Chrissy swings herself around the pole, like she’s in a Broadway musical. “Kevin is perrrr-fect.” Chrissy purrs like a cat. I try to keep a straight face.
“Well, he can pick up where I left off.” I gesture to her shoulders. “His fingers have to be pretty strong from all that keyboard banging.”
“You have no idea,” she replies, looking up at me from under lowered lids. “He’s got the best hands. Long and slender, and quite, quite agile.” Chrissy leans in. “Do you know he can span eleven keys? That’s only one less than Rachmaninov, who had possibly the biggest hands of any composer.” Chrissy shouts over the train’s rattling. “And since you mentioned banging, I should tell you, we’re not going there yet. This time, I’m taking it slow. I’m enjoying myself. Kissing can be really fun. I mean, really, really fun. Did you know all the things your tongue is capable of?” A woman in an orange puffer coat and bright purple snow boots peers over the top of her New York Post at us. “Kevin’s got the tongue of a bassoonist,” Chrissy continues, oblivious to the woman’s gaze. She should know—she met one at camp last summer. I never met any of the other guys Chrissy hung out with before Kevin. They weren’t really boyfriends.
“This is me, chica.” Chrissy kisses my cheek as the doors slide open at Seventy-Ninth. “I’m meeting Glenda for dinner. Well, Kevin and I are both meeting her, but Kevin’s coming after apps. You know how hungry my momster gets.”
“Wait, you’re introducing Kevin to your mom? For Valentine’s Day?” Chrissy’s never done that before. Ever.
Her face flushes. She backs out to the platform and shrugs. “Yeah. Guess I am. I really like him, Isa. I hope I don’t screw it up.”
“See you tomorrow,” I call. “Use a heating pad on your neck. In case the wonder hands don’t do the trick!” The newspaper beside me rustles. Snow boot lady pretends she wasn’t listening but she’s smiling.
“Attention, passengers, this train is being held in the station due to a red signal. We should be moving shortly.”
I check my phone. Still no message from Merrit. But Alex posted a pic of an open subway door. In the background, a sticker that reads KEEP CALM AND DANCE ON is slapped to the wall, below the tiled numbers SEVENTY-NINE. I stand and move to the open door. There, on the other side of a row of benches, is the same sticker. Is Alex here?
I scoot out onto the platform and slip into the next car.
Alex is at the other end. He’s leaning over, writing, his baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. Adrenaline bursts across my palms and dives into my fingers.
Every day on the train I close my eyes and dream about our walk. And our dance. Sometimes I see his friends’ faces as I tell them my mom’s Cuban. I try not to think about what they said. It’s exactly why Mom hates ballet. Sometimes I rehearse words I’ll never say to her. That there are plenty of people who don’t judge only on appearance, even when appearance matters. Alex has never made assumptions about me because of ballet or the way I look, even if his friends did.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
I make my way to him as the train lurches forward. The tingling is in my belly now. He’s sitting in a two-seater against the wall. He’s so intent on his notebook, he doesn’t look up. Even though it’s cold out, his jacket’s open. His pants and his gray jersey—with the letters AHH embroidered in blue—are splattered with dirt. I tap his sneaker—not Chucks, but Adidas.
His eyes dart to me and widen. The edges of his mouth lift. “Hi.”
I show him my screen with his post. “I was in the next car.”
“Really?” His smile makes me smile even more.
“Coming from practice?”
He gestures at his clothes. “What gave it away?” His hand slides over the paper and he scoots toward the wall, pushing his bag under him.
I sit, turning to face him.
“You coming from practice too?” he asks.
“Yup! Well, class—not practice.”
He chuckles at the faux-fierce look I give him.
I sit back and pretend to wedge my shoulders next to his. He moves to give me room. I don’t need any—I was just being funny. I lean all the way into him as we brake into the next station. I throw my weight into it then bring up my foot and push against the bar until he laughs. The feel of him along my entire side sends a rush of heat through me. He frees his arm. His wide hand settles on my shoulder neither pushing nor pulling me away. It just rests there. I stop and lie against him. I want to tip my head onto him like I did when we danced. I wish I could. I wish we both had more time. I’ve never missed having a boyfriend. But seeing him, feeling him, makes me realize I miss him.
I give Alex space as the doors open. He doesn’t take his hand away.
A small man with silver hair peeking out from a frayed cowboy hat gets on. His fingers whirl over the keys of an accordion as soon as the doors close. A fast-paced tune heaves out of the machine as the man compresses and unfolds it. I glance at Alex. We smile at each other. The music isn’t bad. I tap my foot, knocking my knee against him.
The old man moves toward us. His weathered face squints as he starts to sing. Alex presses his lips together. He takes his hand back to cover his mouth and turns to the wall. The man’s singing is awful. Alex shakes with laughter he won’t let out. Luckily, the poor man’s singing with his eyes closed. I don’t understand all the words because of his accent. I tap my fingers on Alex’s leg, marking the beat. It makes him go still.
The song finishes. The little man takes his hat and flips it over. He murmurs gracias to the few who give him money. I take a twenty from my bag.
“You’re not serious?” Alex’s eyes are wet from trying not to laugh. “You know he’s scamming you, right?”
“How do you know? We have no idea what’s going on in his life. Maybe his wife died of cancer and the hospital is suing him for bills he can’t pay. Maybe he lost his apartment. He can’t get a job because he’s too old and he doesn’t speak English.”
Alex sighs. “Most people who ask for money are either druggies or alcoholics. You’re just enabling him, preventing him from seeking the help he needs.”
“That little grandpa is not an alcoholic.”
Alex’s eyebrow rise. “He was slurring his words.”
Hmm. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t understand him.
The man shuffles over, holding out his hat. There’s not a single bill, only a few scattered coins. “Please, please,” he says. “Anything, anything.” His eyes, almost swallowed by the folds of his face, shift from Alex to me. He smiles wider, revealing dark gaps where teeth should be. I drop the bill in.
“Ay, gracias. Dios te bendiga.” He backs away.
“De nada,” I reply. “Un placer.”
Alex watches me, his head cocked to the side.
“My mom wants me to take taxis. I prefer the subway. She’d ask questions if I gave her the money back. And I feel funny keeping it.”
Alex’s hand rests on his leg. A bit of paper from the notebook peeks out from under his thumb. “Is that the real reason?” Alex doesn’t look away.