too.