For Research Purposes | ✔

CHAPTER EIGHT

     Sage likes this view.

     Always gets inspired by the train ride back into Connecticut. He'd take his sketchpad out if it were Calla sitting across from him. But it's not. It's Sam, and he looks so uncomfortable Sage doesn't know whether to laugh or put him out of his misery.

     "Seriously, trains make you that nauseous?" Sage asks. "I feel like you're always taking the subway, though."

     "I don't know," Sam says. "This is way worse somehow."

     Calla hums thoughtfully and goes, "It's probably because you're sitting backwards."

     Sage turns to look at his sister. "What do you mean?"

     "I mean, the train's going that way," she points, "but he's facing that way."

     Sam groans, dropping his head onto his forearm that's resting on the table between them. "This is dreadful."

     They'd secured a booth in the business section of the train, intending on getting some work done during the hour ride, but they'd barely gotten their laptops out before Sam had gone down. Sage learned that people didn't actually turn green when they were nauseous. Sam had gotten white as sheet and started sweating profusely. He looked so sick Sage had almost made them get off at the first stop to uber the rest of the way home (it'd have cost about $200 bucks and Sam had nearly thrown up in his lap hearing the number, and then insisted they stay on the train.)

     "Here," she says, sliding off the bench. "Switch spots with me." Calla tugs on Sam's shirt.

     He'd tossed his bomber jacket two seconds into the ride when he started to sweat through his clothes. Sage had scoured the train for the snack cart and gotten Sam some ginger ale but it hadn't helped.

     Sage expects Sam to decline her offer but then he remembers that he and Sam aren't enemies anymore (truce), they're actually on his way to his house for the week (Thanksgiving), and they've spent more nights than he ever thought possible sitting side-by-side on the floor of Sam's apartment eating take-out (research.)

     Sam clambers out of the booth and slides in beside Sage, settling close enough that their arms touch. "Here," Sage says pushing the ginger ale towards him. "Drink more of this."

     "I just," he says, sort of winded. "I just need to close my eyes. That helps."

     He closes his eyes, tipping his head back, and it's a terrible angle. The back of the bench is low, offering no support. Sam's going to end up with a stiff neck. Which is exactly Sage's reasoning when ten minutes later Sam has slumped over into his side and Calla texts him this:

     👀 👀 😵 🧐 😏

     Sage hastily types a response stopppp

     Calla: You have some explaining to do

     Sage: I really don't

     Calla: He's literally drooling into your bicep and you don't even mind? The last time I checked you guys hated each others guts.

     Calla: Did you decide it'd be more fun to get in each others guts instead?

     Sage nearly flails off the bench.

     Sage: CALLA COME ON

     Calla: 😂 😭

     Calla: Literally what other explanation is there for what I'm currently seeing?!