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.

An interview. A fun interview. The phone in my hand, recording us, is a reminder of that.

We stand by the window as the train rumbles forward at a more leisurely pace this time, as if it knows that its job is to let us catch a glimpse of the past.

“Look,” he whispers, almost reverently, pointing to what’s beyond the scratched glass as the train curves into the loop.

I gasp quietly. It’s like entering a time warp. We’ve slipped back decades. The old, abandoned station is a marvel of days gone by. It’s New York in another era, with vaulted ceilings made of glittering tiles, and stained-glass windows, with mosaics lining the walls. Brass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, hearkening to days when New York was a city of splendor and gold.

“It reminds me of where we met. The hotel. It had that olden glamour feel,” I say.

“Yes. This is the same. The city in days gone by. This station was the crown jewel of the transit system, and yet they had to shutter the station because it couldn’t accommodate the longer trains. It could only handle five-car trains. It was too curved, too round, so in 1945, they shut it down,” he tells me as we circle past it, the tracks serving as a mere turnaround, offering a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t view into what once was.

“Why is this your favorite place? Because you only catch a glimpse of it?” I offer, trying to understand what excites him about the abandoned stop.

He shakes his head. “It reminds me that we can all become obsolete at any moment. It reminds me that success is fleeting.” He sweeps his arm out wide, gesturing to the grandeur that has no purpose anymore. “You can have the best transit system in the entire world, and if you don’t plan for the future it can be shut down.”

Nodding, I let that little nugget of insight soak into my brain. A part of me almost hates how quickly I agree with him. I want to quiz him, to poke a hole in his argument, like a good journalist. But I can’t because his observation rings wholly true. “I can see that. It’s like a beautiful warning.”

“Precisely. A reminder that at any moment we might be shut down.”

“Haven?”

He nods. “This station is incredible, and I love it, but I don’t want my company to become a relic.”

“Can I quote you on that?” I ask, because this feels personal, as if we’re diving into territory that needs the consent confirmed.

“Of course.”

He points to the station as we leave it in the rearview. “This is a recognition that there is so much to look out for—the past, the present, and the future. You have to adapt to the changes so that your train can keep using the tracks.”

“Love the metaphor.” I study his face for a moment. “You kind of remind me of old New York.”

“I should be shut down?”

“No,” I say, adamantly. “I mean you. There’s something about you. You’re thoroughly modern, but I could see you fitting into the Gatsby era.”

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” he says, quoting the last line in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most famous work. “Another warning not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Or, wait. Should I not quote Fitzgerald? Same rule as T.S. Eliot for you, Miss English major?”

“Exactly. You’re asking for trouble,” I say, smiling, since I’m amused, maybe even overwhelmed by Flynn. He has so many layers. I want to keep peeling away at them, peeking at what lurks inside. “You’re an interesting man. You’re not just a math nerd. You’re a Renaissance man.”

“Is that so?”

I nod resolutely. “You are.”

He shrugs, and his lips curve into a smile. It’s one of those I’ll take it grins, and I love it.

When we exit, I turn off the recorder and tuck my phone away. I’ve accomplished some of what I’ve come to do today. I understand what motivates him. He’s a man of learning, not only a numbers guy. He finds inspiration everywhere. That’s what makes him tick.

Perhaps he’s figured out it’s my jam, too, because I love the tour.

He’s a member of the New York City Transit Museum, and they offer private tours for its members. A docent shows a small group of us through the once splendid subway station and I drink in the mosaics, the architecture, the feel of old New York, as well as the stories of the master artisans and the architect who worked on this station.

For an hour or so, I feel as if I’m transported to another era, as if I’m in New York before my own time and before all my own troubles. On this fine June evening, I’ve made my great escape and I’m existing in a slip of the past, a whisper amidst the storm.

When we’re done, I thank the docent and we head aboveground.

“That was amazing,” I say, practically bouncing. “I’m almost ashamed I’ve lived here so long and I haven’t done that.”

“Don’t be ashamed. Be glad you did it. I think there are so many things right in front of us that we don’t do. We don’t always take advantage of what we have. I try as much as I can, but you can’t get to everything.”

“Do you try because a great idea for work might come from doing something unexpected?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “I suppose it’s a welcome by-product if it happens, but no. I like new experiences in and of themselves. I like learning for learning’s sake. I do it for that reason, whether it has an obvious benefit or not.”

There he goes again, amassing points he isn’t even trying to earn as he stimulates my mind with his thirst for knowledge. He’s everything I like, and exactly what I must avoid.

He’s a risk I can’t take.

But he’d be a risk no matter what. Even if it wasn’t a conflict of interest to date him, it would be a hell of a conflict to my wounded heart. I already like Flynn Parker too much for my own good. I can only imagine how much it would hurt when he left me.

Because he would. We’d date, and laugh, and screw, and talk, and visit all the hidden spots in New York.

Then he’d leave.

He’d be done.

He’d break my heart.

“By the way,” he says, “do you know there are several other abandoned subway stops around the city? You can see some of them when you ride the train if you know where to look.”

“I’d love to see them,” I say wistfully, hoping I’ll do as he suggests, hoping I’ll take advantage of everything that’s truly in front of me.

I’ll be doing it alone, but I’ll do it. I want to experience all that the city has to offer. Now that I’ve ditched the dress, it’s time to immerse myself in living again, experiencing things anew.

He looks at his watch. “Come to think of it, I don’t have anything going on at the moment. Do you want to check them out now?”

My skin tingles. The birds sing. The sun kicks its heels in the sky.

But a voice reminds me—he’s a risk you can’t take.

I silence the voice. There’s nothing risky about doing this because nothing will happen with Flynn. Not now, and not in two weeks.

“I do want to.”

I’m not dating him, and we’re not together, nor can we be, so he can’t hurt me. He can’t stab me in the back with a rusty serrated knife and move halfway around the world, going radio silent.

Flynn is work, and we are professionals who like spending time together. There’s nothing more to it, and my heart is safely locked in the steel cage I built for it with the remains of my failed un-wedding.

That’s what I tell myself as we ride past the Worth Street stop and he points out the shuttered station’s name on the tiled columns, then the closed Eighteenth Street station that’s now merely a home for graffiti.

When we finish checking out the hidden treasures of the city’s transit system, I feel refreshed and vibrant, like I’ve gone on a great date.

In an alternate world, this date would lead to me taking him back to my tiny place, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and yanking him close. He’d push me against my kitchen counter, spread my legs, and fuck me. A spark tears through me like a fire lit and roaring as I imagine Flynn parting my thighs, tearing off my panties, and filling me.

So deep.

So good.

I could get lost in him. I could get lost in his kiss, his rough and tender touch. I could disappear into bliss, and let it consume my hurt. The pleasure would burn away any lingering ache from the past.

We could be Angel and Duke again for a night.

But us too. I want to know how it feels to be us and to be them.

I want that because this feels like the best date I’ve been on in ages.

That’s why when I’m home that night, I resist every urge to text him and tell him what fun I had. I abstain from sending him math jokes or grammar puns. That would be something I’d do post-date and this—this was work.

That echoes through my mind as we set a time for our next interview. Because that will only be work as well.

That way, he can’t become Ray.

He can’t leave me for no reason.

Because I won’t let him in.

But he texts me the next day. As the duke.