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A muscle clenches in Jane’s jaw, and August wants to kiss it. She wants to kiss her and fight her and hold her down and set this storm loose on the world, but the doors open at the next stop, and for just a second, Jane glances through them. Her foot twitches toward the platform, like she’d have a chance if she tried, and that’s what makes August’s throat go tight.
“You want me to stay,” Jane says. It’s a quiet accusation, a push she doesn’t have the strength to do physically. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Myla said there’s a chance I could stay. That’s why you’re doing this.”
August still has a fistful of Jane’s jacket. “You wouldn’t be so angry if part of you didn’t want that too.”
“I don’t—” Jane says. She squeezes her eyes shut. “I can’t want that. I can’t.”
“We’ve done all this work,” August says.
“No, you’ve done all this work,” Jane points out. Her eyes open, and August can’t tell if she’s imagining the wetness there. “I never asked you to.”
“Then what?” The part of her that’s all blade is squaring up. “What do you want me to do?”
“I already told you,” Jane says. Her eyes are flashing. A fluorescent above their heads goes out with a loud pop.
If August were different, this is the part where she’d stay and fight. Instead, she thinks viciously that Jane’s idea won’t work. It can’t possibly be that easy to split this apart, not in just a few days. She’ll be back before it’s too late. She’ll leave just to prove it.
They’re pulling into the next stop soon, a big Manhattan one that will bring a rush of people with it.
“Fine. But this?” August hears her voice come out caustic and harsh, and she hates it. “All this? I did it for you, not me.”
The doors slide open, and the last thing August sees of Jane is the stiff set of her jaw. Her split lip. The furious determination not to cry. And then people push on, and August is lost in the current of bodies, dumped out onto the platform.
The doors shut. The train pulls away.
August reaches into her heart for the sour thing that lives there and squeezes.
August slams her bag down on the bar within five seconds of stepping into Billy’s for her dinner shift.
“Hey, hey, hey, watch it!” Winfield warns, snatching a pie out of range. “This is blackberry. She’s a special lady.”
“Sorry,” she grumbles, plopping down onto a stool. “Rough week.”
“Yeah, well,” Winfield says, “my super has been saying he’s gonna fix my toilet since last Thursday. We’re all having a time.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” August sighs. “Lucie working this shift?”
“Nope,” he says. “She’s taking the day to yell at city officials about permits.”
“Yeah, about that,” August says. “Myla and I are starting to think we’re gonna need a bigger venue.”
Winfield turns and raises his eyebrows at her. “The capacity of Delilah’s is eight hundred. You think we’re getting more than that?”
“I think we’re gonna get, like, double that,” August tells him. “We’ve already sold eight hundred-something tickets, and it’s not for another month.”
“Holy shit,” he says. “How the hell did y’all manage that?”
August shrugs. “People love Billy’s. And it turns out Bomb Bumboclaat and Annie Depressant are big sellers.”
He grins wide, preening in the grimy glow of the kitchen window heat lamps. “Well, I coulda told you that.”
August smiles half-heartedly back at him. She wishes she could match his excitement, but the fact is, she’s been throwing herself into the fundraiser to stop thinking about how she hasn’t heard from Jane in two days. She wanted to be left alone, so August is leaving her alone. She hasn’t set foot on the Q since Jane told her to forget about her.
“Who’s on the schedule today?”
“You’re looking at it, baby,” Winfield says. “It feels like Satan’s taint outside. Nobody’s coming to get afternoon pancakes today. It’s just us and Jerry.”
“Oh God. Okay.” August peels herself off her stool and rounds the counter to clock in. “I need to talk to Jerry anyway.”
