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“New Orleans, huh?” she says. She lowers her eyes finally, and when she cuts them over, August forgets she ever asked a question. Or what questions are. Or the entire process of speech. “What brought you here?”
“Um, school,” August says. The lighting is already unflattering, so it can’t be helping the shade of red she turns when confronted with significant eye contact from butch girls in leather jackets. “I transferred. I’ve tried a few schools in different cities, but I’ve never really fallen in love with any of them.”
“You’re hoping you fall in love here?”
“Um—”
“Hey, maybe you will,” Jane says, and she honest-to-God winks. August is going to take out a full-page ad in the Times to scream about it. The city needs to know.
“Maybe so.”
Jane laughs. “How’s Billy’s?”
“It’s all right. I’m starting to get the hang of it. I kind of scammed them on my references, so I had to fake it until I figured out what I was doing.”
She raises her eyebrows. “I hadn’t pegged you for a scammer.”
“Well,” August says. “Maybe you’re underestimating me.”
It surprises a laugh out of her, a good laugh, deep in her chest.
Jane nudges her shoulder and leans in, close enough that the creases of her leather sleeve brush August’s arm. “So, what do you think’s their story?”
She jerks her chin toward the professional-looking pair a few seats down. He’s in a razor-sharp suit and she’s in a deep blue dress, her heels practical and pointed at the toe, and he’s laughing at whatever story she’s telling him.
“Those two?” August examines them. “Well, I’ve never seen them before, so maybe they don’t usually take our train. They’re both wearing wedding bands, and she’s got their bags under her feet, so I’m guessing they’re married. They commute together, so maybe they work at the same place. Maybe they met there.” She squints through the low light. “Oh, the cuffs of his shirtsleeves are damp—someone forgot to put the laundry in the dryer last night. That’s why they’re not on their usual train; they’re running late.”
Jane lets out a low whistle.
“Damn. That was… detailed.”
August cringes. She did the thing—the stupid detective thing—without even realizing.
“Sorry, bad habit. I grew up on true crime so I, like… notice stuff.” She twists her hands in her lap. “I know, it’s creepy.”
“I think it’s cool,” Jane says. August turns to check her expression, but she’s watching the couple. “I was imagining them as Soviet spies in deep cover.”
August bites the inside of her cheek. “Oh. Yeah, okay, I can see that.”
“Okay, Nancy Drew. What about that kid over there? The one in the red jacket.”
And August, who was pretty convinced this was the most unattractive side of her, sits back and lets Jane have it.
“Taller than his friends, more facial hair. Had to repeat a grade, but it made everyone think he’s cooler because he’s older—look how they’re all facing him, he’s the gravitational center of the group.”
“Interesting. I think he’s Spider-Man.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, he’s got the build for it.”
August snorts. “He does look aerodynamic.”
Jane laughs, which is rocketing straight up August’s list of favorite sounds in the universe. She’s gonna trap it in a shell like a sea witch. It’s fine.
“Okay,” August says. “The pregnant lady. What’s her story?”
“Not pregnant. Smuggling a big bag of pierogies.”
