Page 46 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
The One with the Not at All Skinny Fingers
This has been a long day. Time does not fly when you’re on a train. But I don’t regret not flying to New York.
I’ve been getting messages on Instagram all day. Some of them are from fans of mine who want some clarity about whether or not Alana and I have broken up and who the “Girl on the Train” is so they know who they should be following. Some of them are from fans of Alana’s who think I’m an asshole and an idiot for even looking at any other girl. Some of them are guys who have an opinion as to who is hotter—Alana or the “Girl on the Train”—and they’re pretty much tied at the moment. Only about half of the people have complimented me on my performance in the video, which is disappointing.
People can be very disappointing.
Alana is very disappointing.
My inability to predict just how disappointing she’d be is disappointing.
But the thing is—I’m not all that disappointed about her. I’m disappointed in myself for fooling myself about her for over two months. I’m disappointed in myself for trying to fool myself about Birdie for six years. And I’m disappointed in myself for not taking the high road in my unscheduled journey to head Sir Rupert Skinnyfingers off at the pass.
The only person who isn’t at all disappointing is Birdie.
I can’t blame her for wanting me to leave her alone at lunch. I was being an ass. She’s the one person from LA who brings out the best in me and I was behaving like a little shit. I’ve sobered up a little. I did take a nap after lunch and I did feel better afterward.
And I made my way over to the observation car to do some reading.
But then I saw Birdie in the corner, surrounded by a bunch of little kids. Singing. And it felt like my heart would explode. I had to leave. She’s never talked about wanting to get married and have kids, not around me, anyway. But seeing her like that made me want those things, and I can’t seem to see myself doing or having those things with anyone except her. It’s a feeling that I’ve had ever since I was home in Ohio for Christmas. Now it’s become a thought. It won’t be long before it becomes a goal.
And she has no idea.
But she was so happy for me when she found out about my meeting with the casting director. That made me happy. We had dinner together in the room. That made me really happy. I won’t be completely happy until Rupert Borington is completely deterred, but at least she declined his invitation to join him in the dining car again. I’ve been on my best behavior, but I’ve also been gesturing with my hands and flexing my fingers a lot, just to remind her hownotskinny they are.
Nancy has already removed our dinner trays and turned down the beds. When I asked her for an extra blanket, she told me they only have one extra, so we might have to share. And then she gave me a knowing wink. Birdie and I are both wearing sweats because it’s gotten pretty cold on the train now that the sun’s gone down. She’s returned from the restroom with her wavy hair all loose and wild, her face scrubbed clean. She smells less like wine now but more intoxicating than ever.
She’s used some kind of body lotion, I think, probably all over. And now all I can think about is how soft and smooth her skin is. And having my hands all over her.
She puts her cosmetic bag into her overnight bag and then gets her winter coat out from the closet. “I think I’m going to use this as a blanket tonight. You should wear your jacket.”
“Good idea.”
She notices the plain white sheets on the lower bunk. “What happened to your own sheets?”
“They’re in my bag.” I give her a meaningful look.
She doesn’t get the meaning. “Why? You should use them.”
“I will have to launder them first before using them again.”
I watch as she puts two and two together and comes up with a wet spot. Her blue eyes widen. Her cheeks turn an enchanting shade of pink. She looks away and holds her coat in front of herself, like armor. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, anyway… Wear your jacket to bed.”
“I will.”
She holds my gaze for about three seconds, and it feels like she’s going to say something. I knowIwant to say something, but I’ll wait for her to go first.
But then my phone starts dinging with notifications. We hadn’t been getting cell service for about an hour, and I can just tell, from all the dings, that it’s Alana.
“Were you going to say something?”
“Nope. You should check your texts. I actually need to text my parents.” She gets her phone from her handbag and climbs up to the top bunk with her iPad and her coat.
I spot her—to make sure she doesn’t slip and fall again. And to get a good look at that sweet ass in those gray sweatpants. I don’t even feel guilty about it.
