Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  “Hey,” he replies.

  “You almost kissed me during this song,” I tease softly.

  Pilot’s eyebrows come down comically. “And you pulled away.”

  My heart jumps into my throat. So I did. Affirmative. My mouth dries up with my heart all in there. We rotate silently for a stretch of lyrics before I tell him, “I got scared.”

  Pilot’s thoughtful as the song draws to a close.

  “How’s present Shane doing?” he asks. Another song from my middle-school years explodes through the room.

  “She’s great. How’s Pilot?” I yell-talk over the now blasting music.

  “Scared shitless, to be honest.” He smiles.

  I raise my eyebrows. I want to come back to that, but right now I need to dance. I let myself drift outward, letting go of his hands to dance more freely. All the, small things, true care, truth brings. He sings along and starts trying to mirror my random assortment of moves, looking absolutely ridiculous.

  Watching. Waiting. At some point, I topple over to my right and smack into a girl with a sparkly-gold tank top, flailing for purchase. But before I get any closer to the ground, Pilot catches hold of my arm and yanks me back over to him. I fly upright, colliding into him, and then his arms are tight around my waist, and we’re kissing and dancing, and my heart’s having one of its out-of-body experiences. I feel it floundering around above my head like in The Sims. The music surges: Nananananananananananananana.

  I don’t want to break apart when we break apart.

  “Shit.” His twinkling eyes search mine.

  “Shit,” I agree.

  The band starts a new song. “Want to grab a drink?” he asks.

  “I actually have to hit the BR. Go grab yourself a drink, and I’ll meet you over there!” I assure him with a dopey smile.

  I run into Chad at the mouth of the hallway into the dance/bar area on my way back from the restroom. He strolls right up to me.

  “Hey, Chad,” I say reluctantly.

  “Hey.” He comes closer.

  I take a half step back. “What’s up?”

  “You have really great hair.”

  I widen my eyes sarcastically. “Thanks.”

  Over his shoulder, I spot Pilot making his way over with a beer. I refocus on Chad to find him already going for it. His eyes are closed, and his lips are coming at me. I pull back and smack my hand across his face. It makes a lovely thwack.

  “Ahhh!” His hand comes up to cup his cheek. He glares with drunken, slow-motion shock.

  “Step away, asshole. You’ve seen me with Pilot literally all weekend, and you’re here with Babe. You don’t get a douche-kabob pass because it’s your birthday.”

  I step past him to where Pilot is watching wide-eyed and amused. He falls into step next to me as we walk away. I glance around for Babe.

  “Damn, is that what happened last time? Because I can’t believe I missed that!”

  “No.” I snort. “Last time, I slid down the wall, ducked out, and ran away. I thought maybe this time would be a little different since the weekend has been so different, but nope, still a douche canoe.”

  He shoots me a goofy smile. “Look at you, relapsing back into your old smack-happy ways.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  He shakes his head. “Once a smack addict, lamppost a smack addict.”

  I snort. “Pilot! You’re using lamppost all wrong! And you’re making the word smack sound like slang for hard drugs.”

  He throws his head back, cackling. I spot Babe in the opposite corner of the room, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

  “Babe’s over there. We should go keep her company.”

  * * *

  The band finishes up twenty minutes later, and the three of us funnel toward the stairs. “We have to find Chad,” Babe sighs as we make our way down.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll catch him at the coat check,” Pilot reassures her. Behind Babe, Pilot takes my hand. His thumb draws light, sparkly circles on my wrist. It’s distracting.

  “Are you gonna be okay with him tonight?” I ask her.

  “Yeah, he’s a drama king, but he’s harmless. I went in to make a move earlier because I thought … I mean, I know him trying to hook up with you was his super-mean way of driving home the point that he only wants to be friends.”

  “Well, that’s pretty shitty,” I point out.

  “This is a pattern with him. He acts out like a five-year-old. We’re in a room with two other people, so he won’t be obnoxious.”

  “My phone’s on if you need me,” I assure her. “Also, just for reference, we’ve already missed the last Metro, so we have to head straight for the taxi stand.”

  As we come around the corner of the staircase, Chad is visible, standing near the door with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The three of us get our coats, and Chad joins us silently as we walk to the cab stand down the street. Babe takes up a brisk pace, speeding ahead, and Chad lags behind.

  “Hey.” Pilot nudges me softly as we stroll down the cobblestone street.

  “Hey.” I nudge him back with my shoulder.

  “Remember how we were going to time travel back to that Beatles concert?” He beams.

  “Of course.”

  His eyes are bright. “Should we finally make our way to Edinburgh next weekend?”

  “Why? Are the Beatles playing?” I quip.

  He releases a breathy laugh and looks down, smiling.

  “What’s this, no retort? Master of moves, five stars on Trip Advisor, Pilot Penn is flustered?” I grin at him triumphantly.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “To answer the Edinburgh question, I’ve been dying to hit the birthplace of my home skillet Harry ever since the first time we discussed this.”

  Pilot drops his gaze. When he raises his head a few moments later, his eyes are troubled. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to go last time.”

  I sigh. “Me too, but we’ll go this time.” I squeeze his hand before letting it go as we come to a stop behind Babe in the taxi line.

  16. I’m a Goner

  Forty minutes later, Pilot and I step off the elevator onto the sixth floor. We make our way to the end of the hall, coming to a stop outside the door, in a classic end-of-date posture.

  “And so date number three draws to a close.” He smiles.

  “We’re pretty good at this date thing.”

  “I agree.”

  He takes my hands in his, I lean forward, and our lips find each other.

  This kiss is fire again. I welcome the blaze, get lost in it.

  My arms twist around his neck, and his hands run down my sides, flames running rampant over my skin as they graze over my thighs. And then I’m no longer on the ground.

  My back’s against the wall, and my ankles lock around his waist. I run my hands up from the base of his neck and through his hair, and break away to catch my breath.

  I glance down at the floor. “How did this happen?”

  “Not sure. Something with time travel?” He bats his eyelashes. They’re so nice and long.

  My hands trail down his arms—they’re all banded with muscle. Dang, he’s stronger than I thought. Our lips meet again, slower and more deliberate. His hands run up my back. Down my legs. A full-blown inferno is raging in me now.

  We’re in a hallway.

  I pull away again. He smiles.

  “We should probably go in and sleep, being that we’re in the hostel hallway.”

  “Okay.” He nods without breaking eye contact.

  “You know you have really pretty eyes,” I tell him.

  He closes them for a moment, smile broadening. “I was thinking that same thing.”

  I bite my tongue. “You were thinking about your eyes too?”

  He takes a step away from the wall, pursing his lips. Yes, we should go inside, but my body wants to stay here with Pilot. The craving is captivating. It really likes him. This never happens … this always gets old pretty qu
ickly. We kiss, it’s nice, and I’m ready to say goodbye and go back to my own personal space.

  Not now. No, thanks. I want less space. No space.

  We’ve entered into a staring contest.

  “So, I think for us to go in, you’ll have to get down.” He raises his eyebrows. I snort. Oh yeah.

  Instead of getting down, I tilt forward so our foreheads meet. “I really like it up here.”

  “I like you up here,” he breathes. He runs his hands down my jeans again and my leg death-grip tightens. Then I’m against the wall again, and his lips trail up my neck before reaching mine. I pry up the front of his shirt.

  In a hallway. I drop the hem and break away. Suck in a breath. “We have to stop.”

  “Did we not stop?” He feigns confusion. I smile, and with a great sigh, unhinge my legs and come back to earth, ramming my hair back with my hand. The keys are on the ground. Our jackets are on the ground. Wow.

  “Well, we should do that again,” I add, casually turning the key in the lock.

  “Agreed.”

  I swing the door open. The older man is sleeping in the far-right corner, and there’s a younger dude two beds over. I drop my purse on the bed and look over at Pilot. He’s still lingering by the door.

  This could all disappear tomorrow.

  He meets my eyes and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

  I walk over and take his hand. Before I lose my nerve, I pull him toward the bathroom.

  What am I doing?

  I close the door behind us. Click in the locks on both sides. Pilot watches me carefully. I undo the top button of his plaid shirt. He doesn’t move, so I continue, watching his face. I reach up and push the shirt off his shoulders. It falls. He’s wearing a white T-shirt underneath. His hands take my waist and slide under my own shirt. They work their way up my stomach, sliding against my skin, pushing off the top as they go.

  “Do you want to…?” he breathes.

  “Yeah, you?” I smile.

  “I do, but.” He laughs and hooks his fingers through my belt loops and draws me closer. “In this bathroom just seems so un-you.”

  He’s right. I do hate this bathroom. His fingers trail around my lower back, tracing the waistband of my jeans. Fire. Fire. Fire.

  “Right now, I don’t see the bathroom,” I answer honestly.

  He exhales a breath, and his fingers move to unbutton my jeans. He lowers himself down to his knees and slowly guides them off. His fingers trace lines down my legs.

  I’m trying to breathe normally. It’s not happening.

  I step out of the pants, still wearing my army boots because let’s be real, this floor can’t be trusted. As he rises off the ground, he picks me up again. It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened in my romantic history. I wrap my arms around him. My legs relock over his waist. Our lips meet. More flames. We move. He settles me on the sink.

  The hostel bathroom sink. I start to laugh through our kiss.

  He pulls away an inch, smiling. “What’s so funny?”

  Another huffed laugh. “I don’t know. I mean, you’re right, we’re in the hostel bathroom. Is this gross? Are we disgusting?” My smile is giant and toothy.

  He beams. “I mean, there’s a shower right there, Shane. Are you feeling disgusting?”

  “No.” I laugh against his forehead, and then his hands are around my thighs, and he’s picking me up again. We’re moving toward the shower. I squeal, unlocking my ankles and squirming.

  “No!” I giggle, my head thrown back. “Not the shower! Anywhere but the shower!”

  “What are you talking about? We love this shower!” he quips.

  He steps into the tiny shower, fully clothed, with me wrapped around him, having a laughing fit. My legs press against the cold tile wall. We’re taking up literally all the space in here just standing still. His smile widens. He lets go of one of my legs to slam his hand into the one giant silver button. I’m in straight-up hysterics as lukewarm water rains down, soaking us and our remaining clothes. Droplets hang from his eyelashes, and his white T-shirt clings to his skin. As our laugher dies, I release my legs and drop down with my boots. His mouth finds my ear and works its way back to my lips. My hands peel at his T-shirt, bringing it up and over his head. I throw it out onto the floor and take a second to study him. There are abs. His fingers play at my remaining undergarments, tickling my skin. And then, abruptly, the water stops.

  Our gazes meet, and we both break into laughter. I drop my attention back down to the six-pack I unveiled.

  I gesture to it, beaming. “What the hell is this? Does past you work out?”

  He shakes his head with an embarrassed smile, and I run a hand over the chiseled-ness before slamming the water back on. He shivers and pulls me even closer. I’m so full of flames, I feel like my skin would glow in the dark.

  “You should always be shirtless and in the rain,” I tell him.

  His mouth comes down on mine, and I fiddle with the belt on his jeans. “Only if you agree to the same dress code,” he manages between kisses.

  The water stops again. He slams it back on without breaking away and sweeps me off the ground again. He presses me against the cold wall, and slowly I start to slide down. He tries to steady me. I try to steady myself like a spy in a chimney. My boots squeak against the tile, the struggle.

  “We can do this,” I say between gasps.

  “We can do this!” he echoes.

  It’s a very tiny three-walled shower. Everything’s slick now, and we fumble like drunken sailors. Laughing, he takes a step back. We flail without the support of the wall. Mid-kiss, his back hits the tile behind him, and I yelp as we topple slowly downward, along the wall, tile squealing, until we’re huddled in a clump on the floor. He hunches forward, snickering, and I’m convulsing silently, doing my best not to wake up the universe with the sound of my laughter.

  The water stops again. I bite my lip to contain my giggles, and shiver in the absence of warmth.

  “You know what?” He narrows his eyes.

  “What?”

  He pushes some hair out of my face. “We’re getting a bed,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Where will we find this mystical bed?”

  He takes my hands, helping me off the floor.

  Five minutes later, we’re running down the hallway, shivering, hand and hand, toward the lobby. My hair sprays water everywhere, the wetness of my bra soaks through my shirt. My boots squish against the floor. Pilot looks like he got pushed in the pool with his clothes on; his jeans are heavy and waterlogged.

  We stop short in front of the teenager behind the front desk. Freezing, I press up against Pilot’s side, still smiling like a moron. He wears his own goofy expression.

  “Hi, we’re going to need an empty room,” he says.

  The young girl looks up from her magazine, eyes sweeping over us in confusion. “Um … a private room is going to be more expensive—”

  I shiver against Pilot. He runs his hand up and down my arm before pulling out his wallet. “We want the room.”

  * * *

  I swing open the door to a room full of empty beds. Pilot pulls me inside, and I kick the door closed behind us.

  17. Shining

  I wake tangled with Pilot in one of our four beds, his breathing still soft and even next to me. I still feel like I’m sparkling inside and out. I’m tempted to make a Twilight reference, but I refrain. I’ve never had a night like that with Melvin. I never had dates like these with Melvin. I’ve never felt a shred of this with Melvin. Seriously, what was I doing with Melvin?

  Our bags sit in the corner of the room. Pilot went back up to get them from our locker in the shared room last night. I slowly slip out of the bed and scurry off to the bathroom to get dressed and brush my teeth.

  Pilot’s eyes crack open as I return and sit on the edge of the bed. He lifts the thin, translucent sheet up in invitation. I slide in and snuggle up next to him.

  “Good morning,” h
e opens, voice thick with sleep.

  “Morning,” I say quietly.

  “That was a really great three-date extravaganza.”

  I smile. “I’d concur.”

  One side of his mouth kicks up. “You’d concur?” he teases. “What’s the Trip Advisor verdict? How many stars?”

  I prop up my head on my hand. “Mmm, what do you think?”

  He smiles lazily and holds up ten fingers. He blinks them in and out twice.

  I cackle, dropping back down onto my back. “I concur.”

  * * *

  Babe and Chad are on opposite sides of the waiting bench near the barren front desk.

  “Hey,” Pilot and I greet Babe. She raises her head, looking fabulous as usual with her red lipstick and white beret. Chad continues to stare at the floor like the charming chap he is.

  “Hey, let’s go grab a cab,” is all Babe says before bolting for the door. I follow her, roller bag in tow. It takes the same long ten minutes I remember to find a cab. Babe loads in first while the driver chucks our luggage into the trunk. Before we left our room, Pilot and I had a heated debate about whether or not Chad would insist on a separate cab this morning, and whether or not he’d have a bruise on his left cheek.

  “He’s not going to have a bruise!” I laughed.

  “He wailed a little too loud for there to be no bruise,” Pilot snickered, as he slung his backpack up over his shoulders.

  “Five pounds says he still whines about wanting his own taxi,” I challenge excitedly.

  “Ten pounds says he’s definitely going to whine about wanting his own taxi.”

  “That’s not how bets work!”

  As the cab driver slams down the trunk, Pilot and I share a look.

  I try not to outright smile when Chad barks, “I’m not getting in that taxi.”

  I cross my arms and glare at him from next to the taxi door. “There are four seats in this taxi. It took us ten minutes to find this one. You can come with us, or you can go alone.”

  “I don’t want to go in the same taxi as her,” he says in a quieter voice. He swings his eyes to Pilot, silently pleading like a four-year-old.