Page 89 of Almost Not Quite Engaged
Our trip is not the poverty route. Holy shit. The train’s something out of an Agatha Christie novel. I immediately see the appeal. The dining car’s opulently dressed in gold leaf. We did our best to un-Bang ourselves, but I found mud clinging to my hip ten minutes ago.
Courtney drags me through the bar car. There’s a man in a fedora with his back to us sipping what looks like Scotch. From the color I’d say eighteen and probably a Macallan. That’s my brother’s fav--- “Get the fuck out of here.” All heads turn except his.
I push past Court to stand at the edge of the table and stare at him. He tips his hat and says, “Oh, hello. You’re both looking well. If you’d like to be my companions at dinner, perhaps you shower before we dine.” He drops the act and pops up pulling me into a giant big brother hug.
“Porter, how do you have this kind of time off? The kid, the DA’s office. How are you here?” I hug him harder. Courtney is clapping. Last time I remember it being just the three of us was a trip to Ben’s family lake house. We were there for two nights before all the families joined us. Must be a decade or so ago. Court was still in college.
“You mean how did I get time off for my dream trip? You make shit happen when it needs to.” He snaps his fingers. He’s always been that guy. There’s always a way.
“But this is my dream trip.”
“Correction, yours was filled with hostels and dusty things that ends in some 3-star hotel for the night. Mine is an opulent ride through India with tailored experiences where I can wear white linen unironically and look like the bad guy from Raiders of the Lost Ark. And Felicia is thrilled she doesn’t have to come with me. Not her thing.”
I roll my eyes and hug him again. This must all be my father’s way of protecting me. Sending the siblings in case I pull a Kat and fuck it all up, there’s someone to help me stand back up. I’ve got mixed feelings about that.
“Go change, please.”
“I only have cargo shorts, and leggings.”
He produces some small carry-on roller bags. “Ginny took care of it. For both of you.”
Courtney bounces up and down.
“And you two smell really bad.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and no offense to the amazing people of Bangladesh, or the innate beauty of the country, but it’s not for me,” Courtney says.
“It was ass.”
I’m in a black silk shirt with a loose front tie and cream wide-legged suit pants. I’m honored Ginny trusted me with cream-colored anything. So far, they remain stain free.
My soul is crackling like wet wood in a fire pit. I’m giddy, and I wonder if I’ve ever truly been happy. I’m not depressed but is this a secret that happy people don’t tell you? That they feel excited, hopeful and alive all the time. Not that sadness won’t pull you down but riding the middle and getting sucked into a vortex of meh for too long dulled the edges. Is this the other side?
The whole trip is an idealized version of the late 1930s as we sip digestifs in the parlor once we’re done with our beef Wellington and baked Alaska.
Courtney cocks her head and asks, “Why are you walking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. You have a walking affectation now.”
“The train demanded it.” I roll my eyes. “Where are we tomorrow?”
“Does it matter?”
“Jaipur is tomorrow — it’s known as the...”
I interrupt him. “Someone told me it’s the pink city. Like my cheeks.” I smile a sad smile.
Porter raises an eyebrow as Courtney says, “That’s so sweet.” She’s right.
I excuse myself and go to my room. I’m pathetic but want to check the blog. I feel terrible for lashing out. I hate the miscommunication of writing.
Before I look I write the thing I won’t send.
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