Chapter 11

11

Eva

Jonathan doesn't follow me. Nice. Real nice.

We had sex, I had a nightmare and he doesn't follow me. This is what I love about men. Really, truly, madly, deeply. They always exceed your worst expectations.

When I get back to our car, all the beds have been pulled down. I find mine. I lie flat on my back with my eyes on the ceiling. I can still feel the shape of him inside me. I'll probably feel it for days. It sucks. I knew it had to end, but I wanted to be the one to end it.

The hours pass. He doesn't come back. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he felt sick again. But probably—no, definitely —he could sense it. That's the problem with trauma: It fucks you up. It changes you, and when you let people get close it scares them away. I should have seen it coming. I did. He's from upstate. I'm from Hell. It never would've worked.

Eventually I fall asleep. I have another nightmare—I never should've risked a sleeper train—but this time when I wake up, Jonathan isn't there. The American businessman is dead asleep below me. I appreciate it more than I can possibly say.

He's up before me the next morning, neatly packing his bed away.

Outside the window, I can see Paris giddily building itself up from the chateaus and the green fields.

I sigh. Jonathan isn't here. Jonathan never came back. How can everyone be so fucking predictable?

I climb out of my bed. As I land on the floor, my fellow passenger starts. He looks curiously at me. He points at his shoulder. "Are you okay?" he says.

I look down, and then I see it. Dried blood on my shirt, the size of a hand, the shape of a wobbly heart.

"Oh!" I exclaim. "I'm fine. Sorry." I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.

I search my body, trying to figure out where the blood's coming from. I don't feel any pain. At least not the physical kind.

Oh. It didn't come from me. It came from Jonathan.

Did I hurt him accidentally? Did I stab him with the knife I keep on my ankle? But the blood is near my shoulder.

Maybe the blood has nothing to do with me. He did seem sick. And he had that no-touching rule, and that question: Can I keep my jacket on?

Maybe he was injured. I really can't blame him for not wanting me to know. In fact, I can relate. I'm always hiding my wounds from people—the physical ones and the emotional ones.

I'm actually relieved. Maybe he didn't ghost me. Maybe he had to go to the medic. Maybe he's still on the luggage rack. Maybe I should look for him.

I quickly leave the car. I check the luggage rack, but it's empty. The food car is deserted. There's a line for the bathroom. Jonathan is gone.

I return to the car. The train is pulling into the station. The American is reading Le Monde . That's when I notice it: Jonathan's suitcase. He hasn't come back for it.

"You know the guy I was with? Did he come back at all while I was asleep?" I ask. I point at the suitcase.

My fellow passenger shakes his head. "Not that I saw."

I want to open it. I have this funny feeling—a dark feeling I get sometimes—that anything could be in there.

"He left his bag," I say. "Maybe there's something in here that can help." Help with what? I don't say. I don't care.

Soon everyone will be disembarking. Soon the train people will come through. Soon it'll be too late. I'm more than a little impulsive.

I drag the heavy suitcase to the middle of the compartment. The other passenger moves forward as if to stop me. I just move faster. There's a pretty sizeable lock. I break the zipper. The businessman moves closer. I pull the two sides apart. I lift the flap. The man steps back.

Jonathan's suitcase is not filled with computers. It's filled with weapons. Antique weapons, the kinds you just know somebody had a little too much fun making: jagged saws, curved blades, jeweled inlays. Packed with care.

Maybe he's an antiques dealer, a pretty serious one. I know a lot about weapons, and a few of these are illegal. It's understandable that he wouldn't want to tell me that he was carrying a load of weapons. But the bleeding is a little suspicious.

I consider whether this chance meeting could have something to do with me. When you kill people for a living, you tend to assume the worst. But it's not like he tried to kill me. If anything, he's the one who's dying.

The train jerks to a stop, throwing me forward.

I reattach the zipper and close the suitcase, then haul it up. "I better hang on to this," I tell my fellow passenger. "Until I can give it back."