“And you’ll come with me?”

“Yes,” August says gently. Jane’s hand slides over the back of hers. “Of course I will.”

 

* * *

 

A week later, just in time for Christmas, Isaiah drives them to the bus station, Wes in the front seat and the rest of them crammed four-across in the back.

“You’re gonna do great,” Myla says, leaning across Niko to pinch Jane’s cheek. The silver band flashes on her third finger; she and Niko wear matching plain engagement rings now. “They’re gonna love you.”

“Of course they’re gonna love her,” Niko says knowingly. “Did you guys pack snacks?”

“Yes, Dad,” Jane and August monotone in unison.

“Bring me a souvenir,” Wes calls from the front seat.

“Salt and pepper shakers,” Isaiah adds. “We need salt and pepper shakers. Shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“We don’t need those,” Wes says. He’s been spending more and more time across the hall at Isaiah’s. When he does come home, it’s usually to wordlessly leave a dozen homemade cupcakes on the kitchen counter and vanish back into the night.

“But I want them,” Isaiah whines.

Wes pulls a face. “Okay. Salt and pepper shakers.”

They roll into the bus station ten minutes before the bus is set to depart, Jane’s hand clenched around their tickets. The other four kiss them sloppy goodbyes and wave them off, and they haul their backpacks up and head for the bus doors.

Jane hasn’t worn her ripped jeans or jacket for weeks, settling instead into black skinnies, billowy button-downs, crew neck sweatshirts. But today, her skinnies are paired with the leather jacket from ’77, laid across her shoulders like a second skin. She hasn’t mentioned it, but August thinks she’s hoping it’ll help.

“So, this guy,” Jane says, “Augie’s old boyfriend—he really has my records?”

“Yeah,” August says. She called him when Jane bought the bus tickets, and he’s agreed to meet up with what he’s been told is Jane Su’s second cousin. He’s also meeting August’s mom, who’s flying up to spend the holiday in California and get introduced to August’s girlfriend. It’s a big week. “He said they came in the day Augie left. He never got rid of them.”

“I can’t wait to see them,” Jane says, bouncing restlessly on her heels. “And meet him. And meet your mom.”

“I’m personally looking forward to this life-changing crispy chicken family recipe you keep telling me about,” August replies. Jane’s parents’ restaurant in Chinatown is still open, it turns out. Jane’s sister Barbara runs it.

Jane bites her lip, looking down at the toes of her boots. They’re new—heavy black leather. She’s still breaking them in.

“You know,” Jane says. “My family. If they … well, if it goes okay, they’re gonna call me Biyu.”

August shrugs. “I mean, it’s your name.”

“I’ve been thinking lately, actually.” Jane looks at her. “What would you think about me going by Biyu all the time?”

August smiles. “I’ll call you anything you want, Subway Girl.”

The line keeps shuffling forward until they’re the last ones outside the bus, clutching tickets in clammy palms. Maybe it’s insane to try this. Maybe there’s no way to know exactly how anything will turn out. Maybe that’s okay.

At the door, Jane turns to August. She looks nervous, a little queasy even, but her jaw is set. She lived because she wanted to. There’s nothing she can’t do.

“There’s a very big chance that this could be a disaster,” Jane says.

“Never stopped us before,” August tells her, and she pulls her up the steps.

 

* * *

 

Letter from Jane Su to August Landry.

Handwritten on a sheet of lined paper ripped from August’s sex notebook, which Jane was definitely not supposed to know about, secretly tucked into a jacket pocket the night of the Save Pancake Billy’s House of Pancakes Pancakepalooza Drag & Art Extravaganza. Discovered months later on a bus to San Francisco.

 

August,

August August August.

August is a time, a place, and a person.

The first time I remember tasting a nectarine, my sisters were too small to be allowed in the kitchen. It was only my dad and me in the back of the restaurant, me propped up on a prep table. He was slicing one up, and I stole a piece, and he always told me that was the moment he knew I’d be trouble. He taught me the word for it. I loved the way it felt in my mouth. It was late summer, warm but not hot, and nectarines were ripe. So, you know. August is a time.

The first time I felt at home after I left home, New Orleans was dripping summer down my back. I was leaning against the wrought iron railing of our balcony, and it was almost hot enough to burn, but it didn’t hurt. A friend I hadn’t meant to make was in the kitchen cooking meat and rice, and he left the window open. The steam kept kissing the humid air, and I thought, they’re the same, like the Bay is the same as the River. So, August is a place.

The first time I let myself fall, it wasn’t hot at all. It was cold. January. There was ice on the sidewalks—at least, that’s what I’d heard. But this girl felt like nectarines and balconies to me. She felt like everything. She felt like a long winter, then a nervous spring, then a sticky summer, and then those last days you never thought you’d get to, the ones that spread themselves out, out, out until they feel like they go on forever. So, August is a person.

I love you. Summer never ends.

Jane

 

   new york > brooklyn > community > missed connections

 

* * *

 

Posted December 29, 2020

Looking for someone? (Brooklyn)

We all have ghosts. People who pass through our lives, there one moment and gone the next—lost friends, family histories faded through time. I’m a freelance researcher and investigator, and I can find people who’ve slipped through the cracks. Email me. Maybe I can help.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Where to begin?

Like this book, these acknowledgments have gone through multiple drafts. An earlier version was about the anxiety of the sophomore slump, but I decided that one was a bit of a downer. What do I really want to say about this book? That it was hard to write? Of course it was hard to write. It’s a romance novel that takes place on the subway. Like, come on.

The truth is, even when this book was trying to kick my ass in a Waffle House parking lot, I loved every second, because it is the weird, fun, horny project of my heart. I still can’t quite believe I got to do it.

I love this book. I love August, with her cactus spines and her dreams of a home, and Jane, my firecracker girl who refused to stay buried. I love this story because it’s about finding family and finding yourself against all odds, when the world has told you there’s no place for you. I love this story because it’s an Unbury Your Gays story. I’m so thankful for the chance to tell it. I’m so thankful you, reader, have chosen to read it.

So many more thanks are due here. First and foremost, I have to thank my tireless, thoughtful agent, Sara Megibow, for always being there to support me personally, hold my heart, and fight for my best interests. There’s no one I’d trust more to advocate for my work. A million thanks to my editor, Vicki Lame, whose response when I pitched her a lesbian time travel subway rom-com was, “This is so weird. You should do it.” To my team at St. Martin’s Griffin, including DJ DeSmyter, Meghan Harrington, and Jennie Conway, as well as my wonderful production editor, Melanie Sanders; cover designer, Kerri Resnick; illustrator, Monique Aimee; and Anna Gorovoy, who did incredible work on the interior pages; and sales and marketing and booksellers and bloggers and everyone who had a hand in sending this book out into the world.