3
“T he next train to—Braintree—is now approaching .”
Fucking finally .
Caitlin rose from the cold bench she’d been camped out on for a seeming eternity, waiting for this final train of the night. She tucked her purse under her arm and picked up Kevin’s wrapped present and the ribbon-bedecked paper gift bag Gina had given everyone as they exited the party. Scotch for the men, champagne for the women. Stupid distinction. Caitlin had never wanted a shot of whiskey more than she did now, even as that second glass of wine faded from buzz to headache between her ears .
Stupid party. Stupid holidays .
Stupid Kevin .
Dumped, a week before Christmas. Dumped beside a dying ficus with a paper cup of virgin eggnog in her hand. Not a word about how great she looked. She nearly wished he’d found her so irresistible he’d put off dumping her until the morning, after they’d had sex one last time. But that was just a tender ego talking .
He should’ve grabbed her adorable shoes and snapped the heels off them, insult to injury .
It’s just not working, he’d said .
And she’d agreed because yeah, it hadn’t been working. But she still felt dumb for having bought him such an overpriced gift. That good mood she’d floated on, chatting with her clients, thinking that by the end of the night she’d have plans in place for a romantic getaway… Bleh. Must be true what they said about cats making their owners nuts. She had to have been breathing some major feline crazy-fumes to have talked herself into that wishful delusion .
But behind all the annoyance was genuine relief .
She was working hard enough at her job. Having to also find time and energy to work on a relationship on top of it…? Perhaps passive giving of the platelet donation variety was all she had the energy for, that and keeping Sarge alive so that he might continue poisoning her brain with his stupid-making cat-fume powers .
Why do relationships have to be so much work, anyhow? she wondered as the train rolled up. Or maybe that question merely meant she’d been doing it wrong. Maybe if it felt like work, it wasn’t meant to be. But old people always talked about the key to their fifty-year marriages, expounding the importance of constantly “working at it”. Exhausted by the thought, Caitlin sighed and boarded the subway car, squeezing into a seat between a hefty man and a woman with about six shopping bags that spilled from her lap into Caitlin’s. Her three months with Kevin had been challenging enough. Fifty fucking years ?
Still, five stops on the Red Line, two on the Orange Line, and she’d practically be in bed. Just a quick, cold dash in her pointlessly adorable, unseasonable shoes and short hemline, and she’d be warm, inside, scrubbing her face, petting her cat and climbing into her bed with an actual weekend to look forward to, for the first time since late November. Forty-eight hours of sleeping in, watching dumb made-for-TV holiday movies…drinking an entire bottle of champagne by herself. Possibly in mimosa form, if it was before noon when she popped the cork. Felt likely. She’d better buy orange juice first thing in the morning. Yes, she’d wake up and celebrate being single, dammit .
“Hey,” someone said to someone else, a sharp sound amid the train’s greater rabble. Caitlin wished she had her iPod with her .
Again, “Hey .”
Glancing up, she was surprised to find she was the one being addressed. A handsome man in a sporty black coat grinned at her from across the aisle. Who was that? The guy from 15C? An old classmate from BU? Shit, she’d better pretend to know who on earth he was. Not a client, please not a client .
“Hey,” she offered, waving cheesily, overcompensating .
“Didn’t recognize you at first without…you know.” He made a gropey hand gesture that had heat flooding Caitlin’s cheeks, thinking he must have her confused with some woman who’d fondled him .
Oh, wait. He was miming squeezing a stress ball. It was Mr. Cute from the Red Cross, last week .
“Oh, yeah.” Her flustered laugh admitted that she’d been stymied. “You too .”
The train squealed to a stop at Central Square, and the lady with the shopping bags exited. Mr. Cute crossed the aisle to sit beside Caitlin. His boldness was both intimidating and refreshing, his friendliness a nice but foreign-feeling change of pace from Kevin’s stoicism .
“You’re not one of the usual Thursday people,” Mr. Cute said. He seemed far bigger this close up. In a nice way .
“I donate all different times, but usually weekends. Whenever I can manage, with my work schedule. You always do Thursdays ?”
He nodded, and she catalogued the exact blue of his eyes. Prussian. “Same time, every two weeks for…” He did some calculating. “Nine years ?”
“Oh, wow. I guess you do know your fellow regulars, then .”
“It’s the only weekday I get off .”
She paused, mustering the energy to flirt. It’d be a waste not to, dressed as she was. “Nine years, and you still shut your eyes when they stick you ?”
He smiled. “Oh God, yeah. I hate needles .”
“Maybe you picked the wrong charity .”
“Nah. My little sister had leukemia, so it sort of chose me .”
“Oh. Did she…” Caitlin frowned in a way she hoped gently conveyed her condolences .
He nodded .
“That’s sad. But good of you to donate .”
“Why do you do it ?”
She smirked, feeling lame in the face of his loss. “It makes me feel sort of full of myself, when I’m done .”
He laughed. “Good a reason as any. Whatever gets bodies in the door .”
“And it’s like three blocks from my house, and it keeps me from obsessively checking my work email for a couple hours at a time. I signed up for a blood drive at my office once, maybe two years ago, and then I went back on my own and they somehow smooth-talked me into pheresis.” She shrugged .
“They’re good that way .”
“Good at charming people out of their humors .”
He looked her over, a cataloguing glance at her bare legs. “You aren’t a flasher, are you ?”
She laughed and lifted the hem of her long coat enough to prove she was indeed wearing a dress underneath, albeit a brief one .
“Lemme guess. Office Christmas party ?”
She shook her head sternly. “Just hearing you utter the C-word could get me a talking-to from HR. Holiday party, please .”
“Oh right, my mistake .”
“Probably not even a party. A festive social gathering neither endorsing nor condemning any one religious dogma .”
“So, a Christmas party ?”
She smiled, nodding .
“What’s in the bag?” He sat up straight to peer past the curls of silver ribbon .
“Champagne.”
“Nice.”
“The men got Scotch. How sexist is that ?”
“Very?”
She shrugged again. “Jeez, I dunno. I’m probably just punchy from the late night.” And getting dumped .
“My name’s Mark, by the way .”
“Caitlin.” She balanced the gift and bag in her lap, and they shook. She wished he wasn’t wearing gloves so she might feel how smooth or rough his palm was. “What about you? What’s landed you on the last train of the evening on a Friday night ?”
“I work for a youth center. Not far from the Red Cross, actually .”
“Oh, that’s nice.” He donated his vital fluids and he worked with children? Dreamy .
“I coach intramural basketball, and our team was playing some kids in Porter Square. Then I stayed to have a beer with an old roommate who lives over there .”
“Did you win ?”
He smiled. “Fifty-six to thirty-nine, thanks for asking. Go Dingoes .”
“Dingoes?”
He unzipped his jacket to reveal a dark-green hooded sweatshirt with a cartoon of a vicious-looking canine silkscreened in white .
“Very…ferocious .”
“That’s what happens when the kids get to name the team. I campaigned for the Back Bay Bruisers .”
“That has a ring to it too .”
“I like to think so, but a coworker pointed out that sensitive parents might worry it condoned unsportsmanlike violence.” He zipped his coat back up .
Caitlin bit her lip, forcing her gaze to quit dropping to his mouth. Nice mouth. And she was suddenly free to kiss any mouth she liked. Though not on a subway train, four hours after getting dumped beside a laser printer. She telepathically willed Mark to ask for her number .
The train emerged from the earth to cross the Charles. As always, the view made Caitlin’s heart rise. She’d lived here a decade, but that skyline beyond the glittering river still thrilled her now city-hardened heart just as it had when she’d been fresh off the plane from rural Washington .
“Best view in the whole town,” Mark said .
“It is.” Pretty in the summer sun with sailboats and scullers crisscrossing the river, gorgeous under the black winter sky, the lights of Boston sparkling in the water’s reflection. A postcard .
She met Mark’s eyes. His awfully blue eyes. “Did you grow up around here ?”
“No, Connecticut. But I’ve been here since I was twenty-three .”
“Connecticut—that must be pretty .”
“You’ve clearly never been to Hartford .”
She smiled. “No, I haven’t .”
“But no, you’re right. It’s got its nicer points. What about you? You come here for school ?”
“Yup. Transferred to BU my junior year. Did you ?”
He shook his head, and the train doors opened at the Charles stop, icy winter wind gusting inside to pepper Caitlin’s bare legs with goose bumps .
“I was a camp counselor when I was teenager,” Mark said. “Then I worked full time at the Y as a youth sports coordinator for a couple years in Hartford, then got a chance to transfer to Boston. All my closest friends had gone off to college, and I didn’t want to wind up like my dad and my uncles, all still farting around in the same neighborhood where they grew up, so I jumped on it. I figured eventually I’d save up enough to do the school thing, but with my salary and Boston’s cost of living …”
She nodded her commiseration .
“But it’s all working out, I think. I’ll probably get appointed as director when my boss retires next year, which is a nice promotion. Plus, it’s a lot of fun, and really satisfying. When I don’t want to strangle the kids, that is .”
The train trundled back underground, and Caitlin was disappointed her stop was coming up .
As they squealed through Park Street Station, she asked, “Were you always sporty ?”
Mark shook his head. “I was kind of a lump, actually. Hands glued to a video-game controller. Then when I started high school, my folks were on the verge of splitting up, and I joined the track team just to have an excuse to avoid being home during all their fighting.” He paused, blinking. “Sorry. That was probably TMI, as my girls would say. It’s late. My social filters have gone to bed for the night, I think .”
“I just got dumped at an office holiday party by a guy I didn’t even really like all that much. Is that TMI ?”
He grinned. “Probably. Guess we’re even. Shit, you got dumped, dressed like that?” He gave her legs an appreciative glance. Not sleazy—not that Caitlin would have minded so much .
“He must have been drunk,” Mark said. “Or blind .”
“Neither, I’m afraid — ”
The speaker chimed. “Now approaching…Downtown Crossing. Change here for the Orange Line .”
She stood, checking that her coat was covering all the important, drafty places. “Well, this is me .”
Mark stood. “Me too .”
“Oh. Where do you live ?”
“You know where the Chinese Evangelical Church is ?”
She laughed—the name of that place always made her scratch her head. Huh. They’d be getting off at the same stop. Getting off together, her brain repeated with a juvenile snicker. “Yeah, I know the place .”
“Not far from there. You ?”
“Not far either, but down Tremont a block and through that little park .”
The doors hissed open, and they headed for the Forest Hills platform together, Caitlin’s clop-clops sounding too loud to her ears .
“You rent?” Mark asked .
“No, condo. Tiny little walk-in closet of a condo, but this time of year my job hardly ever lets me go home, anyhow. My cat must worry where his next meals are coming from.” Did I mention I live alone with a cat? Just got dumped, workaholic who occasionally eats half a bag of shredded mozzarella cheese for dinner? With chopsticks? Get on this hot mess with your man-broom before someone else sweeps me up !
“What do you do?” he asked .
“There’s no way to make it not sound boring, but I’m an account manager for a financial firm. Nothing too evil, I promise. I specialize in small-business loans and investments. Leave the corporate stuff to my more ambitious colleagues .”
“Cool.”
She laughed. “If you say so .”
Caitlin slowed on the stairs, out of practice at walking in heels, and they stood among the other late-nighters, waiting for an Orange train .
“You must be freezing in that,” Mark said .
“A little, but it’s only five minutes’ dash to my place. Plus, I dress up maybe twice a year, so I can channel my inner twenty-year-old idiot and suffer the elements in exchange for wearing cute shoes .”
He glanced at her feet, and she modeled one for him. “Those are cute .”
“I know. Cute as a basket of yawning puppies.” She gave Mark a quick once-over. “When I saw you at the Red Cross, I thought you must be a construction guy. You had paint all over your pants.” And quite sexy arm muscles behind your shirt .
He looked perplexed a second. “Oh, no. Sadly, that was only evidence of how overdue I was to do laundry. Those are my crappy jeans I wear when I have to help with a mural or paint banners for games or whatever. But if they trick women into thinking I’m some kind of capable roughneck, maybe I’ll put them into regular circulation .”
She laughed, just as headlights winked from the dark tunnel. Twenty minutes ago she couldn’t wait to be in bed, now she was almost sad how soon she’d be home. Ask me out, she beamed to Mark .
Yeah right, dum-dum. You told him you just got dumped. If he’s smart, he’ll run screaming, and if he’s a creep, he’ll think you’re all vulnerable and easy .
Who cares? He’s hot. Maybe I am easy .
Well, not quite. Not in practice. She wished she was the kind of girl who’d just take him home tonight, let him peel off her fantastic dress and hey, why not keep the shoes on? But she most certainly wouldn’t be wishing all that come morning, after he disappeared down the hall and out of her life .
“After you,” Mark said, gesturing as the doors slid open .
The car was packed with animated young adults heading home to Roxbury and Jamaica Plain from the clubs, leaving no room to sit. They were only going two stops, anyhow. Caitlin tucked herself into a corner by the far door, and Mark joined her, seeming to position himself in such a way that she might avoid having her legs leered at by their fellow riders. Chivalry or jealousy? Didn’t matter. Either reason made her bite her lip to keep from grinning .
Their fists were an inch apart on the metal pole, and if his drifted down to butt against hers, she wouldn’t relocate her hand. Come to think of it, his face was awfully close to hers. And he was a lovely height, maybe six-one, tall enough to make a slightly-taller-than-average girl in three-inch heels still feel adequately loomed-over. Woman, that was. Not a girl. Though she certainly felt like a college kid again, and her glass of consolation chardonnay had worn off an hour ago and couldn’t be blamed for this giddiness .
She studied Mark’s five-o’clock shadow, thinking idly how nice he’d look with shaving cream all over his face—that open face with its easy smile, temporarily stern to keep from getting nicked. Chest bare, towel knotted at his waist, the squeak of his palm across the glass as he cleared the fog from the mirror . . .
Here, let me help you with that… How do you like your eggs? Call in sick to work and have sex with you all day? Oh, Mark, I really mustn’t. But I will. Paint my front hall wearing nothing but your mangy work jeans, you say? Excuse me while I orgasm .
“Caitlin?”
She started, blinking to bring his face into focus .
“Sorry. You said your name’s Caitlin, right ?”
“Yeah. Oh, yes. Sorry, the time must be catching up with me.” Pardon me while I redress you in my mind. And…there we go. Now I can form words .
“I asked if you got time off for the holidays,” Mark prompted .
“Yeah, I do. My company’s year-end craziness wrapped up this week. Me and most of the people in my department are taking the week after next off, through New Year’s .”
“Doing anything special?” he asked as the doors opened at Chinatown .
Are you thinking of asking me out? If so, will I look cooler if I say I’m busy or if I say I’m doing absolutely jack shit? Oh, well. Let’s be honest. “I’m doing jack shit. I can’t wait .”
He laughed, and his smile made her lady-region twitchy and demanding .
“Sounds good .”
“Next stop, Tufts Medical Center. Doors will open on the right .”
No. Boo. Ask me out. Ask me out now. Prey upon my recently dumped, vulnerable ego .
“What about you?” she asked. “Get any time off ?”
He shook his head. “Kids are all off for winter break, which means I’m even busier than usual .”
“Bummer.”
He shrugged. “I’m not real big on the holidays, so I don’t mind. I mean, Christmas is only fun if there’s kids around. Me and my older sister have been slacking in the baby-making department, so I’m not missing out, staying in Boston. I’d just as soon hang around work and watch the kids there get all wound up about it .”
“They make you dress up like Santa or anything ?”
He laughed. “Thank God, no. Our facilities manager is…how can I put this delicately ?”
“Built for the role?” she ventured .
“Yes, very diplomatic .”
“Tufts Medical Center. Doors on the right .”
The train slowed as they rumbled into the long, tiled length of the station. Mark edged through the crowd, and Caitlin followed in his wake, wishing she weren’t quite so close and could discover what sort of butt one got from running around with kids all day .
They exited the car. The station was chilly, which meant it had to be even icier outside. Caitlin hugged her gifts to her chest as they stood on the platform. “I usually go that way,” she said, nodding toward the less popular Tremont Street exit .
“Me too .”
Oh, goodie .
They meandered toward the far end of the station, and she was pleased to note he seemed to be dawdling as well. Ask me out. Ask me ooouuut .
“So,” he said as they boarded the escalator .
“The final outbound train of the night has now departed. Thank you for riding the T .”
“So,” Caitlin echoed .
“You’ve been single for like an hour .”
“Four hours .”
“Oh, okay. That’s totally different. That’s enough time to recover, right ?”
“Recover for what purpose?” She stepped smoothly from the escalator, feeling confident in a way that usually only arrived shortly after her third glass of wine in a dimly lit bar .
“I know I’m just some guy from the Red Cross, but could I maybe have your number? Maybe call you sometime, see if you want to meet for a drink? Maybe right after we both donate so you’ll be a really cheap date .”
“No alcohol for twenty-four hours,” she said, quoting the techs’ release spiel .
They passed through the ancient floor-to-ceiling turnstile one at a time, its revolving metal teeth ushering them into the drafty corridor that would take them up to the street .
“Okay, fine. A coffee then. Or a drink the next day, once we’re both allowed to do heavy lifting and vigorous exercise again .”
What kind of vigorous exercise? “Yeah. I’d like that.” Caitlin’s heels clicked to a halt on the bricks, and she smiled at him, hoping her hair still looked fantastic and no traitorous zits had decided to make surprise appearances. The cold licked at her legs, but she couldn’t care less. She was flirting with Mark, and she’d happily suffer through worse for the chance .
He pulled a phone from his pocket, queuing up a new contact. “Okay, shoot .”
“Six-one-seven …”
“Six-one-sev—” The phone beeped three times, and the screen illuminating his face went dark. “Oh, shit. Stupid battery.” He woke the phone back up, but it died immediately. “Damn. You have a pen ?”
She frowned her apology .
“Well, I’ll just have to remember it, then .”
She told him the number, and he nodded, repeating it several times. “That’s my mom’s street number, plus the Dingoes’ center’s jersey number, then three four, which is Paul Pierce’s number… Okay. I got it.” He squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his hands, an epic charade of memorization. “Mom, Justin, Paul Pierce. Mom, Justin, Paul Pierce .”
“Shall I take yours, just to be safe ?”
“Yeah, good idea .”
Caitlin opened her tiny clutch purse and frowned. She checked her coat pockets, but she already knew it was a lost cause. “Crap. I switched bags at the last second before I left my place. I don’t have my phone .”
They went through another digit-memorizing rigmarole, and hopefully one of them would recall the other’s number by the time they each got home in ten minutes and could write them down. If they didn’t, it just wasn’t meant to be. But she dearly hoped her phone would buzz with a text not long from now, a Testing, testing from Mark, something like that. Something to put a smile on her face just before she fell dead asleep .
“Maybe when we go out,” he said, “I could wear a tux, and you can look like the slob .”
“You don’t look like a slob. You’re not even wearing your painting pants .”
“True.”
“I’m the one who looks out of place. I look like I should be stumbling home after too many shots at Tequila Rain or somewhere… Is that still a place ?”
He laughed, flashing her that amazing smile again .
Quit smiling like that, or I’ll sexually assault you in this subway tunnel .
Just then, the overhead bulbs went dark, leaving them in the dim glow of the emergency lights .
“Last call,” Mark said with a sigh .
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” They headed down the corridor toward a metal gate that opened into a recessed brick courtyard a little ways off the street. “Though I’m quite happy to go home, frankly. That was a long-ass day .”
“Agreed. Well, ladies fir—” The gate rattled with Mark’s tug but didn’t open. He took the handle in both hands and leaned way back, but nothing. Pushed hard against it. Nothing .
Another spirited, fruitless shaking, then his blue eyes swiveled to Caitlin’s face. “That’s not good .”