¤ LONGLISTED IN THE OPEN NOVELLA CONTEST 2022 ¤
// COMPLETE
- stand-alone sequel to featherlight -
Chase Collins steps onto a late night train, his last in the city before he moves to a new state with a job promotion.
What he doesn't expect, how...
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There aren't many people waiting for the next train. Especially for a Friday. But then again, most people are probably heading in the opposite direction for a night out. Out of the corner of his eyes, Chase Collins spots a middle-aged man with a cigarette between his teeth, the light of his phone screen illuminating his tired features. He watches as the man tosses the cigarette down, scuffing it out with the heel of his leather shoe.
Chase wonders, briefly, if that's what he'll look like thirty years down the line. Who is he kidding? He most probably will. Except his hair isn't dirty blond, it's brown. And he isn't five-seven, he's six-one. And he was the football captain in high school, and led his team to almost all the victories imaginable for a relatively small school. And he's already getting promoted at the age of twenty-five to a brighter, better position.
Yes, that.
He glances down at the big IKEA bag between his feet. On top of the miscellaneous shit that he's gathered from his drawers and beneath his desk is a bouquet of flowers and a card. Good luck, Chase! He smiles slightly, skimming his eyes over the corny four-leaf clover doodle. It's already got a stain on it- an accident by the name of the caramel cold brew he's holding between his hands. It's stupid that he orders iced drinks when his fingers are already freezing, but he never seems to remember to stop doing it. Chase swirls the watery coffee around, watching it swim over the crooked fragments of ice, and takes a sip.
He wonders, for what is possibly the fiftieth time in the past fifteen minutes, who the owner of the oat latte was.
The wind whips around him with the arrival of a train at the opposite platform, making the plastic bag emit a godawful flapping noise. The businessman a few feet away from him glances up at the sound. Chase subconsciously throws him an apologetic smile; his mind is elsewhere.
More specifically, he's thinking about this morning's leaving party. He'd gone to the office earlier than usual so he could clear thing up and say a round of thanks. What he hadn't been expecting was for there to be a big box of Cinnabons on his desk, with the card on top and accompanied by a small Prosecco and some flowers. There must have been some secret agreement between the people on the floor, because they'd all shown up even earlier than he had, watching him with expectant grins as he gingerly opened the card and ran his eyes over the messages scrawled inside.
Who knew the sports management department could be so... compassionate. He'd never considered them to be the leaving-party-Cinnabon type. But then again, he'd never considered himself to be the sports management type.
No, the only sport he'd ever thought about managing had been his own tactics. His team's spirits. Their defense strategies.
Chase drains the rest of the coffee, diluted to the point of tastelessness, and crunches on the ice chips. He puts the plastic cup in a bin and walks back over to pick up the IKEA bag. He shifts it between his hands, its handle already chafing his fingers. Kyle, he thinks. The name is like a bird, or a bug, or some sort of winged being that flits incessantly around in his head, no matter how hard he tries to direct his attention elsewhere. The oat latte waiting on the café counter, and the barista saying your name Kyle?
