Every Little Thing

22

The city flies past in a whirlwind of colors, all welding and melting into each other as the subway flies past, through open air for a split second just to delve back into tunnels and darkness once more, like a someone surfacing from water and taking a breath just to start drowning again.

I try to slow my heart rate, to take in as much of the glimpses that I possibly can, of the reds and blues and yellows of the lights, the blue hue of the twilight sky, the buildings and the people who surround them. Two hours was worth the wait, I realize, for a beautiful city that can't possibly belong in a world full of ugly things.

"Thoughts?" Asks Reed, a soft mumble next to my ear. I stiffen ever-so-slightly, caught off guard, and he inches away from me. I see from his face and mussed hair that he's been sleeping, and I allow myself to relax, smiling.

"Incredible," I say, trying my hardest not to sound as giddy as I feel. "More than incredible, to be honest, it's—"

My sentence dies before I can think of anything else to say, and Reed just laughs and says,

"I know. That's how I felt when I saw it for the first time."

I am breathless, and after a few minutes, the subway finally comes to a stop. I look around at the other passengers, the ones moodily scrolling through their phones, the ones with suitcases and coffees gone cold and magazines and the ones who look half-asleep. I can hardly contain my excitement as I rise from my seat, using Reed's shoulder to steady myself as he rises, too.

"Ready?" He asks, a smile tugging at his lips. I look up at him, and then the subway doors sliding open to reveal the New York Underground.

"Yes," I say breathlessly, and he clasps my hand as we walk straight out of the car and into the station without even looking back.

"Not to sound too masculine," Reed says, as we begin our walk through the echo-filled tunnels full of people all shoving past us, calling out, people crying and laughing and taking pictures and musicians banging at their drums and beggars offering up hats, "But you'd better hang onto me, okay?"

There's a serious note in his voice, one that I'm not used to hearing, so I oblige and link both of my arms around one of his. He begins to push us through the crowd, one shoulder towards the exit and the other held back by my hands as I stumble behind him. Every once and a while, his gaze flies back to mine and he smiles, a gesture that I return quickly each and every time, because if I hesitate, he might notice how it makes my heart beat thismuchfaster and how my thoughts blur and how I can't even begin to fathom how this came to be—me and him, in New York City.

We're almost out of the subway station when a man appears in front of us, offering Reed his business card and then turning to me with a toothy smile. His gaze, scathing and provocative, makes me scream into my teeth. I give Reed's arm a warning squeeze, and in an instant, he draws me to him and encircles an arm around my middle.

"No, thank you," he says, and his voice is measured, but firm.

"Are you sure?" The man insists, and his eyes slowly make their way down my figure. Repulsion rises in my throat, in my stomach, everywhere.

Get out, my mind insists, Getoutgetoutgetout.

Before I can do anything, however, Reed yanks me so that I'm in front of him and he pushes me along without another word. The man doesn't look away, but he doesn't follow us, and Reed takes the steps leading up to the city two by two until we're away from the subway and into the city, where I breathe in fresh gulps of air and close my eyes tight, releasing a shuddering breath.

"Are you okay?" Reed demands, swiveling around so that he faces me, hands running down my arms, turning my wrists, my elbow. "Did he touch you? I swear to God, if he touched you—"