One Last Stop

by Casey McQuiston

“Okay, still, let me be a mom for a second.”

“Oh, yeah, classic getting-to-know-you conversation,” Myla says from across the hall. “What kind of music do you like? Where are you from? Do you now or have you ever had crabs?” “You just described our first date, verbatim,” Niko points out.

She slams back out of her room and into the hall, almost getting a faceful of Niko’s cactus. “Careful! Cecil is sensitive!”

“August, we’re adults, just say you got your back blown out.”

“Oh my God. She literally shorted out the train because she was horny,” she says, eyes sparkling with absolute awestruck admiration. “She’s an icon.” “Myla.” “She’s my hero.”

“Okay, but why me?” August says. “I thought we had gotten past your denial that she wants to eat chocolate fondue off your ass and then cosign a mortgage.”

“That’s because you’re a Virgo.” “I thought you said virginity was a construct.” “A Virgo, you fucking Virgo nightmare. All this, and you still don’t believe in things. Typical Virgo bullshit.”

“I had spilled coffee all over my tits,” August says. “Very sexy,” Myla notes, nodding. “I get what she sees in you.”

August wants to kiss her mouth again. August, inconveniently, wants to do a lot of things again.

And August thinks, she has to find a way to get Jane out of here, just so she can kill her.

“Never go to a second location with someone unless you’ve checked their trunk for weapons first,” August monotones. “You can mock it all you want, but I’ve never been murdered.”

“Let go of me. I deserve to be free,” Wes says to Jane, who boops him on the nose.

The bar staff apparently has no grudge against Myla, because one of them nearly vaults the bar when they see her, reindeer onesie and all.

“This is our new kid. August. We adopted her in January.”

Maybe one day we’ll all move out and get our own places with our own people but, like, even then. We’ll be weirdly codependent neighbors. We’ll all move into a compound. Niko was born to be a cult leader.”

“Actually, despite your best efforts at this whole one-man production of Cask of Amontillado in which you’re both Montresor and Fortunato, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna find love. Like, good love.”

He glances over, and August knows the second his eyes lock on Wes’s, because it’s the second Wes starts trying to climb under the table.

“Absolutely not, bruh,” Myla says, throwing a kick. “Stand and face love.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this when he literally lives across the hall from us,” August says. “You see him all the time.” “Says August of the six-month-long gay panic.” “How did this b...

“Nobody asked the fucking Long Island Medium.” Niko smiles. “Lucky guess. My third eye is closed tonight, baby. But thanks for confirming.”

He’s gone with a flourish of his robe, flashing a nice, long view of leather leggings and an ass produced by dancing in heels and doing squats to fill out catsuits. Wes makes a sound of profound suffering.

“Hate to see him go, hate to watch him leave,” he mumbles. “It’s all terrible.”

all the things they share and all the things they don’t, the things she has that people like Jane smashed windows and spat blood for.

The second August lets herself really picture it is the second she can’t pretend any longer—she wants Jane to stay.

She turns to her right, and Wes is standing there watching the show, mouth agape. The grip on his cup has gone slack, and his drink is slowly dribbling down the front of his shirt. August gets it. He’s in love. August is in love too.

“No,” Wes grunts. He doesn’t relinquish her wrist. “Wes,” she says. “I’m gonna throw up on you.” “No, you’re not.”

“I’m wearing a shirt and no pants,” he says. “I’m Winnie the Pooh-ing it.”

“Thankless job, being your boss, but someone has to do it.”

At least August’s stomach has stopped threatening an Exorcist live show.

“I wish I were never born,” August moans into the floor. “Retweet,” Wes says solemnly.

Myla, who slithered across the floor to the bathroom and threw up twice before army crawling back out, looks half dead and altogether unlikely to partake in the scrambled eggs. Niko has already chugged a full bottle of kombucha in an impressive show of faith in his intestines to work things out on their own. And Wes has dislodged his pants from the window.

Everything is a disaster, but August does love her.

With what looks like a Herculean effort, Myla pulls herself up onto her knees and says, “That is unacceptable.”

The five of them exchange unsteady eye contact, buzzing with possibility.

There’s a terrible moment of silence, long enough for August to play back what she said, but not long enough to regret it.

She’s right. August knows she’s right. She’s been digging Jane’s life back up, but Jane is the one who has to sit on the train alone and live it all over again.

“Here’s what we know.” “Tell us what we know, August.” “Thank you for your support, Wesley.” “My name is Weston.” “It’s—Jesus, are you a fucking Vanderbilt or something?” “Focus, August.” “Right. Okay.

“You text me that you, and I quote, ‘scored the clue of a lifetime’ and are ‘about to bust this shit wide open,’” Myla says, throwing her skateboard down in a righteous fury, “and you don’t even wait for me to have a free afternoon to break out the whiteboard. Wow. I thought I could trust you.”

There aren’t perfect moments in life, not really, not when shit has gotten as weird as it can get and you’re broke in a mean city and the things that hurt feel so big. But there’s the wind flying and the weight of months and a girl hanging out an emergency exit, train roaring all around, tunnel lights flashing, and it feels perfect.

Oh fuck. Right. Other people exist, somehow.

“Man, how did you avoid the FBI watch list? That would have made this whole mystery so much easier to solve.”

She brushes August’s windswept hair out of her face, and when their lips meet, she tastes like oranges and lightning.

“This could be a ploy to get you alone so he can exact a bloody revenge.” “Okay, Dateline, reel it in,”

“Look,” Myla says, “we all make mistakes when we’re young. Mine just happens to be six-foot-three and look exactly like Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“This is definitely the most organized crime I’ve ever been involved in.” “When are you going to tell me about all the other crimes?” August says.

“Those are some of the sexiest crimes,” August points out. “For people who are into crimes. Very Bender from The Breakfast Club.”

She wants to be happy. To be well. She wants to feel it all without being afraid it’ll fuck her up. She wants Jane. She loves Jane. And she doesn’t know how to tell Jane any of that.

She could live another fifty years, love and leave a hundred cities, press her fingerprints into a thousand turnstiles and plane tickets, and Jane would still be there at the bottom of her heart. This girl in Brooklyn she just can’t shake.

There’s a goodbye here, somewhere. There’s a conclusion underneath the too-casual sprawl of Jane’s legs and their too-quiet voices. But August doesn’t know how to work up to what she has to say.

Jane’s looking at her, and she’s looking at Jane, and the sun’s going down, and the goddamn thing is that it’s right there in both of their throats, but they can’t say it. They’ve always been hopeless at saying it.