Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  The bed next to me creaks as Pilot mirrors my posture. “You hold some damn good eye contact,” he says with his trademark cool-guy smirk.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he says softly.

  “Good. I’ve been practicing for years now.”

  His eyes light with a smothered laugh.

  “The whole move-making thing is tough.” I purse my lips together for a moment. “Putting yourself out there like that makes you feel like a vulnerable idiot.”

  “Sometimes we have to be vulnerable idiots,” he says simply.

  “Yeah, I’ve been a vulnerable idiot since we got here, but I mean, like, even more of a vulnerable idiot.”

  He chuckles. I push myself up and off the bed. His eyes follow me as I step toward him.

  “Move over, please,” I instruct.

  He raises his eyebrows in amusement and scoots to the opposite edge of the twin bed. I settle myself on my side and prop my head up. We’re inches apart, but nothing is touching.

  I bite down a grin. “Look, literal and figurative move.”

  “Respect.” He smiles freely. He studies me for a moment. “Just for reference, I know I acted like I was angry about what you told me at the coffee shop when we first got here, but in retrospect, I’m glad you made that move.”

  My heart swells. I imagine my lungs crushed against my rib cage.

  I swallow. “Pilot, I know this is kinda weird to talk about, but I feel like I need to know more about your current 2017 life.”

  He exhales and flops onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. A minute passes. I drop my head onto the pillow too, but stay on my side, watching him.

  “I don’t know … My job is good. Stable. Amy and I, we live, lived … together. You asked if we were engaged that day at the café … I’ve thought about proposing. I guess I’d kind of fallen into this Sisyphean cycle, though, where I felt like I was constantly trying and failing to reach a point where Amy and I were back at a hundred percent. It wouldn’t be fair to her or me to get engaged if we weren’t at a hundred percent.” He lets loose a long breath before rotating to face me. “Shane, my parents were going through a tough divorce the first time we were here.”

  I study his eyes for a second. “What?”

  He stares back up at the ceiling. “Yeah, and I guess it’s happening again now. They separated right before I left for London. I didn’t really understand why, they tried to explain it, but I didn’t really—I guess they just didn’t want to try anymore. I don’t know. They never really argued much, but all of a sudden, everything was a fucking crap show. They were debating whether or not to sell the house, where my sisters would live. My sisters were a mess. Holly was only twelve and Chelsea was fifteen. I was Skyping with them a lot while I was here, trying to help them figure everything out. My parents were asking them to choose where they wanted to live, and they didn’t know what to do. My home life was changing so much, and I had no control over any of it.”

  He pauses. I stay silent, heart clenched up. All those times he was on a call or Skyping in the kitchen, it could have been with one of his little sisters? I always assumed it was with Amy. I take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. He returns the gesture.

  “It was hard to imagine anything else changing, you know?”

  I exhale a breath. “Pies, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. Things are okay now. At the time, you know, it was hard being so far away from it. And at the same time, I didn’t want to talk about it here because it’s kind of like what you said the other day—it was a nice escape not to have to think about it all the time. It’s surreal now. I mean, I just talked to Holly this past week, she’s eighteen in 2017, and she was so little here. It was such a trip.”

  He turns onto his side and props his head up again. I prop mine up too, so we’re on the same plane.

  He shoots me a small smile. “Sorry, that was kind of a downer. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “I’m glad. Thanks for being a vulnerable idiot. I appreciate it,” I say quietly.

  “Maybe let’s change the subject,” he adds hesitantly.

  My lips turn up. “Okay.” I think for a moment. “How about you tell me the stuff you like? Stuff you find out on dates.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Everything. Like things! Stuff! I know some things, but give me more.”

  He purses his lips.

  I snort. “Do you need an example? Go ahead and ask me what I like,” I prompt.

  “What kind of stuff do you like, Shane?” he asks, amused.

  “Obviously Lost—Juliet inspires me. Harry Potter always makes me happy. I love walls full of pictures. If I ever build my own house, I’m making a room just for pictures, where I’ll plaster them on every surface. Extreme photo-albuming!” I pause for a second. “Black raspberry ice cream because it’s delicious, but mostly because it’s a wonderful purple color, and it doesn’t taste like grape. And I like when thunderstorms make the lights go out at night, and you’re stuck inside with your family using flashlights for hours. Everyone acts like it’s the worst and such an inconvenience. And it is, but the bigger part of me gets excited by the darkness, and the lack of technology, and the need for flashlights. It’s the best way to gather everyone around a table to play cards. No one’s distracted by anything, and you play by the candlelight, and you all watch the storm through the big back windows, but you stay away from the windows because you don’t want to get electrocuted.” I sigh, suddenly fighting off a wave of homesickness. The last time that actually happened, I was sixteen. The three of us were at Uncle Dan and Aunt Maria’s for dinner.

  Pilot eyes me thoughtfully.

  “Your turn,” I whisper.

  “I’ve never met someone as outwardly passionate about their favorite things as you.”

  “Well, things inspire me and make me happy and feel more understood … if I can give that to someone else by recommending my things, I want to.” The way he’s watching me, I feel like I’m under a spotlight. I swallow.

  “So, your turn now,” I say quietly. “What things do you like?”

  “I like mint chocolate chip ice cream,” he says, trying not to smile. I wait.

  “Because…” I goad.

  He looks thoughtful again. “Because it’s refreshing. Like when you walk out onto the street in the fall and the leaves are swirling around, and you get pummeled with the perfect amount of windchill.” I nod appreciatively.

  “Music, guitar, records. Troubadours in the wild. The idea of living day by day, making music, brightening someone’s life with the things you make. The courage it takes to do something like that is admirable. They make me want to make things.

  “Exploring places on foot with a real map, no GPS.” He pauses. “My family. I can really get behind a good game of cards.”

  “So nothing too nerdy, then?” I ask.

  “I like you.” He grins.

  I smile down at the bed, closing my eyes for a second. “What a line. I guess I set you up for that.”

  He continues, “I know you hate those chairs in the kitchen, but I can’t help but hold a special place for them in my heart. Watching that ongoing struggle, Shane versus chair, has brought me so much joy.”

  I reach out my free hand and push his shoulder. He catches my elbow, slowly sliding his hand up to my mine and weaving our fingers together. I can feel the heat coming off him.

  This has gone as far as I’d like it to in a room with two sleeping strangers. I sit up, twisting away to put my feet back on the floor in between our beds. I’m radiating dangerous levels of joy. The bed moves as Pilot sits up and scoots toward me.

  “You okay?” he asks quietly. His concern fades when he finds me struggling to subdue the banana-sized smile spread across my cheeks. I bring my face close to his again, reveling in the electric feeling that sparkles over my skin. “I like you too,” I whisper. “I’ve changed my answer: five-star Yelp rating for date number tw
o.”

  He leans in to close a kiss, and I back out of reach.

  “Good night.” I chuckle, rising from the bed.

  “Hey.” He catches hold of my hand. I drop back down, grinning.

  “Is this you officially surrendering to my whisper move?”

  He scoffs. “Five-star Yelp rating, and no kiss at the end of the night? That just doesn’t add up.”

  “Admit your surrender.”

  He holds my gaze. I shrug and push off the floor to stand. He tugs me back, and I twist around, landing happily back on the bed.

  “You win,” he concedes. His lips find mine, and they’re charged full of fire. I’m floating when I pull away.

  15. Don’t, Don’t Know What It Is

  In the morning, Pilot and I meet Babe and Chad in the lobby before heading to the Louvre. We wander the museum as a foursome. Chad uses the word bro fifty times more frequently than necessary.

  We all climb to the first tier of the Eiffel Tower. I’m bursting with blissful energy. I dance my way across the landings and skip up the steps. When it’s time for tier two, Babe and Chad turn off toward the elevator.

  Pilot meets my eyes with an impish grin. “So predictable.”

  I’m drunk on excitement. Happiness. I’m really happy. And it’s intoxicating. I smile, turning my attention back to the first-tier view of Paris.

  Pilot nudges me gently. “Ready to attempt to climb to the top and be turned away due to high winds?”

  I snort. “Always.” We round the corner and start the second leg, hiking side by side up another collection of metal steps.

  Did I really just say always?

  “Pies, would you agree that we’re on a rom-com-esque date right now?” I start.

  Pilot smiles at the steps, keeping his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I just said always a second ago when you asked me a question, and I hated it,” I sass.

  He scoffs, “Hated it? Like, hated the question?”

  “Hated the word always.”

  “Because?” he asks, humoring me.

  My smile spreads. “Well, I’m glad you asked. See, all the famous book-slash-movie couples have these, like, deep, meaningful moments where they say always in response to some deep, meaningful, cute, adorable question. And then all the fans of said book-slash-movie couple get always tattooed on them as a nod to that couple or that moment, and the word always is so completely overused that, like, how am I even supposed to know what couple or moment they’re referring to in their meaningful tattoo, you know?” I drop my flailing hands back to my sides.

  Pies pulls a goofy eh expression. “I guess,” he concedes.

  “And then there was Okay, Okay in TFIOS, where they finally broke the mold, and it was beautiful,” I say, continuing my lecture as we circle around another landing and onto another flight of steps.

  “What’s TFIOS?”

  “A great book.”

  “Okay,” he agrees automatically.

  “Okay, so the point is: Since we’re in our own rom-com right now, we should have our own stupid, unique always, so people can make tattoos about us!”

  He laughs. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t want to mess this up. We have to think it through, so we go down in history the right way.”

  Pilot snorts.

  “What was that laugh?” I accuse, trying not to laugh myself.

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “This is deep, meaningful stuff, Pies.”

  He smiles, hands still stuffed in his pockets. We climb in silence for a few moments, the metal reverberating under our feet.

  “Any ideas?” I ask curiously.

  He juts out his bottom lip. “Leather?”

  “Leather? That sounds a little dirty.”

  Another snort.

  “What about lamppost?” I propose. “It’s innocent, catchy.”

  “Lamppost?”

  “Yeah, as in, lamppost will be our always.”

  Pilot treats me to a deadpan glare.

  “It’s gonna be great. Here, let’s test it out. Ask me a question.”

  Pilot’s smiling at the air in front of us now. “What kind of question?”

  “Anything! Just a tester question.”

  He stops on the landing between staircases for a moment, so I come to a halt in front of him.

  He clears his throat and puts on a funny romantic voice. “Shane.” He gazes into my eyes like a cartoon prince. “Are you Santa?”

  I step up close to his face. “Lamppost.”

  He turns away with an eye-roll-smile combo.

  “That sounded nice, right?” I goad. He pulls his hand from his pocket and takes mine as we continue up.

  When we reach the second tier, I hurry over to the edge, pushing my hand up against the metal cage around us. Pilot shuffles up next to me.

  “Still incredible,” he says.

  “Pies?” I ask, cheerily turning away from the view.

  He turns to me abruptly. “Lamppost.”

  “No!” I whack him in the arm, compressed laughter buzzing out of me. “That’s not how it works! I have to ask a question where the answer is—”

  “Oh, that’s not how it works?” he interrupts, smirking. “This isn’t how it goes?” He closes the gap between us and catches my lips. I get lost in the glitter for a second.

  I’m smiling and shaking my head as we break from the kiss. “I was setting up for the perfect lamppost question!” I protest.

  “Ah, but it was time for me to clock in another move.”

  “Time for you ‘to clock in another move’?” I mock him, crossing my arms. “Do you have a quota to hit or something?”

  “Yeah,” he responds matter-of-factly. “Gotta keep on top of things if I want to maintain my Trip Advisor rating, Shane.”

  I scoff.

  We catch up with Babe and Chad back at the bottom. Pilot and I break physical contact as we come up behind them. The four of us walk along the Seine. As the sun’s setting Babe stops short and spins to look back at the Eiffel Tower.

  “Wait! What time is it?”

  * * *

  “Bro, you pumped?” Chad wheels around to Pilot as we stroll toward the sounds of music in the Bastille.

  “Toe, I’m so pumped,” Pilot replies enthusiastically.

  “Bro, I bet it’s hype up in that one down there.” He points down the street to the bar we went to last time.

  “So hype, Toe.”

  Next to me Babe’s brow crinkles. “Are you saying Toe?” she asks loudly. I cackle.

  Chad strides forward without comment. Pilot falls into step on my other side.

  “You excited to hit this place again?” he asks quietly as the four of us come up to the black awning.

  “Lamppost.”

  He smiles.

  I raise my eyebrows. “How doth one top a live oldies-classic-rock-punk-rock-from-the-early-2000s cover band, Pilot? It doesn’t get better than that.”

  * * *

  The band is in full swing as we mosh our way to the bar. It’s not long before our foursome is torn into pairs by the mass of people chomping at the bit for alcohol. Pilot and I both order a gin and tonic before heading out onto the floor.

  We situate ourselves side by side, swaying and playfully singing along with the set. When they play “What’s My Age Again,” I jump around, baptizing everyone in the vicinity with my drink. We’re mazing our way to the back of the room to set down our empty glasses when “Basket Case” starts to play.

  “Oh shit!” I exclaim, lightly whacking Pilot in the arm. I hold his eyes, bobbing my head with the beat, and he laughs at me.

  “Let’s dance!” I talk-yell.

  He holds his lips in a small smile. “I thought we were getting new drinks!”

  “I am one of those melodramatic fools, neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it!” I yell-sing dramatically, shaking my shoulders in time with the bass.

  “Remem
ber how I don’t really dance?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, you are not pulling that crap after the Versailles stunt.”

  His smile stretches to full capacity as he rolls his eyes. I raise my eyebrows expectantly. We stare each other down for a beat. And then he abruptly joins in with the band, “It all keeps adding up—”

  I grab his hand, leading him back onto the dance floor, hop-skipping to the music. This time we face each other, not the band. I let go of his hand and flail-dance, singing at the top of my lungs. It’s a technique I use to scare people into moving out of the way, thus carving out some space to actually dance. He watches me, unmoving and stone-faced for a good twenty seconds. I stubbornly hold eye contact: Dance with me. And then he does—bobbing his head around a little more intensely than usual. I mirror his cool-guy head bob.

  As the song comes to a close, I grab his hands, pull him toward me, and drag us to the right. I let my arms straighten out, dropping back, changing our momentum, and then I pull myself toward him again. We crash into each other. He lets go of one of my hands and manages to spin me out like he did at Versailles. I laugh like a madwoman, whipping away from him, hair covering my face. I slam into the nearest human who’s crept his way into our dance space and spit a stream of apologies as I quickly whirl back to Pilot. My back slams up against his chest, and I’m cackling, and I can feel his chest vibrating behind me as the song fades out.

  Our hands are still connected, and he twists me around in the sudden silence. My heart hammers as our foreheads fold together.

  “I don’t know if we should keep going. You’re a hazard to everyone within a six-foot radius.”

  I bring my arms up around his neck as the band starts a new song. “I’m not the one who whipped out the ballroom dance moves in a mosh pit.”

  He raises his head, looking thoughtful for a moment. My brain takes note of the familiar song floating around us now, much calmer than the previous one. “Yellow Submarine.” The room falls into a mellow side-to-side sway as they sing along. We join them.

  “Hey.”