Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

22 | Universal Nudge

|photo by Marcus Herzber from Pexels|

The florescent light directly above us is humming. Every few seconds it gets an alarming surge of brightness. It was pretty creepy when we first came down here because it was just us and a woman who kept glancing our way with wide, wild eyes. But now the platform is packed full of people and the train isn't coming and it's loud and there's this smell, like the worst B.O. ever. And yeah, I totally get why Mom and Aunt Emily refuse to ride the subway.

"The official tour starts when we get on the train," Conner says in a Conner-trying-too-hard-to-sound-like-Conner tone. I don't think either one of us will be able to shake the discomfort of Paige's last text by then.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No." Food is the last thing on my mind.

When the train finally arrives, Conner presses his hand against my lower back. It's there in a functional capacity—a little fortification to help me navigate the onslaught of the disembarking—but that's not how my body interprets it.

There are no seats, no available pole for me to hold onto. Conner makes space for us in the crowd, grabs the metal bar that runs parallel to the ceiling, just out of my reach, and offers me his arm.

I've come up with a few possible endings to Paige's private message. The one I find the most disturbing—because I should want it to be true—is: "This would be a good opportunity to tell Thea we hooked up." Fortunately, it's also the most unlikely. Unless I'm not as good at reading people as I think I am. Which is possible.

The train picks up speed, sways, and I clutch Conner's arm with both hands. The wheels screech against the rails, the lights flicker and he pries my fingers off his bicep so he can wrap his arm around my waist, tight and protective. The warmth of his arm, the proximity of his body, and the faint scent of the spiced soap that's had occasion to taunt me over the last week...

Mother. Of. Shit.

The heat doesn't start in my cheeks but it ends up there. Because I feel like everyone around us knows. 

I hide my face against his chest—not the brightest move under the circumstances, but the prying eyes are really creeping me out. "She said I should use this opportunity to ask you to the prom," Conner says. "That was the message I didn't share."

Because it hurt him deeply, judging by his tone.

"It's not that I don't want to take you," he says. "And I'd kill to be the guy who escorts you to the Allemande. It's just...it pisses me off that Paige suggested it, you know? The whole reason I told her you were Dorothy—the reason I kissed her..."

He takes a deep breath and I take it with him.

"One minute she acts like she'll come unhinged if I hook up with you," he says, his voice lower. Calmer. "The next she tells me to ask you out. What does she want from me?"

I open my mouth, ready to quote Chase: Paige doesn't know how she feels—about Conner or anyone else. But I guess that would just be stating the obvious.

We pass another train, a flash of silver and light, and for a moment my ears are stuffed with cotton. The person behind me shifts, pushing me even closer to Conner and I close my eyes to shut out a man with seriously bushy eyebrows, who has decided to focus on my cleavage.

This is a really strange place for a confession.

"I'm sorry," Conner says. "I don't expect you to have the answer."

"Did you kiss her again?"

"No."

There's a lift in my chest, a hot air balloon ride. And I think of Dorothy floating away from Oz and my Scarecrow telling me he hopes the story won't end that way.