Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  I’m all smiles and smothered competitiveness. There’s a palpable air of hesitancy when it comes to closeness, much like real first dates. We did kiss last weekend, but it’s different now. He’s single. Closeness is expected now, anticipated.

  * * *

  Pilot snorts as I rattle off the address of the hostel to the cab driver.

  “You know what I didn’t realize till now,” he starts dubiously. “We’re going back to that hostel.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. I didn’t forget.”

  He scoffs, “If you didn’t forget, why didn’t you push Babe toward something different?”

  “Because then we wouldn’t be redoing this trip. We’d be on a different trip. Where’s the struggle there?” I beam. He shakes his head, grinning, and I continue. “Think of all the things we’d be missing out on. We wouldn’t get to room with that forty-year-old and the sleep apnea machine.”

  “You’re right, and we wouldn’t have that banging wall of lockers to put our stuff in.”

  “They were the perfect shade of gym-locker blue,” I coo. “And don’t forget the shower. You remember the shower?” I ask excitedly.

  His head kicks forward. “I forgot about the shower.”

  I throw a hand over my heart. “You know how I love a good forty-five-second shower.”

  The hostel’s just as unimpressive as it was the first time. Babe’s waiting with our keys when we arrive. She introduces us to the same brosef Chad I remembered. I purchase a lock, anticipating the need for one before we head up. Pilot snags a map from the brochure stand next to the check-in desk. Upstairs, we drop our things in the lackluster lockers and go out to find food.

  * * *

  When Pies and I get back to the room post-dinner, I head to the shower because I’m not sure what protocol is now. It’s strange to share a room on a first date. When I reemerge, he’s lying on his bed, head propped up on his palm, waiting for me.

  “I feel like this first date is ending rather anticlimactically,” he says thoughtfully as I climb into my own bed. I throw my damp hair over my shoulder and mirror his posture.

  “Well, it’s not really the end, though. We have all of Paris,” I reason.

  “Yeah, but a date is a day, it’s right there in the word, if a date was a weekend, it’d be called a wate.”

  “I mean, if you’re gonna do that, I feel like week-ate makes more sense.”

  “I guess this is the end of our first date, but we can come back around to rating the wate as a whole, Sunday night.”

  I snicker. “I’ll write up a full review for Yelp.”

  Pilot makes an irritated tuh sound. “Shane, you know I’m only on Trip Advisor.”

  I drop my head, cackling. “Well, our date isn’t completely over yet.”

  He perks up. “Oh, are we continuing it with our new friends: forty-year-old-sleep-apnea man and random teenager in the corner?”

  “We could play a game,” I suggest.

  “Are you going to wake them, or should I?” Pilot teases with a nod toward the far-right corner.

  I snort. “It’s a game just for us; we don’t need them.”

  Pilot squints at me. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

  “The opposite game.” I smile goofily.

  “The opposite game?” he repeats in an amused, ridiculous voice.

  “Yeah, the opposite game.”

  “I hate the opposite game,” he says in a fervently serious voice.

  “I hate the opposite game too,” I whisper.

  He smirks. “I love this pillow.”

  “I love this pillow too.”

  “You’re just taking all my opposite ideas. I win the game,” he says.

  “Yes, I win the game.”

  Pilot snorts and I giggle deliriously.

  “This isn’t the opposite game,” he retorts.

  “This isn’t the opposite game!” I say cheekily.

  “I like brussels sprouts.”

  “I like lemons.”

  “I’m from the future.”

  “Ha!” I beam. “But you are from the future. I think that means I win.”

  He falls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling now. I can see the white of his smile in the dark. I fall on to my back and look up at the ceiling as well. We lie there like that for a few minutes.

  “Hey,” he breaks the silence. “I really hate this situation we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

  I rotate so that most of my body is belly-down on the bed. My arms fold under my pillow, propping up my head. “I don’t like you,” I whisper, smiling like a five-year-old.

  He rotates onto his stomach to mirror my position. “I don’t like you either.”

  I bury my face in the pillow, laughing, and pull the blanket up over my shoulders. I’m still smiling when I close my eyes. “Morning, Pies.”

  “Good morning.”

  * * *

  I get up early to beat Pilot to the bathroom and get myself sorted. I’m back waiting on my bed before he’s even opened his eyes. I realize too late that I never did download Angry Birds. I should have brought a book.

  “Hey.” Pilot’s sleep-ridden voice stirs me from my thoughts.

  “Hey.”

  Spikes of his hair stick up in weird directions. “Why are you already ready?” he grumbles.

  “I needed to beat you to the bathroom. This way you don’t have to wait around and deal with zombie Shane.”

  He smiles lazily. “Zombie Shane? I want to meet zombie Shane.”

  I scoff, “Maybe another time.”

  We meet up with Babe and Chad, grab croissants from the hostel’s built-in diner, and stroll down to the nearest Metro station. Babe and Chad walk a few feet ahead of us. My hands are jammed in my pockets, like Pilot’s beside me. The streets are fairly empty—to be expected given that we’re in the East Jabip sector of the city. Around the next corner, a Metropolitan sign comes into view. The sight sends an unexpected bout of happiness bubbling through me.

  I’m on a date in Paris. I smile to myself, feeling fearless as we approach the underground. On a whim, I extricate my hand and take hold of Pilot’s arm. Delicately, I pull it from his pocket and slide my hand into his. Pilot looks taken off guard for a second and then, doing his best to strangle a smile, glances down at our now intertwined hands. Glitter pulses through my fingers. Nerves shoot around in my stomach.

  “What’s this?” he asks, amused.

  I hold our hands up for inspection, squinting dramatically. “I think this is a move.”

  Pilot’s head shoots back with laughter.

  “Is there some separation anxiety happening between your hand and the inside of your pocket?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes. We’re only ten feet from the Metro steps now. Babe and Chad are already descending. Pilot takes an unexpected left, crossing in front of me. He leads us away toward a brown business building. When we’re right up on it, he swings me around so my back is to the wall, and raises our held hands up above my head. They press against the wall as he brings his face close to mine. My pulse shoots up.

  “What’s this?” I manage to breathe. He closes the gap, and we kiss for the first time as single humans, and it’s ridiculous and spontaneous and—all the swoon.

  I feel like I just threw back a few espresso shots when he pulls back to meet my eyes.

  “That was a move,” Pilot whispers smugly.

  I push him away and step off the wall. “Show off.”

  Over Pilot’s shoulder, I catch sight of Babe and Chad standing with their arms crossed, watching.

  “Oh my god.” I choke. My cheeks flush. Pilot follows my gaze and laughs.

  “We’ll be there in a minute!” I yell to Babe. They turn around and go back down the Metro steps.

  “Give me your hand!” I demand. “Trying to out-move me with your movie-worthy, stupid, really great moves,” I mutter as I snatch at his palm and drag him toward the steps.

  “I’m not the one who threw down the gauntlet
with the super-intense hand-holding.”

  I shake my head, giddy as we descend into the yellow-tinted tunnels of the Metro. We find Chad and Babe waiting for us by the turnstiles. When we get close enough, Chad looks at Pilot and nods his head approvingly before saying, “Duuude.”

  I roll my eyes and turn to Babe. She widens her own like, Oh my god, so now are you guys a thing?

  14. Don’t Stop Me Now

  “You know what I just realized? We haven’t played Angry Birds.” Pilot’s grin kicks up his cheek. The countryside shoots by the window. We’ve settled in on the RER, a few rows back from Chad and Babe.

  “Because I completely blanked and forgot to download the app on my iPod Touch before we left.”

  “That was really fun, back in the day. You ever get past that level we were stuck on?”

  “No, it got to the point where I was irrationally angry at the game, so I thought it best for my mental health to put it down.”

  I study him again because I’m allowed. His smile doesn’t fade like it usually does. My eyes wander up to his hair. Can I touch it? I suck in a breath to speak.

  “What?” he says with a laugh.

  “I’m going to make another move.”

  “Another move? Was it the eye contact we made before you started staring at my forehead?”

  I purse my lips together. “No. And I’ll have you know, eye contact is a great move.”

  I clear my throat and look away for a moment. “Okay. It’s coming. Brace yourself.”

  He watches me carefully as I reach out my hand. Starting at the left corner of his forehead, I comb my hand back slowly, letting the hair slide through the Vs between my fingers. He closes his eyes for a second, leaning into my hand like a puppy. I bring my arm back, feeling triumphant.

  He opens his eyes. They hold mine for a few charged moments before he smiles. “Is this a move-off now?” One of his eyebrows quirks up.

  I shrug, shooting him a competitive look. “If we make this a real game, I think ground rules have to be established.”

  He laughs, bringing his face close to mine. “Lay them down, Primaveri.”

  I pull back to a safe distance, taking a moment to think this through. A move-off, a move-off … well, kissing shouldn’t really be a move in a move-off; it’s not creative enough. And we shouldn’t be making out when we’re with Babe and Chad anyway.

  “Okay,” I reason, shifting my body to face Pilot, “so the rules of the move-off are: We’ll take turns making moves, but a kiss is no longer a move. It was taken and is no longer creative. First contestant to break and kiss the other before midnight loses the move-off. We both make it to midnight, it’s a tie.”

  His lips fold back into a smirk. “You’re on.”

  “It’s on like Donkey Kong. There’s more hair-brushing and hand-holding where that came from,” I say, pointing a finger at him.

  He laughs again. I feel so warm and fuzzy. I let my smile pop on full-force because it’s too hard to keep it under wraps.

  “Your hair felt really nice,” I add.

  “Thanks. I grew it myself.”

  “I grew mine too!”

  * * *

  Versailles still steals my breath away. I whip out the camera immediately. We make our way into the palace and up the stairs. When I’m satisfied we’ve taken enough pictures in the room before the Hall of Mirrors, we move on in. Pilot and I amble lazily, letting Chad and Babe take the lead again. This second time around, they’re really getting the double-date experience. I hope things are going well. Babe hasn’t left his side to come to mine, so it must be going at least okay.

  Pilot pauses about five feet into the room, so I pause beside him. He glances around, making a show of scanning the area.

  “Disappointing,” he concludes, shaking his head.

  “Excuse me?” I retort, my abs seizing.

  He frowns. “Still haven’t installed that mirror maze.”

  Laughter rocks through me. Pilot shoots me a delighted grin before striding onward. I catch up to him a second later at the center of the room because he’s stopped again. Tourists trickle around us. Babe and Chad are posing for a selfie in a mirror up ahead. I let my gaze soften on the cloudy glass lining the wall.

  “I like it better this second time around,” I muse. “My expectations were less eccentric going in.”

  I startle slightly as Pilot twists his arms around me from behind. His left hand carefully takes hold of my right, and his right hand takes my left. I look up over my left shoulder, a smile burning my cheeks. “What is this?”

  “Brace yourself.” He grins.

  I don’t have time to respond before he sways us gently to the right, then left. When we go right again, he releases my right hand and instinctively I twirl outward, laughing. He gives a pull, and I go twirling back into his arms, ending with my back to his heart. A few tourists have stopped to watch us.

  I look up at him over my shoulder again. He releases my left hand and twirls me toward him. We end up face-to-face, my hand on his chest.

  My heart jumps around. “Damn it, that was a great move.” His green eyes capture mine, drawing me closer. I make a conscious effort to pull back before it’s too late.

  “I thought you didn’t dance,” I chide him.

  “But you do,” he says simply.

  “I…” I search his eyes, bright with adrenaline and certainty.

  My lips mush together. I spin away, metaphorically floating now. I keep hold of his one hand, squeezing it as I lead us out of the hall. I can feel the eyes of random spectators on us as we go. I’m enjoying myself too much to care.

  I spot Babe and Chad talking and pointing animatedly at a painting in the next room. My brain whirrs, trying to figure out my next move. How do I retaliate? What other moves are there? I’m not good enough at moves.

  Once we reach the outdoor area, I snap into photographer mode, power walking ahead with Babe, who also has her camera out. She poses, and I crouch into weird gotta-get-that-shot positions to frame the best possible picture of her with the endless expanse of park.

  “Chad,” I throw over my shoulder. “Do you want one?” Chad scurries up for a picture. I snap it. “Pies?” Pilot switches in. I snap a picture.

  “Your turn.” He takes the camera. I switch into the photo spot. He squats down, finding the position I was in and then twisting into a more awkward version of it, angling his head ridiculously.

  “This look right?” he asks confidently. I snort.

  Babe and Chad start down the steps into the landscaped abyss. Pilot places the camera back in my hand.

  “Thank you.” I sling the camera safety strap back around my free wrist. “Shall we?” I ask in an English accent, jutting out the crook of my arm like ladies do in old-timey movies.

  Pilot pauses and sidesteps to look at me from the front. “Is this your next move?”

  “I … no,” I declare defensively. I drop my arm and head down the stairs without him. Dang it—I should have learned to play guitar and brought one with me in the event that a move-off should occur and played one of his songs. That would be the move of moves.

  Pilot catches up with me easily. We veer off left on a trail and come up on a path lined with skinny, dead, leafless trees. It’s stunning. I whip up my camera to snap a shot. I’m concentrating on the shutter when I feel Pilot come right up next to my face.

  “Brace yourself,” he warns again.

  “Wait, but I didn’t—”

  I freeze as his nose lightly brushes the side of my face. His lips dance against my ear as he whispers, “I watched all six seasons of Lost that summer after study abroad, and they were fantastic.”

  The idiot smile takes over. I drop my camera hand and rotate to face him. He doesn’t move, so his face brushes against my cheek until we’re nose to nose.

  I hold his eyes in challenge. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I did.” His smile stretches.

  My heart flutters around. “No.”
r />   “Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” he says.

  My jaw drops a smidge. “No…”

  “Four—” he starts.

  My head tilts slightly as I beam in disbelief.

  “—Eight. Fifteen. Sixteen. Twenty-three. Forty-two.”

  “Are you talking Lost to me?” I ask, incredulous.

  My skin hums. Our faces are so close.

  “We have to go back,” he whispers.

  “Stop it,” I protest half-heartedly. I’m very much into this, and it’s definitely working.

  “If something goes wrong, be my constant?”

  Too. Attractive. Can’t. My arms twirl up around his neck, and we kiss in the backyard of Versailles. I lost.

  * * *

  The four of us have lunch together in the café buried amidst the landscape. There’s more hand-holding, but it’s always when Babe and Chad aren’t paying attention. We ride the RER back into the heart of Paris, explore Notre Dame, have dinner, and make fluffy conversation.

  At the hostel, we drop Chad and Babe off on floor four, and ride up to six. Hands intertwined, we come to a stop outside our room.

  “So this is me,” I say, casually turning to face him.

  “You’re kidding. I’m here too.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to clear out the overwhelming googly-eyed feeling that’s taken hold of my brain, and put the key in the lock. This sensation is so new. I always get anxious, shaky, but swoony? Is swoony a word?

  I push open the door. Sleep-apnea man wheezes away in the corner. I drop my purse onto the floor and sit on my bed, feet resting on the ground in the space between our singles. Pies sits across from me on his own mattress. My skin zings as our knees graze.

  “So, is this the end of our second date?” I note quietly.

  “Looks like it. How’d we do?”

  I purse my lips. “Four and a half out of five stars.” He smiles.

  “Congrats on winning the move-off.” I hold out my hand to shake his.

  He squeezes it gently. “You put up a valiant effort.”

  I grin and reposition so I’m lying on my side like last night. “If you can’t tell, I’m not a big move maker.”