Page 86 of Leaving the Station

“That’s different,” Oakley says.

“How?”

“Because it doesn’t matter how long I’ve known Aya. She deserved to know.”

“But did you have to ruin her party?”

“Iruined her party?” Oakley scoffs.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “You did.”

“If that’s what you think, then I don’t know how to help you,” Oakley says. “It’s like you’re incapable of understanding that I might know more about what Aya’s going through than you.”

“Because you knoweverything, don’t you?”

She’s clearly hurt by my words, but right now, I don’t care.

“I’m going to be back in Ritzville—back in the Church—tomorrowwhether you think that’s best for me or not,” she says through gritted teeth. “I thought I’d be able to get, like,onequeer experience in New York. And it didn’t happen.” She shakes her head, fighting back tears. “But now, we’ve made out, so...”

“So that’s it?” I ask. “Now you can go back to a religion that doesn’t give a shit about you?” My chest is tight. “Why, Oakley? Why are you doing this?” I sound desperate, but I can’t help it. “Why are you rejoining the Church? I don’t get it. You can have all the queer experiences you want out here!” I gesture to the observation car, though that doesn’t help my point, since we’re in an enclosed space, a giant metal train barreling through the dark.

“It’s not for you to get!” she shouts as a song ends. Everyone looks over at us. “It’s not for you to get,” she repeats in a whisper. “This is my life. It’s none of your business.”

“But itcouldbe,” I whisper back. “Maybe Iwantit to be. I fucking care about you, Oakley.”

“You don’t even know me!” Oakley whisper-shouts.

The next song plays. It’s too upbeat for what’s happening here.

“You could let me know you,” I say quietly.

She shakes her head. “Maybe you thought this was more than it was, but that’s on you,” she says, and my fragile heart shatters. “We were having fun; that’s it.”

“Well, if that’s what this was, then you should know that you weren’t the only one trying to ‘have a queer experience,’” I say, mimicking her cruel tone. “I just wanted to make out with a girl, and you were here.” I hate the words coming out of my mouth, thelies, but that doesn’t stop me from saying them.

She scoffs. “You’ve kissed plenty of girls before.”

She’s so confident that she’s right.

“I haven’t. You were the first.” I take a breath, and finally say it: “I have a boyfriend.”

That gets her attention. “You have awhat?”

“I was dating a boy at school,” I tell her. I don’t mention how things ended. “We’ve been dating for three months. He was my firsteverything. So maybe you weren’t the only one trying to live a lie on the train.”

Her eyes go wide. “What the fuck, Zoe?”

It’s thefirstreal curse I’ve ever heard her say.

She storms through the partygoers, back to her sleeper car. The one we made out in, the one we cuddled in together.

The one I’ll likely never see again.

Fifteen

Thursday, 12:30 a.m., Crossing into ID

Coach is worse than I remembered.