Page 40 of Ready or Not
Relief punched through my chest like a sledgehammer, loosening the knot of tension I'd been carrying all day. I was finally close to my answers—or at least a lead. "Finally. You're almost useful for once."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, stifling another yawn. "I expect a thank-you in oxtail pizza next time we hit up that spot in Bed-Stuy."
"Don’t hold your breath,” I tucked the phone back into my pocket, ignoring the growing heat on the back of my neck.
Did Solène tell Naomi about last night?
Is that why she’s looking for me?
The questions swirled in my head, colliding and twisting until they tangled into an impossible knot.
But what if— I sighed, and shook off the brew of doubts before they could settle.
What-ifs wouldn't get me anywhere.
Neither was standing here in the middle of the street. It was better to go home than to let my mind wander in circles. If she really wanted to talk, then I’d hear from her soon enough. Running around like this—winding through endless blocks, chasing nothing—I was just wearing myself out.
Reaching into my pocket again, I pulled out my phone to check Uber prices and winced at the surge fare.
Typical.
Looks like I’m doing the train.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I crossed the street to enter the L subway station. I could already feel the nasty heat of the subway platform wrapping around me like a simmering stew. The stale air underground was somehow worse than the street, clinging to my skin and making every step feel heavier. I grew restless, my fingers brushing the edge of my phone screen like I could will it to buzz with a message from Naomi. The train wasn’t due for another six minutes, and every second dragged like I was stuck in molasses.
Finding a pillar to stand against, I leaned back and stared at the pavement across the tracks, my mind spinning faster than the approaching train could ever go. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck in salty rivers, clinging to the edge of my white shirt. The screech of an incoming service announcement crackled overhead, but I barely registered the garbled voice. My focus tunneled into the black void beyond the tracks, where faint yellow headlights flickered.
Five minutes left.
My hands itched to check my phone again—just to make sure I hadn’t missed something in those moments since Tony’s call. Logic told me Naomi couldn’t have sent anything this fast. Hell, she might not even be next to her phone right now. Yet the raw, stubborn part of me refused to accept that waiting patiently was my only option.
Four minutes.
My legs flexed, my shoulders twitching as commuters around me floated in and out of the station like people living lives I couldn’t touch or care about. A man in a Yankees cap drifted by holding a duffel bag that smacked someone’s shoulder,generating a stream of muffled curses. A couple argued quietly near the stairs—her arms crossed defensively over her chest, his fingers twitching midair like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know how. A rat scurried across the tracks as the eerily familiar screech of another train echoed deeper into the tunnels.
Three minutes.
The train lights grew brighter now at the end of the tunnel. My hand moved against my better judgment, lifting my phone from my jeans pocket to check yet again. No missed calls. No messages. Nothing but a blank notification screen mocking me.
I cursed under my breath and shoved it back in place. Staring wouldn’t make anything happen. Still, Naomi’s text—or lack thereof—had my thoughts spinning into endless theories. Did Solène change her mind before reaching out? Did Naomi forget that Tony sent her my number? Or worse, did something happen that none of us could’ve planned for?
Two minutes.
The air shifted as the approaching train churned it into a warm gust. Around me, commuters began drifting closer to the edge of the platform, positioning themselves without thought or care about what might come next in anyone else’s world.
Just monotony.
Steps to follow and routines that would reset tomorrow like clockwork.
One minute.
The lights of the train grew blinding as it rounded the bend, the sound of its grinding wheels rising. My chest felt tight, every heartbeat echoing with an impatient thrum that matched the rhythm of the train's approach. It wasn’t just frustration anymore. It was the heat, the noise, the weight of waiting for something I couldn’t control. I thought about skipping it—letting this train come and go while I paced this sticky, filthyplatform like some idiot waiting for answers from a line that might never call back.
However, what would that solve?
Another twenty to thirty minutes until another train crawled through, and then what?
More standing around like a dumbass?
