“I’ve got her. Go,” James says. I stare at him. He shrugs. “Freckly kids or not, I can tell you love him. And I’ve been trying to tell you that he loves you, too. So, go.”
I burst into tears and hug my brother. He can be mean, immature, selfish, lazy, and he definitely needs to move out of my house, but he’s mine. “Thank you.”
Settling Joe Junior firmly under my arm, I rush out of the lobby of the Hyatt.
It’s time to go get Daddy.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Let me have
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins.”
- Romeo and Juliet (Act 5, Scene 1)
Joe
The Amtrak tracks run behind and under the Union Station terminal building. When Kathleen and I stopped by here the other night, I’d assumed the trains left from the above ground tracks behind the building, but those are for the city’s light rail system.
Suitcase in hand, I trudge down the stairs and underground to board my train. I’d splurged on a Superliner compartment which has an in-room bathroom along with two berths.
I slouch in my seat, staring at the parked train across the platform that’s also filling with people, and wondering if I should have flown home after all. Sitting here alone, day after day, could be torture.
On the other hand, a quick flight home only to bury my sorrow in work isn’t right either. I need to remember every moment I was with Kathleen. I need to feel the pain of losing her. I need to wallow, frankly. It’s the only way I’ll survive this. If I go home, try to forget, it will be like a dagger has sheathed itself in my body permanently, and I suspect I’ll never heal.
I pull a tiny plastic bottle of tequila from my backpack that I swiped from the minibar before I left. Along with the gin, vodka, bourbon, and, for good measure, a Snickers bar. I won’t have to leave the room to go to the lounge for at least, oh, an hour.
I’m tossing the bourbon back when something outside catches my eye. I bolt up in my seat, sending the itty-bitty empty bottles and caps tumbling to the ground. I catch the Snickers before it slides off my lap and clutch it like a life preserver.
Because, and I can’t be sure, but I thought I saw a tall woman with a crown of sublime sunset and honey hair out on the platform. I shove my cheek against the window and peer the way she went. I don’t see her.
With sweaty palms and a charging heart, I skid into the hallway, run to the end of the car, and swing myself down to the concrete platform.
An Amtrak employee stops me. “Sir, we’re leaving in a moment. If you’re going our way, you should get aboard.”
I peer around him. Still nothing.
Could she be on my train? I leap back on and rush to the last car, determined to work my way through until I find her. She’s here, I can feel her.
Hell, I can almost smell her, that vanilla scent.
Following my nose, I hurry down the aisle of seats, head swiveling back and forth like a villain in an old James Bond movie. When I get to the front, I work my way back, but my anticipation fades. As I reach my own compartment, the train lurches forward, and I have no choice but to sit down again. My head falls backs on my seat. I was wrong. Seeing things.
It wasn’t her.
It wasn’t Kathleen.
Chapter Thirty
“A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents.”
- Romeo and Juliet (Act 5, Scene 3)
Kathleen
No, no, no, no, no.
I’m on the wrong stinking train!
I’d run up and down the length of the train to Chicago, or what I’d thought was the train to Chicago, when I finally gave up on finding Joe. Maybe he was leaving at a different time. Maybe he changed his plans all together.
And as I stepped back onto the platform . . . I saw him through a window on the other train. I don’t know if he spotted me. The thing swept by too swiftly to tell.
Tears in my eyes, I thank the female employee who allowed me onboard to search for Joe. Like me, she must have seen one too many romantic comedy movies. Or maybe she’d thought I was looking for a child. I’m still clutching Junior, after all.
I press my palm to my forehead. Now what? Joe’s train won’t stop until it gets to Chicago. What do I do?
I’d tried to direct message him through Instagram, which was how we’d communicated before CatFest, but just like Viv and Jess said, his account was deleted. And we were together so much over the weekend that we’d never needed to exchange actual phone numbers.
Which means he’s on his way to Chicago, and according to Boyd, he’s not in any hurry to get home again. Why didn’t I at least get his number from his cousin?
I plod up the stairs that I streaked down only a few minutes ago. People pass me, but I don’t really see them. They’re just shapes, background noise. Without any conscious thought, my feet take me inside the terminal building, where I stop, causing an older man to bounce off of me from behind.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he says.
I wave to let him know I’m okay. But that’s a lie. I’m not okay. I’m just now realizing that I’d let my old prejudice about Joe, as the anonymous, copycatting owner of Romeo, completely override my opinion of real-life Joe, the flesh-and-blood man who’d been nothing but kind and thoughtful since I met him. Even if he wasn’t entirely honest.
Yes, Joe had ripped off my Instagram theme. Yes, he’d made nasty comments while hiding behind his Instagram account all those months. Yes, he hadn’t told me the truth about who he was once he realized Juliet belonged to me.
But.
He’d been willing to share the sponsorship. He’d been willing to let me have the sponsorship that was rightfully his. He’d apologized for his behavior and had even bribed my brother to say nice things about him. James—who deserves a smack more than a buck half the time. And despite my firm refusal to be with Joe, he’s deactivated Romeo’s account. Doesn’t that show he’s being honest about giving up the sponsorship for me?
And I’d let him go.
I wander inside Union Station. The beautiful stone terminal bustles with people. Shops and restaurants line the ground floor, while a fancy bar and the lobby of the Crawford Hotel are upstairs on the second floor. Cradling Junior, I lean against one of the tall, wooden benches meant for people waiting to leave on a train. Or waiting for people to arrive on a train.
I’m neither. I’m just . . . waiting.
I need a drink.
After texting James where I am and that I’ll return to the hotel in a half hour, prompting no response whatsoever, I slide onto an empty stool at the cheerful, wood paneled Terminal Bar and settle Junior on my lap. After a sideways glance at the stuffed cat as he takes my order, the bearded bartender ignores us both.
An hour and two and a half drinks later, I’m still sitting here, Joe Junior still on my lap. Maybe I’ll sit here forever. I’ll become myth, legend, known as the terminally sad stuffed cat lady of Union Station. Always there, always drinking, a tear always in her eye.
I should call a Lyft and go back to the hotel. My brain feels muzzy. Three cocktails are one too many for me on a good day. And this is not a good day.