I had been more than scared. I’d been terrified, split open, and even now I was only barely stitched back together.
The train was at full speed now, and the conductor was sliding open a compartment just a few doors down to check people’s tickets. I needed to get back to my seat.
He smoothed a hand over the stubble on his jaw and shrugged.
“Are you crazy? It’s just a phone.”
“And it’s just a train. If I weren’t on this one, I’d be on another one. Prague is as good a place as any.”
I pushed my phone into a pocket on my backpack and surveyed him. He was a soldier … or had been. His hair was still cut short, so either he preferred that style or he’d been in service very recently. But it sounded as if he was wandering just as aimlessly as I was, and I wondered briefly what he was hoping to find here. If he was having better luck than me.
The conductor moved onto the next compartment. I pointed behind me and said, “I better get back to my compartment. You said you saw Jenny?”
“This afternoon, yes. But not since I arrived at the station.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
I turned, adjusting the backpack on my shoulders, and heading back the way I’d come. He followed behind me, going to his own compartment presumably, and I wasn’t sure whether I should keep up conversation or just maintain the illusion that we’d parted ways.
What exactly did one say to an incredibly hot guy who’d rejected you, hit on you, pried into your personal life, and then possibly took care of you during a drug-induced evening that you can no longer remember?
My resolve to not tell anyone about last night to avoid the pity and the questions and the fallout didn’t work so well when there was someone else here who’d experienced it, too. If we talked about it, there would be no pretending that it didn’t happen. And as much as I was dying to know, I also knew that there was bliss in oblivion.
I moved through one, two, three train cars in silence. And when I was a few feet away from the door to my compartment, I stopped and faced him.
“What did the note say?”
He pulled up short. His mouth opened and closed. It opened again and he said, “That everything was okay. That nothing bad had happened to you. That you were safe.”
“That’s it?”
He balanced a hand on the wall next to me.
“Those were the important things.”
“And the unimportant things?”
“I told you that you could call me by my first name. You can call me Jackson.”
“Does that mean I’m no longer most people?”
He nodded.
“So what am I, then?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
I cleared my throat, feeling like if I turned away from him, the hook he’d sunken under my skin would tear right through. So, I didn’t turn. Without looking, I gestured behind me and said, “This is me.”
He stepped to the side and held open the door for me. I passed through, waiting for the pull, the tug to turn around and say one more thing or see him one more time. And it wasn’t so much a force as a tingle spreading down my back. When I turned, worried that I waited too long, the door closed, and he was on this side of it.
The tingle spread to my fingertips, and he threw his pack onto the luggage rack that hung from the ceiling.
Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone else in the compartment with us, I said, “Are you following me?”
He smiled unabashedly and said, “Absolutely.”
What do you say to something like that? I stood there gaping, my mouth opening and closing like a fish, and he smiled. Even though I couldn’t put images or memories to what had happened the night before, my body seemed to remember. I felt both relaxed and exhilarated by his presence.
He touched my shoulder in a gesture that seemed not quite intimate, but familiar. He leaned close to whisper, “Good night, Kelsey.”
I struggled to swallow and said, “Good night.”
I watched him fold his too long body onto the couchette in the middle, the one directly across from mine.
“Jackson?”
He’d been shifting and turning, trying to get comfortable, and he paused.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for watching out for me last night.”
The look he gave me buried the hook even deeper in my chest, and suddenly I was scared to know what had passed between us last night for an entirely different reason. This beautiful, mysterious man had seen me at my worst twice now, and he was still there across from me.
In every city so far, I’d picked up temporary friends. Some were locals. Some were other travelers. But I never had any issue letting them go. I moved on to a different city, and didn’t think twice about them.
But I hoped Hunt would be different. I wanted him to stay.
And at the same time, I was terrified of what that meant, and what it would do to me if he didn’t.
12
THE COUCHETTE WAS too firm to feel like a bed, and sleeping with my backpack at my feet to keep it safe didn’t make for the most comfortable position. Despite that, the low rumbling and gentle swaying motion of the train seduced me into the arms of sleep only a few minutes after I lay down my head. I was still fatigued from whatever had happened to me the night before. I was too exhausted to even stress over Hunt sleeping in the bunk across from me.
Minutes or hours later, I was jostled out of my sleep by the departure of the person on the bunk above me. His bag hit my knee as he climbed down from his bunk. My eyelids felt heavy and swollen, but as I watched him leave, I caught sight of Hunt on his bunk. A dull yellow light shone from above his bed, painting him in highlights and shadows. He lay scratching away at something in a journal. It wasn’t the continuous flow of handwriting, so I guessed he was probably drawing.
I watched him as he focused on one corner of his paper. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the muscles of his shoulders tensed as he made short, precise strokes on the page. I found myself wishing I could draw too, so that I could capture the power and simplicity of him in that moment.
He glanced up, and his eyes widened when he saw me.
After a few long seconds he whispered, “Hi.”
“Hey.” My throat was dry, so my reply was barely audible.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded and rolled onto my side to face him. I tucked my arm beneath my pillow and asked, “You’re not going to sleep?”
He closed his sketchbook and tapped his pencil against his lower lip. As if I needed anything else to draw my eyes there.
“Maybe in a little while.”
“Were you drawing?”
He nodded. “It’s an old habit. It calms my thoughts when I can’t sleep.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Sometimes.”
Something rustled in the bunk below me, followed by a breathy moan and noises that were not what you
