Life In Reverse(77)

Twenty minutes and three cinnamon rolls later, I’m out the door and heading to the subway. I tell myself I can refrain from eating one now, but the longer the smell floats under my nostrils, the more difficult it is to resist. Giving in, I dig my hand inside the bag and remove a sticky chunk, sliding it into my mouth. A blast of sweetness coats my tongue and while it is definitely delicious, nothing compares to Anna’s back home.

Anna’s. My mind floods with memories of Vance strutting behind the register that day at the shop. Long hair hanging over determined blue eyes that wouldn’t take no for an answer. That cocky swagger filling a space in a way that only he could. He was impossible not to notice. A heavy sigh pushes it all away. None of that matters because I’m happy with Grant.

One more big bite of pastry lands in my mouth as I casually make my way toward the subway. This is the great thing about working part-time at the gallery and going back to school. I never feel like I have to be in a hurry. Especially on days like this, when the sun is beaming over Manhattan and the air is crisp.

That all changes as I travel down the stairs leading to the subway platform. The foul odor of urine surrounds me and I wince, scrunching my face up as if that can somehow fight the disgusting smell. Taking the train on a regular basis, you would think I’d be used to it by now. But I’m not.

Fear of my sweets getting infected by the rancid climate, I seal up the bag and shove it into my purse. But all that is counteracted as I glance to my left. A young guy wearing a baseball hat and ripped jeans leans against the wall strumming a guitar. In front of him sits a beat up case, odd pieces of change scattered along the inner lining. I stare for a minute too long before crossing over to him and dropping a few dollars onto the red fabric.

When the train arrives, I follow the pack into the car and scan the long aisle for a seat. Being so crowded, I have to wedge myself between two people who don’t look happy. But I’ve learned on the subway that it’s every man for himself. Or in my case, woman.

A muffled announcement about a delay elicits subsequent groans all around me. I ignore them and pull out my notebook and a pen to review my checklist for the gallery. Most of what I do there is administrative in nature; checking on orders, paying bills, communicating with clients and buyers. But it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that I’m surrounded by what I love and one step closer to my dream.

My cell rings and I fish it out of my purse, smiling wide as Troy’s number appears on the screen. I unlock it, pressing the phone to my ear. “Hey, you!”

“Hey, love. How are you?” His voice is broken up by sounds of screaming in the background.

I tuck my notebook and pen back into my purse. “I’m good. What are you doing up this early? You at the gym?”

“No, I’m over at the Griswold’s. I’m helping Mr. Griswold build a shed in the back. His kids don’t start school for a few hours so they’re trying to help.”

“You should really call my dad,” I suggest, and more screaming ensues. “I know he’s been missing us and you guys could hang out and build, I don’t know… things.”

Troy laughs and the sound makes my chest ache. I really miss having him close by. “Okay, maybe I will. So he and I can,” he chuckles, “build all the things.” The noise of a drill temporarily halts our conversation. “So nothing new since we talked the other day? How are things at the gallery?”

“They’re fantastic. I’m actually on my way there now.”

“Awesome.” A pause and then, “And… how’s Grant?”

“Good, good. He’s good.”

“Now that I know everything is good. I can breathe easy.”

“Ha, ha. Listen, I have to run,” I tell him as the train begins to move. “The train’s going and I’ll lose you in a sec, but I’ll call you later. Love you.”

“Love you too, Ems.”

A bunch of people pile in front of me, anxious to reach doors that are not ready to open. Nonetheless, I push myself up from the bench and merge into line. Someone knocks into me and my cell phone drops to the ground. Bending down and hoping not to get trampled, I scramble to pick it up then sigh in relief once the group in front of me exits at the next stop. As the train starts running again, I curl my fingers around the metal pole and find myself wishing for a car. Although the idea of driving in Manhattan terrifies me. I’m certain I’d get crushed between two taxis. Unless Avery was driving. That last thought makes me smile.

The car has cleared out a bit, and I’m standing there humming to myself when I notice someone in the back. His head is down, face buried in a book. Long fringe hangs over his eyes. My mind automatically goes where it shouldn’t and I turn away, rolling my own eyes. Grant, remember, I say to my brain. I laugh a little too loud at how ridiculous I am, glancing around the car. The guy with the hair looks up then and my breath catches in my chest. Spots form in front of my eyes. I blink. Then blink again. It can’t be. My head is telling me.

But I know what I see.

I could never mistake that face or the way my heart is beating like crazy—wild, out of control, dangerous almost. My fingers clutch tighter to the pole for fear that I’m going to collapse. Our eyes lock and my lips part, mouthing his name. “Vance.”

Vance stands up, looking as stunned as I feel. His blue eyes are wide, feet molded to the floor. The subway doors open then and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. The decision is made for me though, because a man bumps into me hard and I practically fall out of the car. By some miracle, I manage to regain my footing and reach the platform. Suddenly I can’t get enough air and I’m struggling to breathe. My legs won’t move, and somehow I’m right back on our street, that very night I had to say goodbye to him—all those feelings that had nowhere to go—and now they are all pouring out when I had them boxed up so nicely. Or at least I thought I did. Time hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. How can three years seem like a day? Because that pull is still there, as if some invisible string draws me toward him. And when I turn to find the train running again, his hand is pressed to the window while my own hand is pressed to my heart. His gaze pleading with mine, a piece of white paper etched with large numbers pushed against the glass.