Under an October Sky

“Montreal! Last call for Montreal!” The conductor’s voice thundered over the low hum of the Amtrak train at St. Albans Station. He frowned at the crowd huddled on the platform waiting to board. “Inside, folks, let’s go. This autumn storm is coming through faster than expected.”

A rush of travelers surged for the doors, collars turned up against the wet wind. Mel reached for her quilted duffle, but Caleb gripped the handle, his knuckles white against the cloth. He searched her deep brown eyes, finding nothing.

“Are you really doing this?” His voice dropped to a whisper, whatever hope he had left rapidly fading into the mist.

“I have to, Caleb.” She held his gaze, fighting the urge to ignore everything, to bury her face in his wet wool coat and keep pretending. “If I stay another minute, we both know I’ll never leave.” 

“Oh, Mel.” He pulled her toward his chest, and she felt his hands shaking, just like hers. At thirty, a year older and a full head taller, he looked infuriatingly handsome as he stood beneath an oversized navy-blue umbrella, even with anxiety around his eyes. 

“How about waiting a few days?” he persisted, his voice cracking. “Maybe we decided too fast.”

She knew he was bargaining against the clock, trying to buy an hour, an evening, anything before the inevitable.

“The truck’s right there.” Caleb nodded toward the mud-spattered U-Haul parked curbside at the depot; the rig that had carried them three thousand miles from the West Coast to the East, carting his belongings to a new life. They’d never planned on a cross-country trip turning a low-pressure friendship into a catastrophe they couldn't outrun. “Come back to the farmhouse with me. Just a couple days. I promise we’ll figure something out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, Caleb. You’re never going to bring a Catholic girl home to your family, and you know it.” She stepped back, untangling herself from his free arm. Every inch of her craved him, but they’d agreed to the rules long before they let lightning strike. 

He flinched. Months before Mel had committed to accompanying him on the trip to the East coast, while they were packing the first boxes in California, he had spelled out the bitter reality of his truth. “Look,” he’d said, “I either marry a nice Jewish girl, or I don’t see a dime of the inheritance.”

She had shot back, “I could convert.” She was serious, although she had no idea what her priest, or his rabbi, would require, only that she loved Caleb enough to try. 

“Sure, Mel,” he had answered, shaking his head at her innocence. “It’s probably nothing short of ridiculous. And it’d only work if Mima loses her eyesight, and her hearing, and books a one-way ticket to the Bahamas.”

She’d laughed then. Now, six months later under the hiss of the idling train, she could barely manage a smile. “Your Mima still sees and hears everything, Caleb. And she isn’t leaving New England.” She met his blue eyes and held his gaze. “Not now, not ever.” 

​Caleb looked down at the wet wood planks beneath his boots, then swallowed hard. “I'm not ready to lose you.”

​ “You’ve got a lot more to lose than just me,” she said, watching the hurt wash over his face. “And you aren't going to forfeit your family’s fortune for the likes of me.”

​ “I happen to like the likes of you.” He grinned, flashing the reckless dimples that had disarmed her all summer. “Melanie Joy Martin, I think I love you.”

​ The confession hung in the freezing air, raw and desperate. Mel felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Everything in her screamed to throw her arms around his neck and say it back, to beg him to torch the trust fund, to let the whole dynasty crumble into the mud. But she knew better. 

​ Choking down the ache, she forced a lopsided smirk, channeling every bit of smuggler swagger she could muster.

​“I know,” she sighed. 

Caleb froze, the familiar comeback line hitting home. She’d taken the words right out of their favorite movie and used them to end it. He reached for her as she backed away from his touch. 

“Stay,” he pleaded, cupping her face with his hands. “Don't get on that train, Mel. Come back with me.”

“You’d never forgive me,” she whispered, her voice fracturing. “We both know how this has to end.” 

Before she could turn away, his lips found hers, tender and warm, tasting of seasalt, woodsmoke, and sheer panic. Mel let herself sink into him for one breathless, stolen second, then slipped out from beneath the umbrella. "Goodbye, Caleb." 

​ The rain hit her skin as she crossed over the ramp, not daring to look back. She handed her one-way ticket to the conductor, climbed aboard, and settled into a window seat on the right. 

"He’ll come after me,” Mel said to the empty row, almost believing it. But she knew he wouldn’t. He couldn't. His bloodline, his grandmother, and an iron-clad inheritance had already claimed him. She loved him too much to make him choose, so she made the choice for him. 

Two sharp whistle blasts ripped through the car. Iron wheels screeched against the wet rails as the train lurched forward, shuddering into motion. Mel’s breath fogged the cold windowpane. With the sleeve of her coat, she wiped a small circle in the mist, pressing her palm flat against the chilled glass. 

Through the rain-streaked glass, Mel watched Caleb dwindle to a dark silhouette on the other side of the tracks. She pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, listening to the drops tap against the sill like an unfinished chapter. 

Every October, she would step onto an empty street, open an umbrella into the cold, and wonder if somewhere across the horizon, Caleb was also standing in the rain, holding his navy-blue umbrella, looking up into the exact same sky.