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August huffs out a laugh. “Do you ever listen to anything released later than ’75?”
Jane laughs too, and there it goes again, desperate and cloying hope in August’s chest. It’s gross. It’s new. August wants to study it under a microscope and also never think about it for the rest of her idiot life.
“Why would I?” Jane asks.
“Well, you’re missing out on Joy Division,” August says, referring to the talking points she may or may not have written down after Myla’s punk lesson. “Though they do owe a lot to the Clash.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Joy Division?”
“Yeah, I know they’re technically post-punk and all, but. You know.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of them. Are they new?”
Jane’s fucking with her. August puts on her sarcastic voice and tries to be smooth. “Yeah, brand-new. I’ll make you a mixtape.”
“Maybe,” Jane says. “Or maybe if you’re nice, I’ll let you go through my collection.”
The light shifts as they pass into a tunnel, and there’s a jerk in the train’s momentum. August, who has been subconsciously leaning into Jane’s space like one of Niko’s most desperate houseplants reaching for the sun, loses her balance and stumbles right into her chest.
Jane catches her easily, one hand on August’s shoulder, the other at her waist, and August can’t stop the gasp that escapes at her touch. It’s lost in the grind of the train against the tracks when it shudders to a halt.
The lights black out.
There’s a low murmur, a few swears from the group of boys.
“Shit,” August says into the darkness. She can feel the palm of Jane’s hand burning into her waist.
“Stay still,” Jane says, and she’s so close that August can feel her breath ruffling her hair in the dark. She smells like leather and sugar. Her hand slides from August’s waist to the small of her back, sturdy, holding her in place. “I got you.”
Physically, August doesn’t react, but spiritually, she’s fully on fire.
“The emergency lights are gonna come on…” Jane says confidently. “Now.”
The emergency lights flick on, washing the whole car in sickly yellow light, and August blinks at Jane suddenly right there, a breath’s space between their faces. She can feel the soft juts of Jane’s hip bones against her, see the buzzed hairs on the nape of her neck and the soft amusement tugging at one side of her mouth.
August has never wanted to be kissed so badly in her life.
A garbled voice crackles over the intercom for thirty indecipherable seconds.
“Anybody catch that?” says the guy in the business suit.
“We’re delayed on account of electrical problems,” Jane says. Her hand is still settled on the small of August’s back. “Indefinitely.”
A collective groan goes up. Jane offers a commiserative smile.
“You speak MTA?” August says.
“I’ve been taking this train for a long-ass time,” Jane says. She removes her hand and strides to an empty seat, slumping into it. She looks at August and nods next to her. “Might as well make yourself comfortable.”
So, there they are. The two of them and a train full of strangers, trapped.
August shuffles over and takes her spot, and Jane smoothly stretches an arm across the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. She has this way of moving through the world like she owns every place she walks into, like she’s never once been told she can’t do something. She carries it well, because she probably has been told what she can’t do—plenty of times—and doesn’t care.
A sideways glance: Jane in profile, chin tilted up to the emergency lights. Her nose is rounded at the tip, kissable. August cannot keep thinking about kissing if she wants to make it out of this alive.
“So, you’ve never mentioned where you’re from,” Jane says toward the ceiling. She’s still got her head back, like she’s sunbathing in the dark.
“New Orleans, originally,” August tells her. “Well, right outside it. What about you?”
