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God, it sucks. Places like Billy’s, they’re never just places. They’re homes, central points of memories, first loves. To Jane, it’s as much of an anchor as the one on her bicep.
“Jane, I, uh,” August starts. “I have to tell you something.”
And she breaks the news.
Jane leans forward, elbows on her knees, tonguing her bottom lip. “God, I—I never imagined it’d ever not be there, not even now.”
“I know.”
“Maybe…” she says, turning to August, “maybe if you get me back to where I’m supposed to be, I could do something. Maybe I could fix this.”
“I mean, maybe. I don’t really know how any of this works. Myla’s pretty sure whatever’s happening now is happening because whatever happened in the past is already done.”
Jane frowns, deflating slightly. “I think I understood some of those words. So, you’re saying… if there’s anything I could do about it, it’d already be done.”
“Maybe,” August says. “But we don’t know.”
There’s long beat of quiet, and Jane says, “Have you… have you ever found anything about me now? Like, if I make it back, and I stay there… there should be another me out there, right? Back on the right track? All old and wise and shit?”
August folds her hands in her lap, looking down at Jane’s red sneakers. She’s been wondering when Jane would ask this; it’s something that’s bugged August since the beginning.
“No,” she admits. “I’m sure she’s out there, but I haven’t found her yet.”
Jane sighs. “Damn.”
“Hey.” She looks up, attempting a small smile. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. We don’t know that things can’t change. Maybe they can. Or maybe you’ll change your name again, and that’s why I can’t find you.”
“Yeah,” Jane says, quiet and heavy. “Maybe.”
August feels it hanging around Jane, the same thing that pulled at her the other morning as she told her stories.
“Anything you want to talk about?” August asks.
Jane releases a long breath and closes her eyes. “I just… miss it.”
“Billy’s?”
“Yeah, but also… life,” she says. She folds her arms and shifts, sliding down until she’s lying across the bench, her head on August’s lap. “My dim sum place. The cat in my bodega. Banging on the ceiling because the neighbor was practicing his trombone too loud, you know? Dumb shit. I miss figuring out scams with my friends. Having a beer. Going to the movies. Dumb, small life things.”
“Yeah,” August says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. “I know what you mean.”
“It just—it sucks.” Jane’s eyes are closed, her face turned up toward August, mouth soft, jaw clenched. August wants to smooth her thumb across her strong, straight brows and pull the tension out of her, but she settles for pushing a hand into her hair. Jane leans into the touch. “I can remember it now, how I felt my whole life—I wanted to go places, see the world. Always hated staying in one place for too long. Fuckin’ ironic, huh?”
She falls silent, tracing her fingertips over her side, where a tattoo is peeking around the hem of her T-shirt.
August wishes she were better at this. She’s great at taking notes and picking apart facts, but she’s never been good at navigating the rivers of feelings that run beneath. Jane’s cheekbone is pressed into the knob of her knee through her jeans, and August wants to touch it, hold her closer, make it better, but she doesn’t know how.
“If it helps…” August says finally. Jane’s hair is sleek and thick between her fingers, and she shivers when August scratches her scalp. “I’ve never found anywhere I wanted to stay either, until now. And I still feel trapped sometimes, in my head. Like, even when I’m with my friends, and I’m having fun, and I’m doing all the dumb, small life things, sometimes it still feels like something’s wrong. Like something’s wrong with me. Even people who aren’t stuck on a train feel that way. Which I realize sounds… bleak. But what I’ve figured out is, I’m never as alone as I think I am.”
Jane’s quiet, considering. “That does help,” she says.
“Cool,” August says. She bumps her knee gently, nudging Jane’s head. “You said you missed going to the movies, right?”
Jane opens her eyes finally, looking up into August’s. “Yeah.”
“Okay, so, my favorite movie of all time,” August says, fishing her phone out. “It’s from the ’80s. It’s called Say Anything. How ’bout this—we listen to the soundtrack, and I’ll tell you about it, and it’ll be almost as good.”
August extends an earbud to her. She eyes it.
