Again, but Better (16 page)

“I’m sorry,” I mumble to the table.

“Shane, don’t apologize,” Pilot answers quietly.

“Shane, we’re sorry,” Atticus exclaims.

“I’m sorry!” Sahra says suddenly.

I raise my head an inch and rest my chin on my arm. “I think I have to go.”

“Shane, don’t go. Let’s at least eat dinner,” Babe says in an extra-gentle voice.

I stand from the table and grab my purse. “I’m so sorry,” I blubber.
My eyes find the broken remnants of the phone on the floor, and I beeline for the door.

“Shane, don’t leave,” Atticus calls as I throw myself outside.

I pace outside the Karlston for ten minutes, trying to compose myself for the security guard at the front desk. Inside, I close the blinds in our room and climb into my bunk. Then I lie down and stare at the wall. I’m still staring at the wall when the girls come back. I’m staring when they ask me if I want to talk. I’m staring when they go to bed. I stare until 1:00 a.m.
when my mouth feels so dry and my nose is so stuffed up that I have to get up and go to the kitchen for water.

I pad my way over, watching the ground with half-lidded, swollen eyes and hoping to god that I don’t run into anyone on the way. I push the kitchen door open slowly and rush to the sink when I catch sight of the empty table. I pull a glass from the cabinet, fill it at the sink, take
an enormous swig, refill, and turn to lean against the counter.

An involuntary gasp slices down my throat. I am not alone in this room.

Amy is on the couch with a bag of pretzels, watching me. She’s all the way at the end, in the spot closest to the far wall, where I couldn’t see her through the windows. My eyes travel from hers down to the book open in her lap. She’s in here reading. It actually
looks like a notebook.

She’s reading—
Oh my god
.

The glass slips from my hand and smashes across the tile.

“What are you doing?” I shriek. My voice comes out hoarse and gravelly.
Even from across the room, I recognize my scribble, my pages. That’s my notebook. That’s … that’s mine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I screech.

She inclines her head slightly. “It was on the couch, so
I opened it. Once I realized what it was, I needed to know.”

My lips curl into a mortified jumble.

“I see him in all your pictures—” She shuts the notebook and holds it out. I lunge around the broken glass and yank it from her hand. I press it against my stomach. Stare at her. I don’t know what happens now. She read my … she knows my—Fresh tears cloud my vision. I feel—violated.
What do I do?
How long has she been in here with it?
Finally Amy’s eyes slide away from mine. She stands, sidesteps me, and walks to the door.

She turns back with her hand on the knob. “I knew it,” she whispers. “I knew this was happening. Keep your distance.”

I watch her slip out of the room.

I must have left Horcrux Nine on the couch in all the chaos earlier.

Is she going to tell him? What have I gotten
myself into? Why did I come here? This was such a stupid idea. My parents don’t even want me to call them anymore. I don’t want to like someone else’s boyfriend! I don’t want to make anyone upset!

I fall to my knees on the kitchen floor with my head in my hands.

I skip class and stay in bed Friday, doing nothing. I don’t feel like writing or reading or watching. I feel like nothing. I send
an email to my parents apologizing and wait for them to respond. Snapshots of their disappointment plaster the inner walls of my skull, the backs of my eyelids. They’ve never looked at me like that before—like they put all their eggs in my basket, and I crushed them. How do I uncrush the eggs?

I avoid Babe and Sahra’s attempts to talk all weekend. I don’t have to worry about running into Amy
because she and Pilot are in Paris.

It’s been over twenty-four hours, and no response has come from my apology email. I think I made a mistake begging to finish out the semester. Why did I make such a scene? I should have just shut up. I’m never going
to get up to speed with the science classes I’ve missed if I’m spending all my time at the internship.

If this train’s going to run out of track,
why should I wait till the last minute to jump off?

Sunday night, I’m in the kitchen, eating and doing nothing, when Atticus comes in and sits at the table across from me.

“Hey,” he greets me. I nod in acknowledgment.

“How long are you going to keep to yourself about this?” he says gently. “We should talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He smiles. “Well, I think we have to. I
think you need to so we can move past it.” I push the ravioli around in my bowl.

“We all have family drama, Shane. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. We’re your friends. We’ve all got our crap … My dad didn’t magically accept me when I came out, things were weird for a good long while. He still doesn’t ever ask about my dating life. Families aren’t perfect. You didn’t have to lie to us
about your major. You can talk to us about that stuff.”

“How old were you when you came out to your parents?”

“Thirteen.”

“Wow, brave thirteen-year-old.”

He nods proudly. “Gryffindor.”

The corner of my lip turns up. “So, I’m premed.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” He cracks a smile. “It’s okay to want to also study other things.”

I shoot Atticus a small smile. “My parents have been bragging to
literally everyone and anyone about how I was going to be a doctor since I was eleven. I think the local grocery store clerks are aware of my impending doctor-hood.” I smash a ravioli with my fork.

Atticus rests his head in his hand. “What do you want to do?”

I shake my head. “I don’t—know anymore. I don’t want to be a disappointment. I wanted to be premed for my mom … I mean, I want to. I’m
the reason she didn’t get to finish med school. She got pregnant and spent her life taking care of me.… She’s been there helping with all my math and science homework for as long as I remember.

“Like, for all of forever, whenever I didn’t understand something, she explained it in a super-fun way and sat with me until it clicked. And it means so much to my dad that I have opportunities like this
because he didn’t.

“I know he came off pretty horrible the other day.… He’s not always like that.” I gnaw at my lip.

Atticus stays quiet.

“Growing up, whenever I hurt myself, he’d stop everything and make me a chocolate milkshake with a slice of watermelon on the glass because it’s my favorite. And then as I got older, he started making them whenever I was feeling sad. It sounds silly, but
it always makes me feel a little better. He makes them now when I come home on the weekends from YU.”
Because I always come home sad.
I swipe at a fresh tear dribbling down my cheek. “Sorry.”

Atticus presses his lips together and catches my eyes. “Don’t be sorry. It’s complicated. I get it.” He pauses, studying me. “Try not to be too hard on yourself. College is to, like, get a job and everything,
but it’s also about finding yourself—and all that jazz. Out here, doing your own thing, you learn stuff. It’s good to shake things up. Haven’t you had the time of your life the last couple months? I know I have.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I whisper. “But my parents aren’t even responding to my emails.”

“I’m sure they’ll come around, Shane. Maybe they haven’t checked them yet,” Atticus reasons.

I pull
out my laptop because I’m crying, and I can’t continue any sort of conversation. I really want to write in Horcrux Nine, but I can’t open it without feeling like my stomach is going to fall out my ass.

“I’m here if you want to pick this back up,” Atticus says quietly.

“Thanks, At.”

He takes out his laptop, and we sit in companionable silence.

I get an email response from Mom.

Re: I’m sorry!
<3

________________________________________________

Cara Primaveri
3/6/11

to Shane

We’ll discuss it when you get home.

A lump forms in my throat. There’s another email under it. From Leo.

hey

________________________________________________

Leo Primaveri
3/6/11

to Shane

Heard you fucked up. Are you coming home? My mom won’t go
into detail.

What does he care?

Not yet.

I press send.

A response pings in sixty seconds later.

What happened? You okay?

I blink, eyebrows furrowing.

Why are you asking? Looking for more shit to hold over me?

Send.

Another almost instant response:

I know how they are when they’re mad.

My vision blurs. I close the computer and retreat to my bunk.

I miss class again on Monday.

I spend
Tuesday morning at
Packed!
staring in the general direction of the Paris poster across the room. I haven’t been given a task today, and I haven’t asked for one. When Declan and Donna walk by and say good morning, I nod in response. I haven’t made any tea. I haven’t gotten up. My limbs feel heavy.

At noon, I wander robotically toward Wendy’s office. She’s in there wearing a trendy yellow dress,
working on her computer. I knock softly on the molding of the doorframe because the door’s propped open.

“Shane?” she asks in her posh accent. She closes out of what she’s working on and her brown eyes dart over to mine. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Wendy, I’m sorry to bother you. I just, I had to tell you—I’m quitting.”

She shakes her head quickly as if she’s hearing things. “I’m sorry?”

“I can’t work
here anymore. I’m sorry,” I speak slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” I turn to leave.

“Shane! Sweetie, wait!”

I stop. Turn back.

“What’s wrong? Why would you quit? You’re not going to get the school credit,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t work here anymore.” I turn and power walk back to my desk. I pack my things. Donna stands from
her desk as I start toward the door.

“Shane?” she asks. I turn around. Her forehead’s wrinkled with worry. Wendy’s standing watching me from her doorway. I don’t want Wendy to think poorly of me, but I can’t stay. I need this time to play catch up. I need to study. I need to earn my parents’ forgiveness. I need to pass the MCAT. I spin on my heel and leave, without saying goodbye.

What’s the
point anymore? I can’t get a writing job when I go home. I have to take summer classes so I can fulfill the course requirements to graduate on time.

I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone I bailed at
Packed!
I can’t think about it for more than a second without feeling sick. My flatmates are so busy with their own jobs that I get away with it pretty easily. I spend my free time during the week in
the kitchen and at Caf
é
Nero, trying to teach myself the class material I’ve missed these past three months.

Time goes by so much faster now that I’m not enjoying it. The days smear into one another. It’s Monday and then it’s Friday and then it’s Monday again.

I continue to barely see Pilot. It’s killing me not knowing what he knows. Does he know? How much does he know? What did Amy tell him?

I guess it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he has a girlfriend. A serious, flew-across-the-Atlantic-Ocean-to-see-him girlfriend. I’m not even supposed to be here. I keep telling myself that. But—the Pilot-related sinking sensation in my gut isn’t fading with time apart like I want it to. It’s intensifying as we near the semester’s end. I need to know. I need to know what he knows.
I need to talk to him. I need this feeling to go away.

April 1, I get an email from my father detailing my work and class schedule starting the Monday I get back to New York. It’s a schedule. No words. It’s been weeks since they spoke to me. I’ve sent four more I’m-sorry emails.

My apologies aren’t working. They’re still upset. How long will they be upset?
What else can I do?

April 2, I dig
the small bundle of postcards I’ve accumulated from the beginning of every writing class out of my bag, and head to the nearest post office. I send them all to my house in New York.

A week a half later I get another email from Leo.

Your postcards are the talk of the town. What’d you say in those things? The ’rents won’t stop whispering.

I don’t hear anything from my parents.

Our last full day abroad comes without warning. Yesterday, I made a new Facebook chat thread for us to exchange American numbers. I need these friendships to stick. Everyone leaves their numbers, including Pilot. I stare at the digits next to his name, anger sparking in my chest.

This morning there was a new message in our family dinner group chat.

Babe

FRIENDLY REMINDER:
Our flat
family dinner blowout is tonight!!
6:00 p.m. Be there!

I pull out two jars of sauce (my dinner contribution) and leave them on the table before heading out to do the Tower of London with Sahra and Atticus. Babe said she was too busy packing to come. Pilot just didn’t come. Maybe he went to hang out with the guys down the hall.

Tonight, I’m confronting him.

We head to the kitchen
at 6:00 p.m., per Babe’s instructions. Inside, the table’s all set, and the room is already brimming with the sweet smell of melting cheese and tomato sauce. Babe’s leaning against the counter with
a glass of wine. Atticus enters behind me, and we all chorus a round of
heys
.

“Did you start early?” I exclaim.

“Yeah!” Babe lifts her glass. “I just set the table, and I bought some wine yesterday.
The ziti’s been in the oven for around thirty minutes, so it’ll be ready in like, fifteen. I finished packing early, and thought, why not get started!”

“Babe, we were going to help,” Atticus protests.

“Don’t worry about it. I love cooking!” She grins, picking the wine bottle up from the table. “Who wants wine?”

Atticus and I each pour ourselves a glass. I pull Sawyer out of my bag and put on
a classic rock playlist. I place it on the couch at a low volume for background ambiance. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” kicks things off.

“’Merica!” Babe yells in the self-aware ironic way we do to make fun of ourselves.

“’Merica!” echoes a male voice. I turn around to find Pilot standing in the doorway, wearing one of his classic plaid button-ups. He holds up a plastic bag. “Got the
ping-pong balls! I had to go to three places, but I finally found them at Primark so all is good!”

“I knew you’d come through.” Atticus grins.

I tense up and head over toward Babe and Atticus, taking a spot against the counter. Pilot places the bag on the couch near Sawyer and slings his backpack off.

“It looks like they don’t actually have solo cups here, but they had these.” He pulls a sleeve
of medium-sized white cups from his bag. Babe and Atticus laugh.

Pilot hauls a pack of beer from his bag and puts it in the fridge before cracking one open for himself. He leans up against the counter near me. We’re all leaning against the nice wrap-around counter near the window. “What have you all been up to today?”

“Packing,” Babe drawls.

“We went to see the Tower of London. Remember, I
invited you this morning,” Atticus teases.

“Oh yeah.” Pilot blinks. “How was it?”

“Educational and great!” Atticus exclaims.

“Nice.” Pilot takes another sip of his beer.

Sahra bursts through the door. “Woo! Family dinner night,” she yells with fifty times the enthusiasm of her usual voice. “I’m so ready to drink and be American together.” She throws her purse on the couch, strolls to the table,
and falls into a chair. “How long do we have till it’s ready to eat?” she adds eagerly.

When the timer goes off, Babe grabs an oven mitt and pulls a casserole dish of steaming ziti from the oven. We pick up plates, and Babe takes charge, deeming herself the official pasta distributer. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” starts playing from my playlist. It makes me smile.

“Do any of you know
all the words to this song?” I ask. “It’s one of my life goals to know them all one day.” Babe drops a scoop of ziti onto my plate.

“I want to too!” She laughs.

“Doot doot doot doot doot doot doot,” I sing along quietly.

“Wow, you already know so many of the lyrics,” Pilot says from the table. I snort as I make my way to my seat.

We finish our baked ziti in merry chitchat, catching up on all
the things we’ve missed in each other’s lives. After dinner, we clear the table for beer pong. We play three on two and rock-paper-scissor for teams. I end up on Pilot’s. We play, and Pilot and I are winning and laughing and high-fiving, and I almost forget that he’s been avoiding me for ages and might know all my most intimate thoughts.

It’s 9:00 p.m. when we finish up a game of Kings, gather
our jackets, and head out to a pub in Camden that Babe found on Yelp.

The inside of the pub is littered with round, dark green, fancy-looking booths. Music plays low in the background, so speaking is still an option. We pick a booth, and Pilot slides in first, followed by Sahra and Atticus.

As I lean to slide in, Babe loops her arm around mine and pulls me in the opposite direction toward the
bar. “We’re going to go grab some drinks. Hold down the table and then we can switch,” she tells them.

She leans into to my ear. “Is there something going on with you and Pilot again? You haven’t talked about him in forever.”

“Nothing is going on with me and Pilot,” I mumble.

Babe shakes her head and meets my eyes, putting on a serious face. “Do you like him still?” She tries to study my expression.
I never told her about Amy and Horcrux Nine. I haven’t told anyone.

I blow out an exasperated breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She sighs as we reach the bar. Babe orders her drink. I have to get Pilot alone. Maybe I should buy him a drink and lure him to a different table?

“Can I get a glass of red wine?” I ask the bartender. I hesitate for a second then add, “And a Guinness, please.”

“You’re getting a Guinness?” Babe asks beside me. I turn to respond to her and startle. There’s a tall, curly-haired man standing right behind her. The guy introduces himself, shakes our hands, and quickly orders us all shots of whiskey. I exchange a look with Babe, but she’s into it. They start up a line of small talk.

I glance back over at our booth and see Pilot watching us. He raises his
eyebrows at me in amusement. I look away, trying not to smile. He’s so stupidly charming.

Four shots come on a platter and the guy distributes them: one to me, Babe, and his dark-haired, lanky friend who appeared out of nowhere while I looked away, turning our little triangle into a circle. I bring the tiny glass to my nose, take a quick whiff, and pull away. It smells like a mixture of wood
and rubbing alcohol.

“To tonight!” says the curly-haired guy. The three of them shoot the liquid down their throats. I take a sip.

“Oh my god.” My face squishes up, and I spasm like a dog shaking the water from its fur. It burns.

“Shane!” Babe says, laughing. “You can’t sip it!” The curly-haired guy laughs with her.

I hand the shot to Babe. “Here, you have mine,” I tell her. I grab my wine
and the Guinness from the bar and stroll back to our booth.

I slide in next to Pilot, holding both drinks—and freeze up. I can’t lure
him to another table if I’m already inside the booth.
Good job thinking this one through.

A moment later, Sahra and Atticus slide out.

“Where are you guys going?” I ask quickly.

“To get a drink,” Sahra answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Pilot will stay here with you until Babe gets back.” Atticus laughs before zeroing in on my Guinness. “You got a Guinness?”

“I, yeah, just,” I flounder as they get up and out of the booth. Atticus grins but doesn’t wait for my explanation. I watch them walk away. Babe is still chatting up the guys over there. I slowly look over at Pilot, widening my eyes and pulling a hmm-I guess-it’s-just-us
face.
How do I open?

I look at my drinks. “Uh, I actually don’t think I want this,” I say, pushing the glass of Guinness forward. “You can have it if you want.”

He smiles hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, please take it.” I push it toward him.

“Thanks.” He picks it up and takes a swig. “How was that whiskey shot?” he asks with amusement.

“Oh god, it was nasty. I felt rude not at least trying
it, though.”

He smirks and shakes his head, bringing the beer to his lips. I feel myself smile and then force my lips back down.

I take a sip of the wine. It’s so sour.
Okay, say your words, Shane.

“How’s the book going?” Pilot lowers his beer.

I never actually started my book.

I swallow. “Um, not going too much. I’ve been trying to catch up on some other studying.”

He closes his eyes for
a moment. “I’m sorry about what happened with your parents…”

“Um, yeah, I never got to say thank you for, you know, going to that, and um, attempting to prevent that dumpster fire of a conversation.” I gulp down another sip.

His eyes find mine, and hold them for a beat, like a sort of metaphysical hand squeeze. “Anytime, Shane.”

I glance over at the bar. Atticus and the girls are cheers-ing
with the whiskey guys and downing another round of shots.

I turn back to Pilot, twitchy with nerves. “I have to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” he says.

I grip my glass tighter. “Um, okay, well, um, do you know about that night in the kitchen?”

He grins. “I think you’re going have to be more specific.”

“Um, the night my parents visited, I lost my notebook in the kitchen…” I trail off.

“Oh shit,
did you find it?” he asks. “You must have a crapload of hilarious story ideas in there.”

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.