February Fever by Jess Lourey Page A

and one of the sweetest things I’ve ever experienced. My heart warmed, and I was leaning forward to put an arm around here when the door to Cabin 1 slid open.
    A man loomed in the doorway, his hair black and curly, his eyes scared. He was slender, wiry, around my age. He appeared to be Hispanic. “Aimee?” he asked the little girl, his alarmed glance shooting down the hall. He relaxed slightly when he spotted Aimee’s mom next to us.
    â€œHi,” I said, extending my left hand because Aimee was still holding my right with a child’s lack of self-consciousness. He took my palm. A wedding ring glinted on his ring finger. His fingers were long and smooth, his hands surprisingly soft. A quick shake, and he released me.
    He reached forward and gently pried Aimee off of me. “Sorry if she’s bothering you. She’s friendly. She shouldn’t be out this late”—here he flashed the woman a pained expression—“but she couldn’t fall asleep, and her mom thought some exercise and warm milk would help.”
    â€œI hope it does.”
    He nodded, pushed Aimee gently into the cabin, then stepped aside so her mom could enter. He gave me one last look before sliding the door closed and locking it from the inside. Aimee pulled aside the curtain over the door’s window to peek out at me and wave before the cloth was forcibly pushed back and she disappeared from view.
    The door of Cabin 3 slid open. It was a busy night on the bridge of the Enterprise .
    â€œHello, Ms. Wrenshall,” I said even before she poked her head out.
    I could almost feel the pause, and then only her head appeared. “I heard a noise out here.”
    In our cabin, out of view, Mrs. Berns made the “cuckoo” rolling finger motion before disappearing into our tiny bathroom.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “It was me talking. I’ll be quieter.”
    â€œI certainly hope so. I mean it. I hope you’re not going to be loud.”
    I thought I caught a faint whiff of tobacco. If she was smoking in her cabin, she was going to get in troooouuuble. “I think we’re all going to bed.”
    â€œSo you won’t be loud?”
    I felt like I had been patient and generous up to this point. I also felt like she was pushing it too far by making me assure her using her exact words: we won’t be loud . I don’t play that game. In fact, it was a hill I was willing to die on. “Pretty sure we’re going to bed.”
    She scrunched up her face. “So, loud. You won’t be that?”
    â€œI’m a quiet sleeper.”
    She stepped a little farther into the hall. “You’re saying that you won’t be loud, then?”
    I could play this all night. There should be awards for this. They’d be called The Pettys, and I’d win them. “I sleep deeply.”
    â€œNot loudly?”
    â€œI bet I’ll sleep even more intensely on a train. It’s like a big rocking baby bed.”
    â€œYou won’t be—”
    â€œOh, for Chrissakes!” Mrs. Berns yelled from inside our bathroom. “We won’t be loud!”
    Note to self: bathrooms on trains are poorly sound-proofed.
    Ms. Wrenshall’s lips pursed before she scuttled back into her room, slamming the door behind her. I did the same, minus the slam. Mrs. Berns finished up in the bathroom, and when she came out, she surprised me by tossing our luggage to the floor and choosing the top bunk.
    â€œLess stuff will fall on me if the train crashes,” she said.
    Made sense to me.
    I finished my evening toiletries and crawled into bed. True to my prediction, I fell asleep immediately. It had been a long day. Forget that—it had been a long year. My subconscious reveled in the rhythm of the train, the muffled clackety-clack of the rails underneath us, the metallic shiver as the cars shifted. It was like traveling deep in the belly of a dragon, only safer. I would have