November 19, 2004, 940 AM, the Train Station, Paris, France
In the car ride to the train station, Richie made three phone calls. First, he called Darcy. Second, he called Mike.
"Bonjour, Darcy is currently either otherwise engaged or otherwise *engaged*, or she is simply ignoring you. Please leave a message, and she will call you back shortly."
"Hello, you have reached Mike Ross. I am unavailable right now, but please leave a message, and I will call you shortly."
Richie sighed, pulled a sharp left turn, and left urgent, short messages on both answering machines. Finally, he called the New York apartment of Nick Wolfe and Amanda, in the rare hope maybe Asher had contacted them (if she was to leave the country), but they too did not answer their phone. He did not leave a message.
He reached the train station in fifteen minutes, having broken several traffic laws in the process. He stuffed his cell phone in his jacket pocket, and raced indoors to the ticket window. "Monsieur, Monsieur," he called, banging on the closed glass window. "Monsieur, please, I need to know if a train just left here."
"A train left but five minutes ago, Monsieur. Did you want to buy tickets for the next?"
"Non, merci."
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned, shuffling his feet against the cold tile floor. The station was empty. He must have missed her. Dejected, he crashed into a chair, his head falling into his hands, rolling a debate in his mind: would Asher have left on the train, or would she have gone somewhere else?
"Richie?"
His head shot upwards at the sound of his name. Not five feet in front of him stood Asher. He stared at her for several uncomfortable seconds, before he leaped from the chair, crossed the distance between them, and crushed her in his arms. "Oh, gods, Asher. I thought I had missed you. When he said the train had left, I thought. . . I thought you were gone. . ."
"You're babbling, Richie." She pushed him away, and she took a step back. "And, I have a ticket for the next train."
"Oh," he sighed, stepping back himself. "You forgot these." He pulled the model and note from his pocket, offering them to her, one held in each hand. "I recognized the song. It was my birthday present."
"I had hoped you would. Keep them. To remember me by. Give me reason to come home."
"I don't want you to leave, Asher." He transferred both objects to his left hand
"I already told you. I need to." She sighed, fiddled nervously with the attached belt of her black sweater-coat. "We're too attached to one another, Richie. We need some space, to re-evaluate what we are to one another."
"Funny. Mac said almost the same exact thing."
"You asked Mac about me?"
"I asked him for advice, yes. Asher?"
"Yes?"
"Will you come back?"
Asher smiled sadly. She reached a hand to him, and he met her in the middle, linking his fingers loosely through hers. She turned their hands, so the palms faced up, before she turned them down again. "I have only dated one other person. He used me. Granted, I used him as well, but I promised myself to never fall into that trap again. I don't deserve it. You don't deserve it, Richie."
"I would never do that to you, Asher."
"I know, I know." She squeezed his hand lightly. Over the speaker system, a voice announced the arrival of a train. Asher unlinked their hands, stepped back again, swinging her bag onto her shoulder, taking her guitar case in her hand. "That's my train."
"You promise to return?"
He sounded vulnerable. Asher paused in her step to the platform, throwing a backwards glance over her shoulder, smiling softly. "I promise."
Richie waited until the departing whistle sounded, and the train pulled away from the station. For several more moments, he sat in his car, drumming his fingers against the wheel, watching the sky. He did not know for what. In the same moment he started the ignition, his cell phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Rich, it's Mike. You called?"
"Yeah, I did. Listen, where are you?"
"Home. I roped the day off. You working today?"
"Mac hasn't asked me. Mind if I stop by? I need some company."
"My door's always open. Have you had breakfast yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Good, I'll cook something. Better to converse eating, then not." He paused. "Everything ok with you, Rich?"
"No, but I'll explain everything."
He ended the call, promising to be over within the half hour. Watching for cars, he pulled a right out of the station lot. He sighed, with one hand still on the wheel, he jammed the other hand into the pocket. He felt the model. He smiled. She would come back again.
In the car ride to the train station, Richie made three phone calls. First, he called Darcy. Second, he called Mike.
"Bonjour, Darcy is currently either otherwise engaged or otherwise *engaged*, or she is simply ignoring you. Please leave a message, and she will call you back shortly."
"Hello, you have reached Mike Ross. I am unavailable right now, but please leave a message, and I will call you shortly."
Richie sighed, pulled a sharp left turn, and left urgent, short messages on both answering machines. Finally, he called the New York apartment of Nick Wolfe and Amanda, in the rare hope maybe Asher had contacted them (if she was to leave the country), but they too did not answer their phone. He did not leave a message.
He reached the train station in fifteen minutes, having broken several traffic laws in the process. He stuffed his cell phone in his jacket pocket, and raced indoors to the ticket window. "Monsieur, Monsieur," he called, banging on the closed glass window. "Monsieur, please, I need to know if a train just left here."
"A train left but five minutes ago, Monsieur. Did you want to buy tickets for the next?"
"Non, merci."
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned, shuffling his feet against the cold tile floor. The station was empty. He must have missed her. Dejected, he crashed into a chair, his head falling into his hands, rolling a debate in his mind: would Asher have left on the train, or would she have gone somewhere else?
"Richie?"
His head shot upwards at the sound of his name. Not five feet in front of him stood Asher. He stared at her for several uncomfortable seconds, before he leaped from the chair, crossed the distance between them, and crushed her in his arms. "Oh, gods, Asher. I thought I had missed you. When he said the train had left, I thought. . . I thought you were gone. . ."
"You're babbling, Richie." She pushed him away, and she took a step back. "And, I have a ticket for the next train."
"Oh," he sighed, stepping back himself. "You forgot these." He pulled the model and note from his pocket, offering them to her, one held in each hand. "I recognized the song. It was my birthday present."
"I had hoped you would. Keep them. To remember me by. Give me reason to come home."
"I don't want you to leave, Asher." He transferred both objects to his left hand
"I already told you. I need to." She sighed, fiddled nervously with the attached belt of her black sweater-coat. "We're too attached to one another, Richie. We need some space, to re-evaluate what we are to one another."
"Funny. Mac said almost the same exact thing."
"You asked Mac about me?"
"I asked him for advice, yes. Asher?"
"Yes?"
"Will you come back?"
Asher smiled sadly. She reached a hand to him, and he met her in the middle, linking his fingers loosely through hers. She turned their hands, so the palms faced up, before she turned them down again. "I have only dated one other person. He used me. Granted, I used him as well, but I promised myself to never fall into that trap again. I don't deserve it. You don't deserve it, Richie."
"I would never do that to you, Asher."
"I know, I know." She squeezed his hand lightly. Over the speaker system, a voice announced the arrival of a train. Asher unlinked their hands, stepped back again, swinging her bag onto her shoulder, taking her guitar case in her hand. "That's my train."
"You promise to return?"
He sounded vulnerable. Asher paused in her step to the platform, throwing a backwards glance over her shoulder, smiling softly. "I promise."
Richie waited until the departing whistle sounded, and the train pulled away from the station. For several more moments, he sat in his car, drumming his fingers against the wheel, watching the sky. He did not know for what. In the same moment he started the ignition, his cell phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Rich, it's Mike. You called?"
"Yeah, I did. Listen, where are you?"
"Home. I roped the day off. You working today?"
"Mac hasn't asked me. Mind if I stop by? I need some company."
"My door's always open. Have you had breakfast yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Good, I'll cook something. Better to converse eating, then not." He paused. "Everything ok with you, Rich?"
"No, but I'll explain everything."
He ended the call, promising to be over within the half hour. Watching for cars, he pulled a right out of the station lot. He sighed, with one hand still on the wheel, he jammed the other hand into the pocket. He felt the model. He smiled. She would come back again.