Chapter 2

He’d been taller than me back then. He’d been six-three, so he’d still be taller than me now if we both stood up.

The only problem with that was Dixon Thompson had been dead for eleven years.

My head whipped around, my body tense to leap up and face the stranger who dared to wear Dixon’s face.

The car was empty. When I looked back at the window, the reflection was gone.

I missed my stop.

* * * *

The next day, I convinced myself I’d dreamt the whole thing, but that didn’t stop me from being on the same train that night. I watched out for anyone who might look like Dixon, moving from car to car, not once sitting down before I gave it up around four-thirty.

The next night was Friday. More people. I had to stop looking when a pair of girls kept giving me the stink eye and playing with their phones like they were going to call the cops as soon as they got a signal.

By the following Tuesday, I’d completely written off the reflection as being in my head. Dixon had been a pivotal part of my life, changing it forever. Even more so after he died. I might not think about him every day like I used to, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t always there in some form or another. It occurred to me that maybe I should take a break from my train pacing and just go straight home after work since it was obvious the lack of sleep was getting to me, but that didn’t happen. I’m a creature of habit now. For better or worse.

I saw him again on Sunday.

I’d avoided the 4 for the most part, but when I got off work, I felt ridiculous for being afraid of it. I made the deliberate choice to get on and stay on until the early commuters started showing. In my mind, that would prove once and for all it was just like all the rest and I wasn’t going crazy.

I got the brilliant idea to recreate the exact situation from last time when I did the turnaround at 125th

And he was there again, hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision, when I opened my eyes

My heart thumped against my ribs, like it was just as desperate to break free and get to Dixon as I suddenly was. I couldn’t breathe. I was too afraid to even fucking move because he’d disappeared when I’d done that the last time. I refused to blink and have him vanish in that millisecond for as long as I could tolerate, and then exhaled in relief when his reflection was still there after I did.

I wouldn’t turn my head and look for him, but I let my gaze slide firmly in his direction so it was easier to focus.

When his reflection stayed steady, I felt like crying.

“Dixon,” I whispered.

He smiled at me. I broke. I looked.

The seat opposite the reflection was empty. The reflection itself was gone.

I bolted and ran down the middle to get to where I’d seen him, but the seat and window looked like all the rest of the car. My hands shook as they felt over every inch of the dirty glass, the gritty floor, the textured seat. When I collapsed against the center pole, I trembled all over.

I’d seen him. I was sure of it. Except he wasn’t there, and there was nothing to suggest someone was pranking me, and fuck, I wouldn’t be hallucinating about him now after all these years when I hadn’t even done that after he’d died, would I?

My eyes burned, but grinding the heels of my palms against them eased the urge to sob. It wasn’t an anniversary of any sort that I could figure out. It wasn’t even close. It was the middle of September, and Dixon had died a few weeks before his eighteenth birthday in February. Other months would’ve made more sense, like January for my birthday, October for when we met, December for when we had our first kiss, August for when I got out of the hospital.

September just might be the only month the entire year that I couldn’t find any special significance for at all. At least until now.

I was still sitting on the floor when we reached Grand Central. I thought about getting off, but my legs were watery and my head ached. Better to wait, get off at the Bridge, and spring for a taxi to take me home.

The doors whispered open. Just before they closed again, ready for the train to leave, someone hopped through the opening.

The new arrival was a husky guy in his thirties with a three-day beard and a bulging backpack thrown over his broad shoulder. He huffed as he sank into the closest seat, only noticing me after we’d started up. His relaxed posture stiffened, though to his credit, he didn’t otherwise move.