Come As You Are(34)

There’s a tightness in his voice, but it’s not tension. It’s excitement. It’s determination.

“You lived with intention from an early age,” I say as I absorb what he’s telling me.

“I suppose I did.”

A loud rattle echoes down the tunnel as the train approaches. We talk as it chugs into the station and creaks to a stop. Once we board and the doors close, I ask more questions and he answers, and as we travel downtown I begin to see the watercolor of Flynn Parker filling in. Colors, shapes, details. I start to understand the picture of who he is.

On the outside, he’s the math nerd. The smarty pants. The tall guy with glasses who aced all his classes, can recite pi to a hundred digits, and has taught himself Japanese.

But he’s more than that.

His drive isn’t about numbers or circuit breakers. His drive is passion. The kind that insists on being heard, like a drumbeat. It’s a flame that can’t be extinguished.

He tips his chin toward me. “What about you and writing? Did you have a nose for news at a young age?”

“When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

“Why aren’t you, then?” His tone is completely earnest, and curious as well.

The answer is easy. “I don’t think I have the vision for it.”

He frowns. “Don’t say that.”

I hold up a hand and shake that thought away. “No, it’s okay. I’m not putting myself down. I’m really okay with it. I have no regrets. I’d much rather play around with somebody else’s pattern. It’s what I thought I wanted to do, but it wasn’t what I actually wanted to do, even though I do love making outfits.”

“But you don’t have the passion for it as a career?”

“Exactly. But being a reporter absolutely feeds something I love.”

He leans closer, his palms on his thighs, his eyes holding mine. “What’s that, Sabrina?”

I love that he’s asking me these questions. I adore that he’s curious. Because that’s what I’m enamored of.

“I love curiosity,” I answer. “I love understanding things. I desperately want to understand people, what makes them tick. That’s why I do what I do.”

“Desperation can be a good thing. We should love our careers desperately if we’re going to give so much to them.”

“Desperate love,” I repeat, liking the sound of that. “Yes, we should love desperately. Especially work, since it’s often more reliable than the romantic kind.”

He laughs lightly, one of those you’re preaching to the choir laughs, and I wonder if he’s had the shit kicked out of him by love too. If perhaps he’s so passionate about work because, like me, he’s been on the receiving end of a steel-toed boot. Maybe someday I’ll ask, but it doesn’t feel like it should be an interview question.

“So, you do love what you do?” he asks.

“I do, Inspector Poirot.”

“And you also love understanding new things?”

“I do.”

A slow grin forms, and he strokes an imaginary mustache. “You’ll like where I’m taking you, then.”

“The abandoned subway station, you mean? I read that we can see it on the train at the turnaround. You can catch a glimpse as the train loops around before it heads back uptown.”

“That’s true. You can absolutely see it through the window. But you can also take a tour if you know the right people.”

My eyes widen as surprise courses through me. “You arranged for a tour?”

He shrugs happily. “I thought you might like that.”

I do. I do like it.

And I like him.

Which is the thing I most can’t afford right now, and the list of things I can’t afford is miles long.





16





Sabrina



Scads of New Yorkers scurry off the six line at the last stop. They exit, heading above ground or making connections, continuing with their day. But we stay on.

“Come here,” Flynn says, offering his hand as the doors close.

I take his palm, standing, and he guides me to the scratched, dirty window of the closed door. We peer out, staring at the tiled wall of the platform, his hand pressed to the small of my back. It’s hard for me to not think about his touch. It’s gentle and firm at the same time, and my mind can’t help but assemble images of his hand sliding under my shirt, along my flesh.

I suppress a tremble as the train chugs out of the station, heading into the curving loop at the bottom of the line. “You have to smush your face against the window to get a really good view.”

“Commencing smushing,” I say mechanically. I look at him. “Am I like the robot you built as a kid?”

He scoffs. “If I’d designed a robot that looked and sounded like you, I would still be building robots.”

A blush creeps across my cheeks. A flutter skids down my chest. I will them away, doing my best to ignore these sensations. It’s pointless to linger on them. When this story ends, I’ll still need to focus on work, finding a job, and perhaps covering his business regularly—a direct conflict of interest to any flutters, no matter how they make me feel. I can’t entertain the idea of whether we could try again then, because it’s not a possibility. I’m simply going to enjoy the time with him for what it is.