Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  I loose a pent-up breath. He doesn’t know. Now tell him how you feel.

  “How’s that album you’re working on?” I find myself saying.

  “Oh, it’s um, kind of on hold for now,” he says with a sad smile.

  “What? Why?” I lean forward, forearms on the table.

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel like I’m totally happy with it anymore, so I’m taking a break until I figure out what’s not sounding right.”

  “Oh…” Tell him.

  I watch as he looks down at his drink thoughtfully. He looks sad. I don’t want him to be.

  “Pies.” I take another sip of wine and scoot the tiniest bit closer.

  “Yeah?” His lips quirk up.

  I moved closer and he smiled.

  Do it, Shane. I clear my throat. “Are you excited to get home?”

  Pilot exhales, tilts his head, and rests it in his hand. “Well, in a way, yeah, there are some people there that I want to get back for.”

  I blink, letting this sink in. He wants to get back for Amy. Amy is some people.

  You should still just tell him.

  “What about you?” Pilot asks, trying to catch my eyes because I’ve dropped my gaze to his earlobe. I let him catch them.

  “Kind of, I guess, but, um, well, I’m really gonna miss, um, miss, I…” I swallow.

  Pilot breaks eye contact. He never breaks eye contact first. My lips wobble.

  “HEYOOO! We got free shots!” Babe interrupts. She’s grinning broadly as she scoots back into the booth. Pilot and I snap back to a regular non-angled-toward-each-other posture as the rest of the flat returns.

  “Let’s play 21!” Atticus exclaims.

  We play one last game of 21 in London. I’m all smiles and laughter and underscored sadness. Afterward, we chat about how we’re going to spend the summer. Babe’s coworkers have connected her with the Disney Internship program, and she’s heading down to Florida in June. We discuss our flight times for tomorrow. Pilot’s not leaving; he’s staying for the royal wedding and then traveling some more with the guys in the flat down the hall. Babe’s parents are coming, and they’re going to do London and the royal wedding this coming week as well, then she’s traveling for a week by herself. The rest of us will leave together for the airport at 12:00 p.m.

  26. Bye Bye Bye

  Babe and Sahra are last-minute packing when I emerge from the shower at 2:15 a.m. I venture to the kitchen for water.

  I go home to my disappointed parents tomorrow. Disappointment that will have no doubt rippled through the entire family by now.

  I manipulated my parents into paying for a study abroad trip completely irrelevant to my degree.

  Standing at the sink, I close my eyes and heave a giant breath, pressing my palms up into my eyes. The door opens behind me. I turn to see Atticus. His happy-go-lucky expression drops.

  “Jeez, Shane, are you okay?” He takes a seat at the table.

  “I’m fine, just, um, sad that this is all over.”

  He presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah, me too. I wish I went to school with you guys.” Atticus goes to a different university that sent him to our program.

  “Me too,” I agree. “But we’ll still keep in touch, right?”

  “Yeah, of course!” he says adamantly. “Are you going to be okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

  I smile at him gratefully. “I’m fine. I think I just need a second, you know?”

  “Yeah, I do,” he agrees, understanding on his face. He gets up and fills himself a glass of water before heading toward the door. “Good night, Shane.”

  I slump down into a seat, resting my head and arms on the table. I’m going to miss Atticus. And Sahra and Babe. And Pilot.

  There’s a giant pit in my stomach. The kind you get when you know you failed the test the teacher’s handing back, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  * * *

  In the morning, we’re all up early cleaning out the kitchen. Everything needs to be thrown out or wiped down. It’s our last flat activity. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this last group hang isn’t fun. Everyone’s on edge. We don’t make much eye contact, and we’re all quiet.

  We clean for an hour before Atticus, Babe, Sahra, and I make our way up the stairs with our luggage. Pilot helps us. We roll up to the door with our bags. Pilot gives Atticus, Sahra, and Babe each a hug, and then it’s my turn. It’s not the goodbye I’ve romanticized. It’s barely a goodbye at all. He avoids my eyes and leans in for the same generic hug he gave everyone else.

  “Bye,” he says quietly with his arms around me.

  “Bye,” I whisper under my breath. It’s quick. He turns his head, pulls away, and then he’s heading back down the stairs.

  Babe walks off to catch the Tube to her new hotel (we’re all kicked out of the Karlston today). Atticus, Sahra, and I share a cab to the airport. We’re all on different flights, so at Heathrow we part ways.

  * * *

  I wait in a long check-in line for Virgin Atlantic, and think about how I’ve let everyone down. Including myself. Wendy and Donna and Declan, and Mom and Dad.

  I let all my writing goals go to shit, and I never confronted Pilot.

  I’m going to be waist-deep in premed work when I get home, which will leave little to no time for book drafting. And things with Pilot are really going to change when we get back to the US—I’m never going to be able to tell him how I feel. He’s going to go back to Amy, and it’ll be like nothing ever happened. Maybe this wasn’t a big deal for him, but feeling like this was … is a big deal for me.

  “Next in line!”

  I roll up to check in with my two bags and heave my giant suitcase onto the scale.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, this is fifteen pounds overweight,” the woman says.

  I blink at her and take it off. I pull on my carry-on. I came here to do things. Not regret things.

  “This one’s four pounds overweight.” She points to an area behind me. “You can go over there and try to rearrange things. There’s a max of fifty pounds per bag.” I follow her gaze to where two other young girls have their bags wide open on the floor, repacking shit in the middle of the check-in area.

  I came to take risks. I came to be outgoing. I don’t want it to end like this.

  “What?” I hear the check-in lady ask.

  Did I say that out loud?

  I pivot and drag my bags away. I don’t stop near the repacking girls; I keep walking and head outside again, gaining speed as a surge of adrenaline courses through me. I wait for another cab. I give the driver the address of the Karlston, and we plow back into London.

  * * *

  My heart beats outside my body, running in circles around the taxi. I’m doing it. I’m gonna do what I said I was going to do: I’m going to tell him. I’m at the end of the rom com, not the drama. It’s not going to end with me getting on the plane.

  I practice what I’m going to say: Pies, I really, really like you. I don’t know how you feel, but I really, really like you and I had to tell you. I had to let you know. Simple, straightforward, easy to remember. I can go off cuff from there.

  I repeat it over and over in my brain the entire way.

  When we pull up to the Karlston, I leap out onto the sidewalk. Pies, I really, really like you. I don’t know how you feel, but I really, really like you and I had to tell you. I had to let you know.

  “I’ll be right back!” I tell the driver. “Can you please keep the meter running?”

  I slam the door shut, beaming now as I hurtle up the steps. I’m doing it! I’ve committed, and god it feels great!

  I have my ID out and ready to flash at security. I sprint past them and down the stairs, holding onto the railing so I don’t trip and break my neck. I shuffle over to the kitchen and peek in through the windows to see if he’s in there.

  It’s empty, so I run down the hall to his door, heave in a great breath, and knock. Pies, I really, really like you. I
don’t know how you feel, but I really, really like you and I had to tell you. I had to let you know.

  “Pies?”

  I laugh. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  “Pies?” I knock again. “Pies!” I yell louder now. No answer.

  Maybe he’s listening to music. I put pressure on the doorknob and find that it’s unlocked. I push the door open. The room is empty save for the black comforters we were told to leave behind.

  “No,” I breathe quietly. “No,” I say again, wandering into the room, looking for any remnant of Pilot that might suggest he’s still here, just not here.

  “No.” I run out into the hall.

  “Pilot?” I call. I go into the kitchen to make sure he’s not hidden from view on the far end of the couch. I run down the hall to the other flat where his guy friends live. “Pies?”

  No one’s here.

  I can call him! He’s still in London! I fumble for the phone in my cross-body for half a second before the idea crashes down around me. I don’t have a phone. Dad broke my phone, and I never got a new one because I hardly used it anyway. I don’t know Pilot’s British number by heart. His US phone doesn’t work here. I never thought to ask where he was staying after this.

  Maybe he’s on his computer wherever he is, and he can give me a location? I sprint back up to the taxi, dive into my book bag, and whip out Sawyer. I run back in and down to the basement to connect to the Wi-Fi. I open Facebook chat.

  Shane

  Hey, Pies?

  I wait thirty seconds.

  Shane

  Pies, you out there?

  Thirty more seconds.

  A minute. Three minutes. The messages remain unviewed.

  My face crumples. I close my laptop because my meter’s running. My plane’s waiting. I drag myself back up the stairs and into the taxi. Ask the driver to go back to the airport.

  I miss my flight.

  * * *

  When I finally land back in the United States, Leo and Alfie are waiting for me at JFK. My expression falls as I step up to where they’re standing, fiddling on their smartphones. I was expecting Mom.

  “What are you guys doing here? Where’s my mom?”

  “Your parents sent us,” Alfie answers, still texting.

  I look to Leo. “Why?” My voice cracks.

  He shakes his head like he’s at a loss. “You tell us.”

  I start walking toward the baggage carousel, tears welling up in my eyes.

  Leo trots after me. “Shane, come on. You never tell us anything anymore. You’ve never been in trouble your entire life. What the hell did you do to piss them off so much?” He steps in front of me, blocking my way.

  I close my eyes and heave a breath. I’m so tired. “Leo—” I huff.

  “Leo lost his baseball scholarship and dropped out of school,” Alfie snickers from out of view.

  Leo winces. Whatever I was about to say dies on my tongue.

  I glance at Alfie over Leo’s shoulder, but he’s back to texting on his phone. I study Leo’s eyes. They’re blank, guarded.

  “What is he talking about?” I ask quietly. “What’s going on with you?”

  “What did you do?” he asks again.

  I slump forward and step around him toward the carousel.

  * * *

  Pilot responds to my message the next day, asking what was up. I tell him I needed Babe’s British number because I accidentally packed one of her shirts.

  Part 2

  2017

  27. What Page Are You On?

  “If you were a shape, what shape would you be?” The chair creaks as the man leans back and folds his hands over his knee.

  If I were a shape? If I were a shape. A diamond? Would they want to hear diamond? Am I a diamond? I’m under enough pressure. What about parallelogram? I like how the word parallelogram rolls off the tongue.

  What. Shape. Am I? What shape am I?

  His fingers drum on the table. Shit.

  “Uh, I would be a circle, or actually a sphere because I’m three-dimensional, you know, and, because I can always roll with the punches.”

  He blinks. “Hmmm.”

  I swallow.

  “If you were a flower, what flower would you be?” he drawls.

  Flowers? I don’t really know flowers. Rose because Red is my favorite Taylor Swift album? Sunflower because I’m upbeat? What are those things at Christmas? Poinsettias! Also red. And poisonous. Is there something orange? Orange feels unique.

  The fingers drum again. Make a decision.

  “Okay, I’d say, I’d be a rose—”

  His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Okay, rose is bad.

  I choke. “I mean, no, that’s too romantic. I’d actually be a sunflower because they’re really bright and positive, and well, tall … and I’m just, like, average height. I retract that?”

  He sighs loudly.

  “I’m an orange tree!” I blurt. “I like to make … things that people can enjoy, and oranges are unique, but not too unique because … they’re universally good for your health.” I nod absently to myself.

  “So, not a flower,” he states gravely.

  My shoulders droop. How does any of this trace back to my medical experience?

  His frown deepens. “What was my last published work?”

  His? Oh god, I found out I’d be interviewing with him half an hour ago. I’m bombing this. I can’t believe I’m bombing this. I did so much research on their program.

  “I, I … I’m sorry, um … I don’t know.”

  Silence stretches.

  “Okay, thank you for coming in.” I’m dismissed.

  “I, um … would you like to hear about any of my medical experience? I—”

  “I’ve read about it in your file, Ms. Primaveri.”

  There’s a moment of uncomfortable gaping on my end.

  “Um, uh, okay, well, I just want you to know, I’m graduating top of my med class, and I think the world of the university and I really appreciate, um, your consideration for the residency position here at NYU.”

  He says nothing. I pick up my purse and stumble from the office.

  Outside, students bustle around me, entering and exiting the building. I drop down, taking a seat on the stone steps. Well, that went poorly.

  I check my cell. Still no return call from Babe. I have a few hours before my other interview—that one will be better. Now I know to expect random, obscure personality questions.

  My gaze drifts over to my left hand. I’m still having a hard time processing what happened yesterday. Straight up out of the blue, Boyfriend asked me to marry him. The second the proposal left his mouth a different guy barged back into my thoughts. Both the proposal and the reemergence of Other Guy have been very inconvenient surprises to deal with while doing last-minute residency interview prep.

  I couldn’t sleep on the plane ride over because my brain was like: Um, you know what would be more fun than sleeping? Staying up forever and rehashing every waking memory that Other Guy’s ever been a part of. Now I’m tangled up in a mile-long string of what-ifs.

  It just so happens that Other Guy works here in the city at a company that makes golf equipment or something. I’ve seen the name of the place on Facebook. I’ve also looked up where it’s located on Google Maps because apparently I’m slowly making the transition from Facebook stalker to actual real-life physical one.

  I can’t go see him.

  What I’m going to do now … is get some work done in a coffee shop for a few hours, and then head over to Columbia for my other interview, and then I’m going back to San Diego, and over to see Boyfriend. There will be no pit stops. I will not complete the transition. Rage, rage against becoming the stalker!

  I huff a breath, a wave of hair fluttering away from my face as I watch taxis weave through traffic.

  It would be ridiculous. We haven’t exchanged communication, other than a happy birthday on each other’s Facebook walls, in six years. If I’m being
honest, he missed my birthday last year.

  I check my phone again. Still nothing. Call me back, Babe.

  Stalker Shane thinks perhaps this inner turmoil means she needs closure; then she can go back to her pre-boyfriend-proposing mindset. Everyone talks about closure on TV. Closure is magic. Closure is the knife that’ll sever the what-if strings and leave her free to dwell on other less irrelevant things. Like Boyfriend. And … marriage. Taxes. Gastroenterology. Important shit.

  I speed-dial Babe one last time. It goes to voicemail again.

  “Babe, where are you? I think I’m about to do something stupid, and I need you to talk me out of it. Or maybe tell me it’s not stupid and I should go for it.” I hang up and make my way down to the sidewalk, mind racing.

  I come to a standstill at the curb. I have a missed text from Melvin: Counting the minutes till your return

  I blink at it. I think he’s trying to be cute, but without emojis and punctuation, there’s an underlying creepiness. I tap out of Messages and push away this new claustrophobic feeling that I now apparently associate with my boyfriend.

  A yellow cab’s approaching.

  Don’t do it.

  I throw up my arm.

  Full-blown stalker status, unlocked.

  * * *

  I can do this. I can talk to him again. I can say things. I’m a grown-up. I’m almost a doctor. This is casual. This is nothing.

  When the taxi comes to a stop, my stomach’s turning itself inside out, but I have a plan. It’s simple and classy. Simple and classy. It’s classy. And it’s simple. I’ll ask him to grab a cup of coffee. That’s a normal thing that people ask people when they want to catch up.

  I step out of the car. My tight, blue business dress rode up and got all twisted in the cab. I hastily pull it down while I crane my neck to get a better look at the generic, sleek silver building towering before me. A wide set of steps leads up to a row of glass doors.