The Runaways

Chapter 2

Hailey

“Now departing, northeast regional train 171 southbound to Lynchburg. All aboard!”

When you’re in a hurry, especially if that hurry has anything to do with you shooting your dad, you don’t pay attention to much. Point A, point B, simple. I could handle things like morning traffic, bulky suitcases, and steep flights of stairs without too many problems.

Summer trips to Charlottesville were second nature so navigating the station landscape was simple enough. Amtrak carts, morning stragglers—no problem. But broken glass bottles were a different story. Especially the clear kind.

Five steps shy of boarding my train, I impaled myself. Right-through-the-arc-impaled. The shock of slicing my foot open sent me tumbling face first towards the grimy, glittering concrete.

       “Hold the train!”

The voice of a perfectly placed hero buzzed through my cheekbones. In a show of grace, I'd face planted directly into his chest and used his sternum to cushion my fall.

       “You alright?” he asked, notably amused by my lack of coordination.

I lifted my head from the crater I’d made in his t-shirt and hid behind my Ray-Bans to steal a glance at his face. He was the modern image of a boyish brunette James Dean; cheeks tinged with natural blush, slightly grey baby blues, and a sense of style reminiscent of East of Eden.

       “I’m fine. I just lost—”

       “Your shoes or your senses?”

He extended a hand, lifted me to my feet, and for a half a second I swear I was flying. Well, maybe not flying, but semi-gracefully falling up. Cute boys made miracles happen. He was two for two, and I looked like a freak—a barefoot, barefaced, freak with the coordination of a cheap drunk.

But he smiled at me, smiled and stared, and his teeth were so perfect it felt like if I looked at them too long I’d go blind. Even though he’d sent me spiraling into controlled chaos, I played it cool while secretly scouring his face for one humanizing flaw to counter that sun-storm smile. I found it in a tiny scar above his eyebrow—albeit a cute one.

       “Thank you—”

       “Caleb.”

His handshake came with the kind of charm the devil would envy. I switched back to being selectively mute, dodged his stormy blues, and took up a staring contest with the floor.

      “You got a name?” he asked.

       “It’s Hailey.”

       “Have you always been the shy and clumsy type, Hailey?”

He grinned like a conman.

        “No, I’m just uncomfortable around strange people.”

        “That’s one way to mutually end a conversation,” he said.

        “I’m sorry, it’s just, if I keep talking to you I'm gonna miss—“

My train left. Amtrak didn’t care that I’d nearly killed myself trying to make it on time; they had schedules to keep and people to strand so they chugged their merry way out of the station.

        “Son of a beach ball!”

Three or four passersby stopped their staring contests with the tracks and diverted their attention to me. The stares I deserved.  A shouting, frustrated, frazzle-haired girl on an otherwise quiet platform was begging to be stared at. But being laughed at was a different story. Caleb couldn’t stop himself.