Kissing him was hands down the wildest thing I’ve ever done. Chrissy’s the one who’s brave with guys. Ask the senior in coding to meet after class in the back of the computer lab? Sure. Tell the cute chess nerd playing in Washington Square Park a lie about meeting Kasparov? Why not. Kiss a stranger on the subway? Of course. It’s always been easy for her. Never for me. But Chuck was standing there, in my subway car . . . I figured maybe it was a sign.
And here he is again.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I can’t be dreaming, not if I can feel that.
Chuck is staring at me. His eyes are huge, like he can’t believe it either. He’s not smiling though. Does he not recognize me?
“Isa, right?”
I bite my lip so I don’t grin too big. “How do you know my name?”
“Your friend—Chrissy—she said it.” His voice is how I remember, soft and deep, like the rumble of a train when you’re up on the sidewalk. Chuck’s gaze shifts to the steps behind me. He’s still not smiling. Oh God. Is he angry with me? For what I did?
My face gets hot. I turn toward the uptown platform. What do I say to him? I’ve been this freaky girl stalking him and now I’ve cornered him in the subway where he has nowhere to go. If they made a movie about me, it would be called Freaky Stalker Girl. It would be a June release and I’d be played by some B-list actor. I pull up the hood of my coat so he can’t see my cheeks.
Three police officers jog down the steps of the uptown track. Their handcuffs and keys knock together, throwing echoes against the tiled walls. One of the officers’ radios spits static. Chuck yanks off his cap. He turns around to face the local track. Now we’re standing next to each other, pointed in opposite directions.
Think, Isa. Say something.
I burrow my hands into my puffer coat. “Just missed one, huh?”
His face jerks toward me. “Sorry?”
“You just missed a train, right? You look like you were running. Are you in a hurry?”
“Ah . . . Yeah. Sort of.” His hand is crushing his hat.
“Where are you going?” I can’t believe I just asked him that. I am Freaky Stalker Girl.
“To my father’s house in Brooklyn. My second Thanksgiving. My parents are split up.”
“Two Thanksgivings? That’s cool.” Witty response, Isa.
A downtown local rolls into the station. Chuck closes his eyes and releases a sigh. He must really be late.
“Are you waiting for the express?” he asks.
I’m still facing the other tracks. “I can take either.”
“Me too.” He lifts a hand toward the local. “Why don’t we take this one?”
I must look like I’m freezing, bundled into my coat with only my nose and eyes sticking out. I like that he seems concerned about me. That he wants to take the train with me. A few of those hope bubbles float into my chest and settle into nooks, safe from the wild beating of my heart.
We move to the middle of the car. There are only a few other people in the row. Chuck sits beside me but leaves an empty seat between us. Is he doing that because he’s afraid I might jump him again? Or is he being polite and giving me space?
A crowd of students in blue-and-white football jackets bursts in. Chuck slides down to make room. His leg is almost up against mine. Two girls walk to Chuck’s other side. They smile at him and giggle to each other. Chuck doesn’t notice. He’s scanning the platform as we pull away. I push back my hood and give the girls a hard stare. When I lean back, Chuck is watching me. The gray jersey under his coat rises and falls and rises and falls again.
Does he have bubbles in there too?
“Listen, I’m sorry about that night,” I say. I don’t want him feeling nervous about sitting next to me. “What I did, that wasn’t cool. I shouldn’t have, you know, touched you. Not without asking permission.” If I were a guy, I never could have gotten away with it—I shouldn’t have gotten away with it. With everything they’ve been teaching us in school about harassment and with what’s in the news, I might even have been arrested. Wow, is what I’m doing now harrassment? At least Kevin knew who Chrissy was. We didn’t know he did, but turns out he’d been watching her in Technique class for weeks, just as she had been watching his chamber performances.
“I would have said yes.”
My gaze focuses back on Chuck. “Excuse me?”
“If you had asked permission, I would have said yes.” His smile transforms his face. Sharp cheekbones. Straight, white teeth. Full lips. Square jaw. And those intense dark eyes and lashes. He’s not breathing heavy anymore.
My mouth goes dry.
“When are you getting off?” Chuck shifts back and his thigh touches mine.
“Um . . . Thirty-Fourth. I’m meeting my brother.” I want to lean into him, put my arm through his. I remind myself I don’t really know him. And he doesn’t know me. I don’t even know his real name.
“You have a brother?” He stretches out his legs. They’re super long. And that’s coming from somebody who also has long legs.
“Yup, he just got back from college yesterday. After brunch he went to see his ex-girlfriend. I made him promise to meet me so he can’t stay all day. He’s been kind of a stalker on her Instagram and Snapchat since they broke up.” Yikes. Does being a stalker run in my family? I almost pull my hood up again. Instead, I slide back in my seat so he can’t see my face.
Chuck’s shoulder shakes against mine. He’s trying not to laugh. “Stalker, huh? Why did they break up?” His grin makes the bubbles inside me multiply. I feel like I might float away. It’s more powerful than my instructors’ smiles. It’s even better than one of my mom’s, and those are pretty rare.
“They go to different colleges. You know. Long-distance.” I don’t mention how intense things got between them. How Merrit wanted to spend every moment with her. How he got angry if she did anything without him. “It wasn’t Merrit’s choice. He took it kind of hard.”
“Would your boyfriend go for a long-distance relationship?”
“My boyfriend?” I squeak. Now my cheeks are really flaming. “No—um.” I clear my throat to get out the rest of the squeaks. “No boyfriend. I don’t have time. Because of dance.” It sounds so lame. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. Who says that?
Chuck sighs. “Yeah. Same with me. Baseball.”
“Wow. You really do play, then?” Merrit wears sports stuff all the time even though he doesn’t compete. “Are you any good?” I slap my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I asked him that.
He lifts a shoulder. “My father thinks I am, which is what matters. He used to . . .” Chuck trails off. He’s staring at something at the end of the car. A police officer—one from Ninety-Sixth—marches through, examining everyone.
Chuck turns to me. He closes his mouth. His eyes are huge again. Like he’s scared.
I take his hand. I don’t even think about it.
“What position do you play?” I hold his gaze with mine. He almost looks away, toward the police officer who’s coming closer. I squeeze his fingers.
“Pitcher. Also shortstop.” He’s whispering.