CHAPTER TEN
Emma stared intently at the motel room door, running the brush swiftly through her hair. She knew she was going too fast, that she hadn't dried it well enough, and that once she'd crammed her beanie on top, she would be facing a head of tangles and mats in the morning. But her pulse was racing, her hands anxious, her stomach wrenched with the need to leave.
Jones had left while she stepped into the shower. He'd gently suggested that a quick rinse would do her a world of good, since she would be traveling for at least two days without stop. She couldn't deny that his level-headed suggestions had merit: with a bus or a train, she would have a schedule, she would know her stops… and most importantly, she wouldn't run the risk of catching a ride with a lecherous old creep, or getting tossed out halfway.
Emma sighed, trying to tamp down her completely unjustified impatience. Jones had gone to check out of the motel while she was in the shower, and she wondered whether there was a long line; he'd been gone nearly twenty minutes.
To keep herself from being nervous, she reminded herself every few minutes or so that the poor man had taken on the thankless job of driving her across the country without asking for so much as a thank-you. And on top of that, he'd fed her multiple times, and had housed her for the last four nights. No—she had no right to be angry with Killian himself.
And she felt horribly embarrassed for earlier. She had simply panicked at the sound of Henry's voice, all of her companion's kindness and their intimacy vanishing in light of her burning fear that something else would go wrong before she got back. Ever since she'd left Maine, she had been plagued by the intense paranoia that she had left Storeybrooke for no reason. And now, a thousand miles away, with no transportation of her own, that fear had come to life.
"But if you'd stayed in Storeybrooke, you would have been arrested," she told her reflection insistently. The woman staring back at her just frowned, ripping the brush through her hair once more. "Regina would have made sure of it, one way or another."
There was a small zzz as the door lock engaged, then cracked open. "Finally," Emma said under her breath, wanting to exorcise the last few ungracious thoughts, and shoved the brush back into her bag.
Her companion's nose was bright red with the cold, and he shook a light dusting of snow from his still-damp hair. "Sorry that took so long," Jones said breathlessly. "I printed off a couple of train schedules while I was waiting. Taxi should be here any second, though." He waved the papers. "Ready to go?" he added, brows raised.
"Yup," Emma answered, pulling the string of her duffel closed and putting on her own coat. "Can I… ask you a question?"
He smiled, dimples standing out in his pink cheeks. He hadn't shaved this morning, and the sun from outside caught his scruff from behind, making it glow nearly red. "Of course, lass," he assured her.
She caught herself fidgeting, her hands playing with the zipper of her coat, and made herself quit. "Do you want to go along with me to the train station? You said your truck probably won't be ready for awhile, so…"
As she trailed off, his smile grew softer and his eyes brightened. "I would love to go with you," he said earnestly.
Emma felt sick to her stomach—she almost wished she hadn't asked. Knowing that he obviously held feelings for her was anything but reassuring at the moment.
But it was too late now: and in all truth, she also knew that having a friend with her at the train station would keep her from being quite so much of a nervous wreck. "Thanks," she said, and managed to summon a smile of her own.
The ride to the station was quiet. They looked over the train schedule, dithering over which connections she could make to get home fastest. Emma told him wistfully how she would welcome the sight of New York, for however brief a time. In turn, he gave her a colorful picture of Chicago and the nation's capital, and the views she might see in whichever city she passed through. Coming into Kansas City, they exclaimed together at the sights as they passed over a bridge into the city.
Not once, though, did Jones touch her, or speak to her in tones of friendship other than his usual warm politeness. Was it because of the taxi driver's sullen presence? Or was he still smarting from earlier? His sorrowful bitterness—"nothing more than a good roll in the hay"—had struck her deeply. She hadn't known how offended he would be at her offer of money, practically reacting as if she had thrown a stack of singles at him.
Given, she thought, he had told her enough about his past to hint that he'd once been just as poor as she was now. Perhaps refusing to be rewarded for a charitable act was a stubborn sticking point in his character. At any rate, she pocketed the cash again, and neither of them spoke of it.
Now they stood in the station, waiting in line to buy a ticket. Jones was a warm, solid presence at her shoulder, and she felt a stab of gratitude for his serenity. He was calmly looking around at the sparse crowds, hands shoved in his pockets. Beneath his practical puffy down vest, the familiar flannel was back, and his trucker's cap was once more tilted up jauntily over his hair. Emma suspected that he only had a handful of regular outfits, which he'd carefully cycled through during their trip west. She had been doing the same, after all.
"See anyone interesting?" she asked.
Jones looked down, the corner of his mouth curling. "This early in the morning? On a Saturday? Nah," he said comfortably. He took his hands from his pockets and stretched his arms in an ostentatious Y, yawning, then let his arm fall down around her shoulders, giving her a brief squeeze before putting that hand back in his pocket.
It was such an affectionate, soothing little gesture that Emma's cheeks bloomed with heat. She clutched the train schedule, staring at the board inside the ticket office, listing all of the departing and arriving trains. If she managed to get on the very first eastbound train out of town, he could get to New York City by late that night. There was less than an hour until the train left, though.
"You'll make it, love," Jones said, making her start. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and she realized he was looking at the board, too.
"I hope so," Emma answered, trying to smile.
In fact, there was only one more person in line in front of them. And it wasn't like she had any baggage to check; evidently she was allowed to bring two fifty-pound bags with her, which was probably twenty pounds more than her entire duffel weighed. Unless something truly absurd occurred, she would be on the train in no time at all.
And then she would leave Jones behind, standing in the station alone. As if reading her mind again, he spoke. "You'll be home before you know it, lass," he assured her, cheerfully. This time his smile seemed reluctant, though.
Suddenly the customer in front of them bobbed her head, picking up her bags and stepping away from the counter. Emma sighed in thanks.
The desk attendant ignored them for a moment, fingers clattering away at her keyboard. For a moment Emma thought of the dead tired clerk back at the motel. But the woman looked up with a genuinely friendly smile. "Help you?" Her voice was tinny from behind the glass.
"Yeah… can I get a ticket for the next train to Chicago, and pick up a connecting line or something from there up to Bangor? Or Portland, maybe?" Emma asked. Her nerves were singing. What if the trains were sold out? She'd never taken Amtrak before in her life, maybe none of that made sense to the clerk.
But the woman didn't hesitate. "Sure thing. I'll see what I can do," she said, attacking the keys again, clicking the mouse. Her heart in her mouth, Emma had to keep herself from tapping her nails on the counter; it wasn't like she could make anything go faster by being impatient. Jones had drawn back a little, but she could still see him from the corner of her eye, leaning against the empty counter next to them, watching on calmly.
At last the desk attendant looked up. "Okay. Looks like we can get you into Bangor by Monday around six, as long as you don't mind a transfer or two," she informed Emma. "Coach or business?"
Emma's heart leapt. That would just leave her time to catch the last bus into Storeybrooke! "Coach is fine, thanks," she said, a little breathless with relief, and reached into her pocket, tightening her hand around her phone. Henry, here I come, her mind said in a faint, prayerful voice.
It took only a minute for the attendant to enter all of her ticket information. Emma noticed a little removable tag on the side of the window, just above the metal tray where tickets and money were passed through; J. Darrow, it read. Vaguely, she wondered what the "J" stood for. Certainly not Jessica; the woman was old enough to be Emma's mother. Janet, maybe?
"All righty, then," the attendant said, and gave one last triumphant click. "The two trips together will be three hundred dollars, even," she announced.
Emma nearly choked: she had expected seventy-five bucks, maybe a hundred, but three hundred? Her hand clenched in her pocket again.
She could try one of her credit cards, but both of them were nearly maxed out; the one she'd used last night might be already. And spending three hundred dollars in cash would leave her with barely enough to feed herself on the way home, let alone enough for a bus ride from Bangor out to the coast. There was no way she could justify touching her bank account, either – that was to make rent. Going back to Storeybrooke relatively broke was one thing: going back to Storeybrooke completely broke was quite another.
Slowly, she asked, "Is… is there anything cheaper?"
The attendant bobbed her head from side to side amiably. "I can go back and check, sure. Let me save your ticket info, hon."
An agonizing minute's wait later, she nodded. "Okay. If you take a later connecting train out of New York, it's…. let's see. It'd go down to two-fifty-five. That's a little better deal. Although, of course, you won't get into Bangor until around eleven."
She looked up, giving Emma a patient (and maternal) sort of eye. She was a kind-looking woman, hair tied back in a bun and cheeks speckled with tiny broken veins. Emma opened her mouth, but couldn't seem to speak. Getting in at eleven o'clock meant a whole extra day of waiting to see Henry… and what was that measly fifty bucks in cash going to get her, anyway?
Emma glanced up at the clock on the wall; already 8:30. No time to dither around, then. "I… no, never mind, I'm sorry," she said quietly, and withdrew her hand from her pocket, fingers tightly gripping the bills. She would just have to be hungry and broke when she walked back to Storeybrooke. "I'll take the first one. Can I pay cash?"
The attendant nodded; and to Emma's surprise, offered a sympathetic smile. For a moment, she felt self-conscious; did she look as poor as she felt?
The second hand of the clock continued edging forward as the woman finished up her typing. And a bare moment before the attendant looked up, mouth open to once more ask for payment, a hand reached in front of Emma and gently placed several bills into the metal tray.
She looked up; Jones was gazing straight ahead at the attendant, eyes clear and piercingly blue. He's even wearing the same thing, she thought, dizzy with déjà vu, feeling his arm snake around her back. They weren't in a filthy gas station, facing a pair of redneck clerks, but he could have been transported onto this spot from that first night and she wouldn't have known the difference.
Then Emma nearly jumped with shock. "Wait—no, wait!" she exclaimed. The desk attendant, obviously assuming that Jones was a husband or boyfriend, had reached forward for the money without hesitation; now she froze.
Jones smiled at the woman, and bent his mouth to Emma's ear. "Don't look a bloody gift horse in the mouth, Swan," he whispered, then kissed her temple, still calm and glowing with the confident aura of a man whose precise responsibility was to drop several hundred dollars on her train ticket.
She opened her mouth, wanting to protest anyway; but at the thought of Henry, her pride shriveled and died inside her. "Never mind," she heard herself say once more, with a pained smile.
The desk attendant raised her eyebrows, but didn't ask any questions; and a few moments later Emma found herself in possession of a strip of tickets. Shouldering her bag, she followed the woman's pointed finger toward a staircase, Jones trailing behind her silently.
The platform was nearly empty; the train hadn't even arrived yet, and only a few passengers were milling around with their bags. Emma dumped her duffel onto a bench and, finally, turned to Jones. "Why?" she demanded. He looked startled, but her frustration was too powerful for her to care. "You wouldn't even let me pay for half a goddamn motel room, acting like I used you or something—but then you come in and—and—"
She turned away, sniffing back confused tears, staring at the ugly square metal buildings of the station. "Because it was me who suggested this in the first place, love," Jones said quietly. "If I'd thought for two seconds about it, I'd have remembered these trains are bloody expensive. And that you wouldn't have been hitchhiking in the first place if you'd had the money for public transport."
It was a perfectly logical answer, but somehow it infuriated Emma more than if he'd said he loved her. "I did have the money for it," she snapped, glaring at him. "I just… didn't want to waste it."
Jones didn't look so much exasperated as exhausted, his shoulders slouched beneath the padded vest. "Well, I'm sorry, then," he said tiredly. "I guess I let my stupid soft heart get in the way."
Now it was his turn to look away, the hair beneath his cap riffling in the chilly breeze. His expression was guarded, and yet somehow so sad that Emma felt a pang of regret strike in her breast. Last night felt like half a lifetime ago.
Without thinking, she slid her hands around his narrow waist, pulling close. As his face turned down toward hers, she lifted her chin and kissed him. Not like last night's fiery kiss, though; his mouth was unresisting, soft, and his own arms circled her with infinite gentleness.
Emma broke away, putting her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Thank you."
He rocked slightly on his heels, pressing his cheek to her head. "Trust me, the last thing I want to do is put you on a train and send you hundreds of miles away, Swan," he murmured, his voice catching a little. Held safely in his embrace, she could hear his throat rumble as he swallowed.
"And yet for whatever reason, you're doing it," she answered in a low voice. Her eyes were closed, and she could hear her own heartbeat, beginning to slow in his calm presence.
His chest expanded, and he let out a long breath. "Aye, I am," he whispered, voice husky.
Surprised, Emma lifted her head. The color had risen high in his cheeks, and he blinked down at her, brilliant eyes shining, misty and shadowed with pained emotion.
"Are you…?" she asked uncertainly, her heart beginning to pound again.
He shook his head, letting go of her for a moment to sniff and brush away the half-fallen tears. "No—well, yes," he amended quickly, with a stuttering laugh, and smiled shyly at her. "Yes, I think so. But I can't… I can't help remembering the past, too. Mistakes I made when I was young, that I'm not repeating now."
Emma frowned, confused. Jones cleared his throat, a blank sort of grief falling across his features. "What the hell. I suppose I may never see you again, lass—so no harm in telling you, right?" he said, with a laugh that was almost a sob this time.
Too heartsick to speak, Emma just nodded. Jones took another deep breath. "I once loved a woman who'd left behind a son," he explained softly. "I was too young and selfish to care, then. She kept telling me, we'd go back for him someday, that he was fine with her husband. So we traveled, saw all the great places of Europe and the Mediterranean. And my Milah forgot how unhappy she'd been. Until…"
Jones stopped, his Adam's apple bobbing. Emma's breath caught in her own throat. "Until one day," Jones continued at last, roughly, "I wasn't paying attention, and tipped our truck over a hillside. Woke up in the hospital to be told she was dead. Had been for two days, technically speaking. Her son was by her side when they turned off the machines, at least."
He shifted his arms around her, voice caught in his throat, his eyes closed. Emma felt a chill; no wonder he had been so eager to help her get home. Her stomach suddenly twisted in horror at the thought of Henry watching her die… and Jones standing off to the side, face grief-stricken and hands—no, hand; she knew without asking that it was the same 'accident'—pressed against the glass of a hospital room window.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," she blurted, tightening her arms around him, and let her head fall to the soft padding of his shoulder again. "I… Killian, that's horrible."
Jones' embrace grew tense, and she felt him bury his face in the top of her head. "Well," he muttered, "that was in another country. And besides, the wench is dead."
Emma had heard the quote before, although she didn't know where it was from. Before she could say anything, there was a distant foghorn-like blast. The loudspeakers above crackled, and a soothing, bell-like voice announced that the train was coming into the station at last.
They parted without speaking; Emma bent to pick up her duffel again as the train appeared, its tapered nose sliding into the station like a monstrous silver eel. She felt cold and hot at the same time, and as the train whooshed past them in a deafening wash of wind, she found herself automatically clutching to find Jones' hand, the metal hard and comfortingly solid beneath her fingers. She couldn't make herself look at him.
As the cars began to slow, coming to a halt and leaving the platform quieter, he spoke. "Could you…" Jones began, then hesitated. Emma raised her brows, and he asked cautiously, "Could you maybe… text me when you get home?"
Emma burst into a hysterical little laugh, making him hunch his shoulders again. "Yes. Of course, Mum," she assured him, and his lips curled into a trembling smile.
They hugged once more, tightly; Emma could hardly make herself let go, feeling like she was about to jump down a rabbit hole. The voice on the loudspeaker was talking again, saying something about boarding, and passengers exiting the train were moving around them, gabbling loudly and dragging wheeled suitcases.
But still they stood like stone, wrapped around one another. At last Emma forced herself to pull away. "We shouldn't be sad, really," Jones said with a shrug, and smiled. "This is quite a happy moment. You're going back to your son."
Emma took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. "Yeah. Although, I'm trying not to think of how nervous that makes me," she agreed, carelessly drawing a thumb along the line of his jaw, the stiff scrub of his whiskers rough under her hand.
"Just the uncertainty of it?" he asked, catching her hand in his.
She nodded. "And… that it's going to be really hard," she admitted.
Jones nodded and made a moue, sucking his teeth, obviously thinking. "Well," he said, grinning wanly, and let go her hand to reach into his pocket, "we can make a little something for you to cheer yourself with on the way."
He lifted his phone, opening its camera app, and bent so their faces were together. Emma could see the round ovals of their features on the screen. "Don't you dare make a face," he mock-warned. As she grinned wanly, he hit the center button, the shutter snapping.
"No, no, I wasn't ready," she protested. Jones, still grinning, tapped the phone to pull up the picture; both of their faces were red with the wind, their eyes sparkling into the camera. Emma was astounded at how happy she looked.
"Okay, fine, let's take a silly one," he grumbled, and held up the phone again. She stuck her tongue out, crossing her eyes, and heard the shutter snap once more. Jones looked at the picture and laughed, then showed it to her. He'd made a face as well, eyes round and mouth wide in an idiotic grimace.
She couldn't seem to summon a laugh, but Jones did, before tucking the phone away again. "And now… I'd probably better get out of your way," he said firmly. He swallowed, and she read the apologetic lie in his eyes: Too much chance of me running alongside when you go, his regretful expression said.
"Yeah. Probably easier to just part ways while we still have the chance," she agreed reluctantly. "Gotta tell you, though, I'm not really the tearful good-bye kiss kind of person."
The corner of Jones' mouth curled again in a smile; he was gazing down at her, bright eyes fixed on her face as if he were memorizing it. "Kiss for luck, instead?" he suggested.
Without hesitating she lifted her head and placed her lips on his, the beard scrubbing against her skin as they kissed one last time. She felt her cheeks flushing, and pulled him tight against her, his arm tight in the small of her back.
They ended with their foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. "Goodbye, Swan," Jones said softly, and let out a sob-like laugh even through a brilliant smile.
Then slowly his hand fell from her face, and he backed away, leaving her standing alone on the platform. Emma, her throat locked in silence, watched him go, his reddened eyes turned down to the ground; with a single glance back over his shoulder, he shoved his hands into his pockets and jogged up the staircase, deftly weaving between passengers until he disappeared into the overhead walkway.
Sniffling, wiping the tears from her face, Emma pulled her tickets from her pocket, trudging toward the train door. She made her way to her seat in a daze, climbing the narrow steps to the upper deck and stuffing her bag into the overhead compartment.
The compartment was mostly empty, the morning sun shining cruel and bright over the blue seats. Emma wedged herself into the window seat. Dimly she noticed that there were outlets on a bulkhead wall strip; a small reading light overhead; a fold-down tray on the back of the seat in front of her. Just like an airplane, she thought, and nearly burst into tears, thinking of the rig's bunk. I'd rather have none of this, the smell of diesel and coffee, and Killian Jones sitting next to me.
Closing her eyes, she leaned against the window, letting the grief and gratitude pass through her in waves until she was empty again. Then, taking a deep breath, she pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the messaging app, typing out a quick message to Henry, to let him know she was headed home. And if Regina had his phone? Fuck it, she thought, with determination. Let her feel intimidated for once.
Slowly, she went back into her messages, finding the last conversation and opening the emoji keyboard. Train… house… tearful face… happy face. What else? A wrench, a tractor-trailer, a thumbs-up… and finally, a heart.
Too much? "Nope," she muttered, and hit Send.
Not long before the engines began to rumble, the station beginning to inch slowly by the window, the phone dinged with a text. Looking up from her favorite old novel, Emma opened the message and huffed a laugh. A tractor-trailer, an arrow, a house, and a question mark.
No need to answer with emojis this time. Yes, please, she typed. Hesitantly, feeling like a fool, she kissed the tip of her finger, and tapped Send.
The station fell away behind them, the train bursting into the city and angling northeast into the sun. The tracks approached a highway overpass, and even at this hour of the morning she could see a dozen or more tractor-trailers already zooming their way in and out of town.
Her phone buzzed one last time: the picture of them smiling, followed by :)
Emma laughed softly and locked the phone, tucking it safely back into her pocket. Her future was more uncertain than ever—even with the murder charges dissipated, who knew what shenanigans Regina would get up to once Henry's other mother was back in town?
But underlying the joy of knowing she would see her son again soon… the sudden excitement of going back to Storeybrooke, probably the only home she'd ever had… and the soft wonder of knowing she still had folks in her corner there… Emma held fast to the string fastened somewhere under her heart, connected to a friend out in the wide world beyond.