It had been a long, long time since that day, in the old house filled with whispers.

The young boy was now a young man, straight and tall and proud; the slightest touches of a gangly youth quickly fading as muscle mass built outward instead of upward. It was like watching God sculpt, his mother had said teasingly on several occassions. He ruminated on her words moodily, glancing at his reflection in a nearby puddle. He was not a vain boy, but he was a little nervous, and besides, it never hurt to look. He touched his jaw, checking for missed patches of scraggly beard. It wouldn’t do to look unkempt today.

Washington was alone in the old Amtrack station, and had been for the better part of an hour. There was an air of readiness about him - he had his suitcase resting forlornly on a bench; a beat up old thing that he found himself glancing at every few moments. As if it’d walk away on it’s own. Walking in the hot grass, diploma in hand - senior graduation seemed so far away. It was summer now, and hot, in spite of the late hour. He fanned himself with the train schedule. The dress shirt and slacks he’d chosen for this moment clung to his body cloyinglu; an unwanted and uncomfortable weight.

A rumble in the distance. He looked up, arms to his sides; tense. Any moment now. The ground trembled, and he imagined his heart beat in sync with the steady clunk-clunk-clunk as the heavy metal engine lumbered toward him. She’d be here, she said. She was always punctual. Wash inspected his father’s wristwatch. It felt uncomfortable on his wrist, too large and yet at the same time somehow just right.

Five minutes. The train was early, and Veronica was not.

Headlights outside the lobby - he turned his head, heart racing, outpacing the lumbering locomotive. He was nervous and eager at the same time, but it wasn’t until he heard her heels hit the tile that he turned slowly to face the doors.

She was a long, lissome thing, with dark, nutty skin and shapely legs. The dress she wore was, like his, a bit too formal for traveling, but it was snug in all the right places, clinging to the soft curves of her chest and narrow but pronounced hips. The look in her dark eyes was uncertain; the way she bit her lip was not. Pleasure fought sorrow across her delicate, round face. She brushed a strand of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.

It was a gesture that was deeply familiar. Veronica, the beautiful and intelligent cheerleader. Member of the varsity squad; a talented writer whose parents supported her aspirations. She’d been accepted in some prestigious school or another up north, a distance so great it was hard for Wash imagine. Unforunately, he didn’t have to. He could see it there - in the curve of her lip, the way she held herself, shoulders slightly hunched. She was following her dreams, and the consternated young man felt he was just following her. But what else was he to do? Wash had always had trouble seeing past his doorstep - and as it was then, so it would be now.

He approached her slowly, and even as he began he could hear the deafening roar as the train pulled in, the crunch of the brakes; the strangled cry of metal on metal. Somewhere in the rukus, the second, smaller watch in his pocket beeped. Five o’clock on the dot; right on time after all.

“Hey, V,” he rumbled, taking her small hands into his. She didn’t respond immediately, inspecting his shoes as if they suddenly held something of great interest. He released her fingers to instead gently trace the contour of her jaw, slowly tilting up her chin while ducking down to meet her eye to eye. His own widened as the artificial light reflected off the glimmer of tears.

“I told you not ta come,” she murmured huskily. She kept her eyes wide, and sucked in a deep breath, steadying herself.

Confused, he dropped her hand. “I know, baby-vee, an’ I’m sorry, but I couldn’t jus’-“

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t make this easy?” She swiped a hand under her eyes and then crossed her arms tight, tucking them under her breasts and leaning back defiantly. Anger was easier than sadness for her; a trait he’d always admired.

He smiled, a soft but confident gesture. “I ain’t tryin’ t’ make anything more than what it is.” He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, and when she didn’t resist, pulled her in for an embrace. He knew she’d told him to stay, but - where was he to go? What was he to do? No, he loved her; he was sure of it. That coy, playful grin, the way her face lit up when he took her out to plays and book signings; the smell of her hair as they cuddled under the bleachers before practice.

And so he’d packed up his life in a tiny, well-worn suitcase, and snuck out in a cab. His father would forgive him one day; he’d always trusted his eldest son’s judgement. And his mother had always liked Veronica. They’d both been sad to hear when he told her she was leaving their little humid, swampy creche for some frozen unknown; a distant winter wasteland of strangers and strange places.

He smiled again, and looked into her eyes; this time she smiled back. “Come to say goodbye?” she asked, a slight waver in her voice. He didn’t answer, pressing his lips to hers. Savoring the moment.

They broke apart after a bit, she taking a step back to catch her breath - he noticed as her vision zeroed in on the little bundle on the bench. Her eyes narrowed, eyebrows raised. “Washington Becker-“

“It’s alright V,” he chided, laughing. He felt giddy; high. She was like a drug, he couldn’t get enough of her. He felt directionless and uncertain, but that was okay at his age. She gave him a purpose - a spark. He wanted to keep being there for her, as he had for the past year and a half they’d been an item. To hold her hand, watch her ace all her classes; to become the woman he knew she could be -

“You can’t, Wash. What were you even thinking?” When had she started crying? He was confused, and it stung a little as she pushed him away, balancing precariously on her heels. She buried her face in her hands, and he stepped forward, but she jerked away from his touch.

“Why not?” He asked dumbfoundedly. He’d thought this would be what she wanted. After all, they’d never really talked about breaking up - he’d snuck over to her place just the other night, and she’d been something else, all kisses and come hither. It was then that he’d made his rash decision. “It don’t have to be this way, V.” He kept his hands at his sides, letting her have her distance - but it hurt.

“It does, Wash, it does.” She recovered gracefully, pulling a tissue out of her purse and dabbing at her face. The conductor stepped out, waving at the pair to hurry; they were going to depart soon. She bowed her head for a moment; and met his eyes, shoulders straight - only the whitness of her knuckles as her hands balled into fists betrayed her tension.

“I gotta go, and you ain’t comin’ with me. You’re bein’ a fool, an’ you know it. This ai- isn’t high school anymore, Washington Becker. You need to find your own place.” With that, she stepped forward, planting a kiss on his lips. “Goodbye,” she mumured into his ear with a hint of a sob, and ran for the train empty handed. Her luggage had been sent ahead, he realized. She’d probably seen him standing around the whole time.

Wash didn’t leave immediately. He took a seat on the well-worn bench, watching other stragglers as they slowly boarded, expression stoic as the final whistle blew and the engine slowly chugged its way out of the station. He used the time to think, to consider. What was it he had expected? He’d been afraid to ask what her plans were; what she wanted. He’d just spent all his time hoping and praying that he somehow fit.

And now he was all alone in the train station, a useless ticket sitting in his pocket. A ticket to nowhere. There would be no winter wonderland for him; only another hot June.

“Son,” a voice called. It was the man at the ticket booth; a kindly expression softened the blow of his next words. “Son, I can give you a refund, call you a cab.” Wash just nodded numbly, mute partly from sadness, and partly from - something. He felt like he’d grown up a little, in the hour he’d spent by himself in that old station. He’d learned a few things about life, and about himself. Maybe it wasn’t always the catastropic or extraordinary experiences that could shape the warp and weft of a man’s life. Often, it wasn’t even the big things that mattered. Sometimes, it was about the things you didn’t do. He would not spend much time reflecting on that early morning near the end of summer; but it changed something for him all the same.

That warm, wet day he almost took a train.