Again, but Better (18 page)

“Interesting.” Pilot picks one up and holds it upright so we can both read it.
Quirky hidden coffee place, complete with secret elevator?

I raise my eyebrows, catching Pilot’s eye as we head for the exit. This place on the flyer is at least a ten-minute walk.

“You up for this? We could just hit a Starbucks if you want,” I tell him.

He pushes the door
open and gestures for me to go first. “Hey, I’m always game for an adventure.”

A smile pulls at my lips as I lead us out. “Okay. Let’s go for it.”

Pilot folds the flyer and sticks it in his back pocket as we fall into step on the sidewalk.

“So,” he starts, “how did you hunt me down?” A sideways grin kicks up his cheek.

I shrug. “You know, had to call in favors, get a background check.”

His
eyes grow.

Another laugh bursts out of me. “Pilot. I looked at your Facebook. It says where you work. I Google-mapped it.”

“Ohhh! Dang.” He grins. “I’m impressed! You had me there for a second.”

We cross to the next block.

“So you wanted to talk about…?”

I blow out a breath. “Let’s save it for this quirky-ass caf
é
.”

He chuckles. “So, you’re gonna be a—what is it, a gastroenterologist?”

“Yup, working on it.”

“Why gastroenterologist, may I ask?” he asks curiously.

I purse my lips for a moment. “Well, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do, so I just kinda picked gastroenterology.”

“Just picked it?” He chuckles. “Isn’t it, like, a really giant life commitment?”

“Yeah, I’ve got six years of residency coming my way…” I trail off like a wind-up toy running out of steam. I decided
I was working toward gastro somewhere between my first year of med school and now. Melvin was so passionate about it.

“Wow, that’s a lot of years.”

I shrug and pull a small smile. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m graduating top of my class, though. It’s going well.”

He nods and drops his gaze. “How are things um, with your family? Better? I still think from time to time about that night they showed
up.”

I pause. “Things are still kinda shitty, but in a more boring way. We don’t really talk. I’m out in San Diego—I kind of needed to get away—but I’m doing well in school, and they’re happy with my progress.”

He’s quiet for a beat. The blare of New York swells in the silence.

“Wow,” he finally breathes.

“Wow what?” I ask as we make our way across another block. I grip my purse, one hand
on the chain and one on the actual bag.

“I can’t believe you’re an almost doctor.” He raises his shoulders in a shrug-smile. God, it’s really cute. “You still writing all the time?”

I shake my head. “Nah, not really. Things are so busy, and I haven’t really had the time to write for fun … Do you keep in touch with anyone from London?” I ask, changing the subject.

“No, I’m completely out of
the loop.” He speaks slowly. “Do you?”

“Well, yeah. Sahra graduated from Harvard a year back and she’s, like, a real lawyer. I track her success via Facebook. Atticus and I grab lunch in
LA every few months—he’s producing a play there right now—and Babe and I still talk all the time! She just got engaged, actually.”

Pilot’s quiet as we cross to another block.

After a minute, I meet his eyes
again. “Have you been back since we left?”

He shakes his head. “Um, no, haven’t been back, but I want to someday. Have you?”

“No—there have been times where I’ve really, really wanted to.” I even spoke to Melvin about maybe going during one of our breaks the first year we were together. He didn’t want to spend the money, which is understandable. “But like I said, things have been so busy with
school and working, and I haven’t been able to take the time off.”

I heave a breath. “In my head the whole place has taken on this almost magical quality.”

A fresh wave of nostalgia washes over me. I catch a wistful glimmer in Pilot’s eye before he looks away.

Two more blocks and the caf
é
should be up on the right. Traffic roars down the street as we weave through a light crowd of midday walkers:
middle-aged women, couples, and businessmen speed by.

Pilot’s studying me again. It lights me up with nerves.

“Are you still making music?” I ask suddenly. We’ve come to the edge of another sidewalk. I stare at the walk–don’t walk sign across the way. It feels so important that he’s still making music.
Please say you’re still making music.

“Um, nah, not too much.”

I turn to catch his eye.
“What? Not even, like, on the side?”

He shakes his head, passes me a small smile.

I blow out a breath and refocus. “I think it’s up here, on the right.” I point to a shiny silver business building up ahead of us. The number
5184
glimmers along its edge.

Pilot smiles, pulling out the flyer to check the address and looking back at me. “You think when they said quirky coffee place they meant corporate
block of cement?”

I smother a laugh. “Maybe it’s camouflage. It says
hidden café,
Pies. There’s gonna be”—I hold up air quotes—“a ‘
secret elevator
.’”

He snorts as we climb the steps. I throw the fancy glass doors open, a little excited now. There’s a lobby desk much like the one in Pilot’s building. This one’s unmanned. A string of silver elevators line the wall to our left. Straight ahead at
the far, far end of the room, a hallway stretches off the left and right corners.

The flyer says the elevator’s down that hallway on the right. I power walk toward it, and Pilot strolls behind me.

I clack around the corner into the hall and skid to a stop.
Holy wow.

The entire corridor is painted black. Fifty feet away at the end of the hall is an elevator. This one’s covered in words. It looks
like someone ripped a page from a giant book and plastered it onto the wall.

“Whaaat!” Pilot exclaims behind me. “That’s pretty sick.”

“It really is.”

I suck in a breath as we start toward it. I wasn’t expecting to go somewhere this cool—I can’t let myself get too distracted. We’re now moments away from sitting down and getting deep in uncharted conversational waters. I reach out and jab the
up button, or the button; there’s only one button next to this elevator. It’s a tad sketchy, but the bookish decor on the doors has sort of put me at ease. They slide open a moment later to reveal a shiny black interior.

We step in silently. There’s one button inside as well. It’s labeled
REWRITE
, the name of the cafe.

“Check this out.” I point, before pushing it. We lurch upward.

“This is
kind of creepy,” he notes.

“Me or the elevator?” I half joke.

“Oh, definitely you, but the elevator too.” He grins.

I hesitate. “I’m sorry if I am actually creeping you out with this surprise visit. I didn’t mean to—”

He interrupts, “Shane, that was a joke. You’re way too … you to be creepy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I can be creepy,” I protest.

“No, not really, no, you can’t.”

“I
can creep if I want to—” The ding of arrival interrupts my argument. We spin around as a second set of doors behind us slides open.

“Whoa.” Pilot’s jaw drops. I echo the sentiment.

We must be at least twenty stories up. Before us is a quaint rectangular space. One full wall is just window, providing a fabulous view of the city. The other three walls are plastered in the aged, browning pages
of books. The ceiling is covered in words. Lanterns hang off long chains hovering over delicate-looking French tables and chairs scattered throughout the room. Even the floor is in theme. It looks as if it’s been littered with thousands of discarded book pages.

There’s one other customer: a middle-aged man in a business suit reading a paper and having a cup of coffee in the corner. A barista
stands behind a large counter on our left. I stumble forward, gawking at everything.

“Welcome to Rewrite!” the barista greets us.

“Thanks, good morning!” I reply automatically as I make my way to a table near the far wall (aka the giant window). Pilot follows closely behind me.

The metal chair scrapes lightly against the floor as I pull it out and sit. Pilot sits across from me, still glancing
around at the decor.

“This place is really cool.” He nods, impressed.

I’m smitten with the ambiance, but nerves chase away further comment from me. The barista comes over and places two small Rewrite menus in front of us. I glance up at her. She looks familiar.

“Thanks.” Pilot shoots her a smile before she leaves us be.

The menu’s typed in Courier New so it looks like a movie script. I put
it aside and bring my attention back to Pilot. He’s watching me, waiting.

He raises a brow. “So this mysterious meeting we’re having?” he prompts.

My eyes travel up from the raised brow to his unfamiliar haircut. The sides of his head are shaved, and the top is long, flopping over his forehead.

I blow out a breath. “So—”

I’m cut off as the barista steps up to our table. “Can I take your orders?”

I look up at the woman again. She’s maybe in her late forties, pale and freckled, with a nest of bright red hair tied up on her head.

“I’ll have a cup of English Breakfast tea with milk and sugar please.” I hand over my menu, studying her features.

“I’ll have a cappuccino,” Pilot says, handing her his menu as well. The woman retreats.

Our gazes fall back to each other. I press my lips together,
trying to gather how best to start this conversation. “So…”

Pilot scoots a little closer. “So, I was trying to crack this visit open…”

I gaze out at the view of New York, take in a deep breath, and—the woman’s face snaps into place.

“Oh my god.” I jump up out of my seat and whip around. My hair smacks me in the face before resettling over my shoulders. The woman’s moving around behind the bar.

“What?” Pilot asks.

I look back at him with wide eyes. “Do you see that redheaded lady over there right now?”

He glances between the bar and myself with a confused expression. “The woman making our coffee? Yeah…”

My eyes zips back and forth between the two of them a few times before I swallow and sit back in my chair.

You’re acting insane.

“Are you okay?” Pilot asks. I blink.

Forget the
lady. Get your head in the game, Primaveri. You came for closure.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Never mind.” I blink some more.

“You were about to fill me in on why we’re here.”

“Yes!” I concentrate on Pilot again. I can do this.
Just go.
“My boyfriend proposed to me yesterday—” I start.

“Oh, wow—” Pilot’s expression shifts in surprise.

Not the opening I had in mind.

“We were sitting on our bed, and
I was reading, and he was doing something on his laptop and out of the blue he said”—I deepen my voice—“‘You know, we probably should get married; it makes sense for tax reasons,’ and I put down my book to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at me, he was still looking at the computer. And I said, ‘Did you just propose?’ And he said”—I put on my deep voice again—“‘Yeah, I guess, what do you say?’”

Pilot’s head tilts to the side.

“And I told him … I had to think about it—”

“Shane, why are you telling me this?” he interjects quietly.

I continue like I didn’t hear him, “It’s like I’ve been living through a macro lens and all of the sudden everything just zoomed out—”

“What’s a macro lens?”

“—And I don’t think I want to be with him. I’m not sure why we’re even together anymore. I barely
remember how I got to this point. I thought I was tethered. I knew where I was going, but then he said that thing about taxes and whatever imaginary rope was holding me just snapped and I’m floating away into oblivion. Even you just asking me that question,
Why gastroenterology?
Like why? What? I don’t even know! What am I doing—”

“Whoa, Shane. Take a breath.”

I vacuum up an audible breath and
begin again, more slowly. “I started thinking about London again, and I haven’t thought about London in ages.” I fix my gaze on a small nick in the table. “And I started thinking about you and— Do you ever think about our semester abroad?”

There’s a pause before he answers, “Yeah, of course.”

I meet his eyes.
Here we go
: “Do you ever think about us?”

He blinks. I sit back in my chair. He doesn’t
move or speak. My heels bob around under the table.

I give him a minute. A minute thirty.

Crap. I broke him.

“I. I, eh,” he stutters over himself, finally breaking his silence. Blood seeps into his cheeks. “What do you mean, us?”

“I mean like you, Pilot, and me, Shane,” I answer plainly.

The words hang there. I imagine them expanding to fill the space between us.

“There was no—” He stops
and wipes a hand quickly down his face.

I swallow. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I thought I was past it, um, but I’m apparently—not past it?” I cock my head to the side, glancing away for a moment.
Eloquent, Shane.

He’s staring at the table now. This is embarrassing; why am I doing this again?

“I’m just here because I want to move forward from the whole
us
idea. It’s still this open
door in my brain,” I blabber on. “It’s been six years, and I’m still going back over these moments we had. So, I wanted to clarify, to
know officially, that I’m just making this all up in my head, so I can stop wondering about it. Was there something there, with us, for you?

“I know this sounds ridiculous, but I was up all night thinking about the differences between how I felt then and how I’ve
felt throughout my entire relationship with Melvin and—”

“What?” Pilot’s voice cracks.

“—For me, there was always something there.” I pause. “More than something, apparently, because I’m here, talking to you, out of the blue, during what future Shane might describe to friends and family as a psychotic break.”

Pilot’s shoulders move with what I hope is a suppressed chuckle. It takes another
minute, but eventually he meets my eyes.