Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  “Congratulations!” Jamie, George, Declan, and Janet all echo after her. Wendy’s door is open, and she emerges from her office to lean against the doorframe in a sleek, teal power suit.

  I watch her, still frozen with delight, by my table.

  “Good morning, Shane!” Wendy greets. “Congratulations on being our first intern to get a piece published in Packed!”

  Donna whoops from her seat as Wendy strides over to me.

  “Hey,” she says more quietly, “I’m really proud of you. We’re all taking you out to drinks later, so don’t make other plans.” She grins before walking back to her office.

  I immediately email a link to Babe and Sahra. They both text me within minutes.

  Sahra: Congratulations, Shane! This is so great! I know how hard you’ve been working on it.

  Babe: YAYY!!!!!!! AHHHH!!!!! YOU DID IT!!!!!! (100 MORE EXCLAMATION POINTS) AHHHHHH!!!!! IT’S BEAUTIFUL! OH MYLANTA!

  I can’t stop smiling.

  * * *

  Wendy, Donna, and Tracey take me out to their usual pub down the street. We sit around a high table near the bar. They all tell me how appreciative they are of all the little things I’ve been doing around the office, and I start to cry right there at the table.

  “Darling!” I look up at Wendy with a sad smile. Her brown skin is glowing in the low light. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Nothing. I’m just really excited! And grateful.” I laugh-cry. “And really sad that this is all going to be over in a few weeks.”

  “We’re all going to be sad to see you leave us!” Donna smiles.

  “Especially me!” Tracey laughs. “I’m going to have to go back to working alone. I have so much more time now.”

  “Who the hell’s going to anticipate my daily 3:00 p.m. caffeine needs? It’s been so long since I made my own tea, I barely remember how to use the kettle,” Donna teases.

  “Seriously, Shane, we’ve never had such a hardworking, efficient intern. You’ve been brilliant.”

  I huff a sad laugh. “I just hope I can find another job like this back in the US somewhere for the summer.”

  “Have you started looking?” Tracey asks. My stomach drops. Back in 2017 I have those eight other residency interviews lined up for internal medicine. I haven’t been thinking long-term here.

  “No, not yet,” I reply. I make a mental note to buckle down and start researching tonight.

  “Do we know anyone looking?” Wendy directs to Donna and Tracey.

  Donna turns to me. “I have a friend who works at Seventeen in New York, and an ex-boyfriend at NatGeo. I’ll send out some emails first thing tomorrow.”

  I raise a hand to my chest. “Thank you so much.”

  “Of course! I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll ask my contacts.”

  “And I’ll keep my ears open,” Wendy adds. “We don’t have an office in New York yet, but we’re in the process of expanding to the States.”

  I gape at the three of them. “You have no idea how appreciative I am.”

  “You’re going to land on your feet.” Tracey squeezes my shoulder.

  Wendy’s phone sends a vibration through the table, and she picks it up excitedly.

  “My husband’s coming to join us!” she exclaims, before placing it back down with a brilliant smile. My mouth falls open. “He had a meeting that finished up a few blocks from here!”

  “You have a husband?” I blurt in blatant disbelief. All three women laugh.

  “Why are you so surprised?” Wendy asks, not without amusement.

  “I’m sorry, um, I don’t know,” I fumble. “You’re … so independent and successful and young, and I figured it’s so hard to maintain a relationship and also be such a—badass.”

  She chuckles. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s tough sometimes, but Spencer’s my partner. He makes my life better, so I keep him around. It’s really nice to have someone to share my success with.” I nod absently, trying not to think about dessert foods.

  When Wendy’s husband joins us ten minutes later, I almost choke on my wine. I recognize him immediately because I’ve seen his headshot on the back of all the Broken Beaker books I have on my shelf back at home. Her husband is Spencer Matthews, the YA mystery novelist.

  “You own your own successful magazine company and your husband writes one of the most popular YA series?” I start as Spencer leaves the table to get us a new round of drinks at the bar. “How do you guys find time to be a couple?”

  Wendy snorts. “I mean, the series hasn’t happened yet, but he’s on that path. Book two’s out soon. I guess you’ve read Broken Beaker?”

  Oh lord, I almost just had a major time traveler slipup. I nod and she continues, “It’s all about patience and support. I would have gotten here myself, but I’d like to think my journey was a little less rocky because I had him to lean on when things were really stressful, and vice versa with his books.”

  * * *

  Thursday night, Babe and Sahra go out, but I decide to stay in. I want to use the time to write a blog post about my Packed! article and borrow Babe’s computer while she’s not using it. Babe, Sahra, and I are leaving for a trip to Prague tomorrow after class, so I won’t have another chance to write before Sunday.

  I set to work, delving into the process of putting the article together and of course what it means to me that it exists. The post goes live at 10:00 p.m. I link it on Facebook for people to see, and then head to Gmail.

  Cara Primaveri, Sal Primaveri

  ________________________________________________

  ________________________________________________

  Mom & Dad,

  I love you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me. We didn’t really get to discuss it, but I’ve been working for a magazine called Packed! For Travel! here in London. I’ve had so much fun there, and I’ve learned a ton. I’ve shown them the work I’ve been doing on my blog, and they liked my travel pieces! They offered me the opportunity to write something for their magazine. I wrote an article about study abroad in London and it’s published on their site! Here’s the link: packedfortravel.com/london-studyabroadguide

  I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you both, and I hope you can forgive me. I hated lying to you, but I needed to do this.

  Love,

  Shane

  Right as I’m about to press send, there’s a knock at the door. It’s only 10:30 p.m., which is early for the girls to be back. The tiniest bit of hope sparks in my chest.

  “Hello?” I call out from my perch on the bunk. No answer. I climb down and open the door.

  No one’s there. I scurry back up onto the bunk, press send, and research summer writing-related jobs in the tristate area. I apply for every one I can find.

  * * *

  Prague is beautiful. Sahra tells us it’ll probably be her last trip for money reasons, but Babe and I convince her to join us for one more to Amsterdam the following weekend. Sunday night, when we get back, I blog about Prague and email the link to my parents.

  Now that the article for Packed! is done, I focus more of my attention on the book I’ve been hand-writing about twins in college. I go to class, draft the book, go to the library, type more of it up, sleep, go to work, draft book, sleep, check for more job opportunities, go to work, write book, sleep, class, go to Amsterdam.

  I blog about Amsterdam and send the link to my parents.

  Babe gets free tickets to Disneyland Paris, so the following weekend, we go back to France and spend the day in the park.

  I keep keeping busy. Busy at Packed! Busy traveling. Busy writing. Busy blogging. Busy sending out job applications. Busy. Busy. Busy.

  The physical magazine edition of Packed! For Travel! with my article is released the second week of April. It was one thing seeing the article on their website, but it’s a whole other rush to see it printed in the magazine on page nineteen of their spread! I take five copies from the office. Back at the flat, I use my digital camera to snap pic
tures of the article and attach them in an email to my parents.

  25. Twice as Hard, Half as Liked

  Re: Pictures of published piece!!

  ________________________________________________

  Sal Primaveri 4/13/11

  to Shane

  Shane,

  I don’t know what you think one article is going to lead to. You’ve betrayed our trust, and there will be consequences. Don’t expect to come home and for all to be forgotten. You crossed a line when you flippantly misled us for months on end. We love you, but we cannot support this kind of behavior. I hope you can understand. You live under my roof, on my dime, and while that is the case, you will follow my rules.

  Love,

  Dad

  * * *

  I gulp another swig of my drink and set it down on the bar in front of me.

  “Babe, that’s amazing!” I exclaim. Babe’s cowokers just connected her with the Disney college program in Florida that she’s been itching to get involved with. Last time, I didn’t get to celebrate with her when it happened.

  “Thanks! I can’t believe it! Ahh!” She throws her hands up near her face. “How’s your job hunt going?”

  I sigh. “I haven’t heard back from any of the places I’ve applied to.”

  “There’s still time!” she insists.

  “Not really, we’re done in a little over a week. If I don’t find a job—” I stop short and take a breath. “If I don’t find a job, things are going to be really bad when I get back to New York, and then I don’t know what’s going to happen with school,” I ramble. If I don’t get a job, and that button doesn’t work, I don’t know what comes next for me.

  “Shane, stop working yourself up!” Babe interrupts. “You’re going to figure this out! Come on, we should be celebrating. You have a published article in a real-life, physical, you-can-frame-it-and-hold-it magazine that people read all the time! That’s huge!” She whips it out of her purse and waves around the copy I gave her.

  “That’s still in your purse?” I shoot her a small smile. “Still, it doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t found a job.”

  “A magical Harry Potter book spoke to you, Shane—” she chides, grinning over her glass of Guinness.

  “I regret telling you about that—”

  “Don’t give up now!” She punches her fist to the sky with a laugh.

  “I still haven’t found anyone to go to Edinburgh with this weekend.” Babe can’t come because she’s got a Disney DVD release party thing to go to with her coworkers.

  “Well, you should go anyway,” she says.

  I shoot her an exasperated look.

  “I’m serious! I think you should go yourself. It’ll be a journey of self-discovery. Do a tour or something. It’s good to travel alone. I’ve always wanted to do it. Heck, I’m going to after this!”

  I snort at the déjà vu. “Go by myself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Travel alone in a foreign country?”

  “Why not?” She grins.

  I chuckle sardonically. “Because if I’m alone with my thoughts for too long, I’m going to end up dwelling on Pilot drama.”

  “Maybe you should.” She shrugs. “It’s part of the moving-on process. You have to deal with your feelings. What do you think I was doing all that time after Paris with the Disney movies in our room? Dealing with feelings.”

  I drop my gaze to the table thoughtfully before yanking out Horcrux Ten. “Okay, but if I’m doing this, I’m uploading a pre-travel post to the blog so people know to call the authorities if I never return.”

  Babe giggles. “Feel free to use my computer!”

  26. The Fear of Falling Apart

  April 15, 2011 (take two)

  Mom and Dad,

  I know I’ve created a rift. Whether or not you’ve been aware, it’s been forming for a while. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I get home, but this time, I won’t stop trying to close it. There might be times where I need a break, and I retreat for a while, but I’ll always try again. I need to live my own life, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want you in it.

  XO,

  Shane

  * * *

  I catch the 3:40 p.m. train to Edinburgh.

  The gray cityscape outside my window softens into an endless span of sheep and greenery. I pen down two new chapters of my work-in-progress as the sun falls away.

  The moon hangs full and bright in the sky when I finally wander up to my bed-and-breakfast. It’s 9:00 p.m. and I’m starving, so I drop my stuff in the room and meander down the road until I find a cozy old-fashioned-looking pub. I take a seat at the bar with my copy of Prisoner of Azkaban and order a burger. There’s a handful of other people here chatting and enjoying a drink under the warm yellow lighting. It’s nice. I open my book and fall in with Harry.

  Halfway through the first chapter, I’m distracted by a young guy with longish dark hair and disarming gold-brown eyes who sits two stools away. I watch as he orders a Guinness with a Scottish accent. He turns and catches me watching. I quickly return to Harry Potter.

  “Hey,” he says. I glance back over. He’s smiling at me now.

  “Hi.” I pull a half-assed, embarrassed smile.

  “American?” he asks in surprise.

  “Affirmative,” I respond, raising my eyebrows and taking a sip of my drink. “Scottish?”

  He laughs and propels us into conversation. He reminds me of a young Henry Ian Cusick (Desmond from Lost). His name is Greg; he’s studying law at Edinburgh University. He does most of the talking, especially once my burger comes. Chatting with Greg makes me think about chatting with Pilot, and for the first time in weeks, I give in and let my thoughts wander in that direction. I would rather be here with Pilot, having stupid conversations about evil chairs or how likely it is that we run into J.K. Rowling on the street tomorrow, than be laughing and smiling politely with attractive Scottish Greg.

  But I’m mad at Pilot, aren’t I? Or am I mad at me? Have I forgiven myself? Did I make up for it? Can I be with Pilot and find the headspace and time to navigate a creative career? I don’t know. I’m never late for things, but Pilot makes me forget about time. Or … I forget about time because of Pilot. I hate that Pilot didn’t make sure Amy got his message.

  I’m so confused.

  Scottish Greg has a great accent and seems really smart, and wow, he has great hair, and he’s keeping the conversation going, and it seems like he has a decent sense of humor. But the longer we talk, the more I want to excuse myself and head back to the B and B.

  “Something wrong?” Greg asks. He’s telling a story, and I’ve checked out.

  “Oh, no,” I answer. “Go on. I’m sorry!”

  When he wraps up, I stand from my stool so Greg can see that I’m ready to head out.

  The bill’s been sitting untouched on my left, so I pull out my debit card. I do a double take when I glance at it to catch the price. There’s a handwritten note across the top of it. I blink, my heart ramming uncomfortably against my ribs.

  You’re ready, if you’re ready. x

  Frantically, I glance around for the bartender. It was a man earlier—but there she is, red hair knotted up, serving someone ten feet down the counter.

  “Hey!” I yell down to her. She looks up and meets my eyes.

  “It’ll work now?”

  She nods. I pivot and leave the pub.

  My pulse is still racing as I drop onto the bed at my B and B and extricate the locket from my purse … I’m ready now? I don’t feel ready. I can’t wrap my head around erasing the last four months. So much has happened that I don’t want to forget.

  * * *

  In the morning, the B and B hostess gives me directions to the Elephant House. It’s a bit of a walk, but I revel in the surprisingly warm weather and take in the city as I go. The architecture is all medieval-looking and walking through it is almost fantastical. When I spot the café, I skip up to it, ju
mping to a stop at the entrance. There’s a little sign in the window pronouncing it THE BIRTHPLACE OF HARRY POTTER.

  To the naked eye, it’s just a café. There are four computers for use in the front left corner, there’s a bar to order at, tables everywhere. It’s full of windows with a beautiful view of Edinburgh Castle. But, a tingly feeling spreads over me as I step inside. This is where J. K. Rowling came to sit and birth the phenomenon that changed millions of lives. This is where she created a world that I could retreat to whenever things weren’t so great in my own reality. I order a latte and sit down at a table near the window reading Prisoner of Azkaban. After a while, I pull out Horcrux Ten and pen another chapter of my own book.

  Down the road, I stumble onto one of Edinburgh’s famous graveyards. I take my time there, roaming lazily from one elaborate gravestone to the next. I stop short when I spot one in particular that reads: In loving memory of Thomas Riddell.

  “What?” I yell in disbelief. I whip out my camera and snap a selfie.

  When my stomach starts to rumble, I wander back onto the streets to find a pub where I can grab lunch and regroup. I settle in alone at a small table along the wall and pull out my British phone.

  There’s a text from Babe.

  Babe: How goes the finding yourself?

  I smile and type back.

  Me: This just in: I hate dealing with feelings, but Harry Potter is helping numb the pain.

  Babe: Harry Potter heals all!:]

  Me: True story! I’m headed to go climb a crag-mountain-hill thing soon!

  Babe: Take a hoard of pictures for the blog!

  Me: OBVIOUSLY! =]