The 7:45 to New York

The 7:45 from Boston to New York was always crowded, but tonight it was chaos. Some kind of delay had packed three trains worth of passengers onto one, and by the time I boarded, the only empty seat was in the quiet car, next to a woman reading a paperback with her legs tucked beneath her.

"Is this seat taken?"

She looked up, and I forgot what I was asking.

She was striking, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, black hair cropped short in a style that was both masculine and impossibly elegant. She was wearing a tailored blazer over a simple white t-shirt, and silver rings decorated her fingers. She looked like someone who belonged in first class, not squeezed into coach with the rest of us.

"It is now."

Her voice was low, amused. She moved her bag to give me room, and I slid in beside her, acutely aware of how small the seats were and how close our shoulders were to touching.

"Long day?"

"Conference in Boston. Six hours of people talking about supply chain optimization."

"That sounds..." She searched for a polite word.

"Awful. It was awful. You can say it."

She laughed, a low, rich sound that did something to my insides.

"I was going to say 'challenging.' I'm very diplomatic."

"Diplomatic people are boring. I like honesty."

"In that case, it sounds like the worst thing I've ever heard."

"See? Much better."

The train lurched into motion, and we settled into an easy silence. She went back to her book, something in French that I couldn't read, and I pulled out my laptop to answer emails. But I found myself sneaking glances at her, watching the way she bit her lip when she concentrated, the way her fingers drummed against the page.

"You're staring."

I jumped. "What? No. I was just, "

"You were staring. It's fine. I was staring at you too."

She closed her book and turned to face me fully, her dark eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"I'm Margot."

"Lena."

"Nice to meet you, Lena. Are you always this fidgety, or is it the train?"

"I'm not fidgety."

"You'v

e checked your phone six times in the last ten minutes without actually reading anything on it."

I glanced down at my phone, which was indeed open to an email I had no intention of responding to.

"Okay, maybe a little fidgety. Trains make me anxious."

"Why?"

"Too much time to think. I prefer being busy."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is. But it's better than the alternative."

She tilted her head, studying me like I was a puzzle she wanted to solve.

"What are you running from, Lena?"

The question was too personal. Too accurate. I should have deflected, changed the subject, been polite.

"A bad breakup. A job I hate. The growing suspicion that I'm wasting my life on things that don't matter." I paused. "Was that too honest?"