Again, but Better (19 page)

“Shane. I—I’m with Amy, and I was with…” He looks away and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

I heave in a breath. I can feel twenty-year-old Shane resurfacing, making a play to shut up and let this go. I close my eyes and push past her.
You have nothing to lose.

“That’s not what I asked,” I reply softly.

The barista returns with our hot drinks
and sets them down in front of us. I keep my eyes on Pilot. He pulls his elbows up onto the table in a frame around his drink and rests his head in his hands.

I watch the steam rising from my tea.

“I’m still with Amy, Shane,” he mumbles from behind his hands. He lifts his head, fear in his eyes now. “I don’t know what you’re expecting from me.”

“I just want to talk.”

“Shane, I’ve been with
Amy for six years,” he says the words slowly, like he’s proving a point. His forehead scrunches in discomfort.

“Okay, are you two engaged?” I ask quietly.

He looks into his cappuccino. “No.”

“Is she the one? Are you happy?”

“I don’t know!” He runs a hand through his hair in panic. “Why are you asking me this? You can’t just waltz into my office and drop all this on me, Shane! What are you
doing? Why aren’t you talking to your boyfriend
about this? It sounds like he’s the guy you should be talking to!” He’s almost yelling.

“
I don’t know, Pies! I don’t know. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to talk to you!
” I stop abruptly, my hand whipping up to my mouth. I can’t believe I just shouted in this little coffee shop. A flush flashes up my neck, and I join Pilot in staring at
the table.

I speak these next words in my best, calm, collected voice. “I’m just here for closure, and research, to put this to rest. Did I make this all up? Am I making this more than it was? Please. Just answer the question.”

Pilot’s silent for the longest minute known to man. Finally, he runs his hands down his face and mumbles: “You’renotmakingitup.”

My head tilts, processing that jumble.

I’m sorry. I was prepared for:
Yes, you’re ridiculous
.
Yes, you’re making this all so much more dramatic than it actually was. Yes, please leave and let’s never discuss this again.

The emotion that comes out of the woodwork in response to that mumble is debilitating. It scares me. I can’t speak for a full thirty seconds because I didn’t know I cared this much. Christ, I’m harboring a full-blown
Gatsby complex. I need to find a therapist.

I blink at him, struggling to maintain a calm front. “What?” I demand.

“You didn’t make it up,” he repeats, frustrated now.

“What?” Tears are pricking behind my eyes. “So—why didn’t something happen?”

Because of me. Because I let fear make decisions for me. Because I’ve chosen to let the world push me around instead of pushing my way through the
world. Why am I even with Melvin if I don’t feel this weird magic with him? Because he asked me out? Because he was cute? Because he was convenient? Because he was there?
The thoughts fissure through me. My shoulders roll forward with shame.
I have to break up with Melvin.

“I was with Amy!” Pilot exclaims, breaking me from my reverie.

The force behind his voice unleashes a wave of anger in my
gut. “Jesus, Pilot, you said in front of all of us that you asked her if she would put a pin in your relationship during the time you were abroad! You bought a one-way ticket to England!”

“It was hard! I was already with her, and you were there, and then she was coming, and it was complicated. Things were complicated!”

“Yeah, I get it.” A tear slips out. Shit. I swipe it away, nauseated by my
own complacency. Shakily, I bring the tea to my lips and attempt to take a sip. Pilot hasn’t touched his cappuccino.

He opens his mouth again, eyes unfocused now. “There was something there. I was afraid of it because I was in a relationship. It was bad timing.” He tries to take a sip of his cappuccino, but instead ends up setting the mug back down onto the table. “I think about it sometimes.”

“About what?” Another demand.

“About what would have happened if, you know, things were different.”

I can’t stop blinking. This is
not
how I was expecting this to go. I knew he was still with his girlfriend. I knew I was walking into a dead end. I was expecting hard confirmation. I was expecting to be thoroughly humiliated—to kill the
what-ifs
once and for all, and move on. Melvin numbed them
for a while, but before him, they were there, just as present as they are now.

He’s not sure about the dead end?
What do I even say now?

“Shane, anyone would think about it.” His face is all squished up like I’m torturing him. “But I have a whole life with Amy.”

I suck in a hard breath. “No, they wouldn’t, Pilot,” I say with finality.

We stare at each other for an eternity.

“Maybe we should
go,” I finally say.

“Okay,” he says solemnly.

I push out my chair and stand. I hardly made a dent in my tea.

“I’ll get the coffee.” Pilot puts some cash on the table.

“Thanks.” It comes out as a whisper. I’m devastated. Outraged. Annoyed. Ashamed. Frustrated. A small part of me is jumping up and down. You could make an
Inside Out
sequel out of these past forty-five minutes.

We head to the
elevator, and I stab at the button. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. Now that I know, how do I stop thinking about it? I’m supposed to just let this go? I forcefully cross my arms as we wait for the elevator.

“Bye!” the woman behind the barista counter coos. “Thanks for coming! Have fun!”

I snap my gaze to her.

“
Stop following me!
” I belt, pointing at her angrily. Pilot shoots
me a horrified look.

There’s a ding, and the doors in front of us slide open.

“I’m so sorry. Great place you’ve got here,” Pilot tells the woman as we step into the elevator.

We take our spots against the two opposite walls. The doors close.

“What the heck was that?” he demands.

I study the floor. “I’ve seen her around before and it’s getting…” I don’t know how to talk about this without
sounding bat-shit. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m having a day. I’m sorry.”

I look up. Pilot appears to be in physical pain. I turn my attention to the button on the wall. It’s in front of Pilot again.

“You didn’t hit the button,” I grumble.

“Shit.” He jabs the lone button, and we descend in silence—until the elevator jolts violently and we shudder to a stop.

We’re stopped.
Oh
dear god.

My eyes drop to the lone button on the wall. “Are we stuck?” I spin around.

“I don’t know.” Pilot gazes about, contemplating as he turns in a slow circle. “There’s got to be a fire button or a phone or something.”

I’ve already spun around in maybe seven circles in search of a fire button or a phone. I see nothing. We’re stuck.
We’re stuck!
Pilot catches sight of my expression and
digs his phone out of his pocket.

“It’s fine. We’ll call the fire department or whoever it is you call when you have these problems,” he reasons calmly.

“Okay, yeah, um.” I lean against the wall and reach to into my purse, fumbling for my phone. “Are you dialing nine-one-one or should I?” I bite my lip.

Pilot is frowning down at his iPhone.

“What?” I ask.

“Um, I don’t have service,” he shares
with a look of bewilderment.

“How can you not have service? We’re in New York City, that’s ridiculous!” I vigorously dial 9-1-1. Push the call button, whip it up to my ear.

Nothing happens.

“What the hell?” I stare at the phone in disbelief.

A new thought hits me like a clean, sliding glass door to the face. “Oh my god, my interview’s in, like, an hour.” A sickening sense of helplessness joins
the emotional tidal wave I’m riding.

“They should be able to reschedule, right?” Pilot asks.

I exhale. “I don’t even know. It’s a really tough program.” My voice comes out slow and defeated.

“Someone’s going to get us out soon. That had to have caused some noise. Don’t worry, we’re gonna be fine,” he says.

I heave a giant sigh, straighten my dress, and slide down to the floor.

It’s been an hour. We’re still here. We’ve been sitting in silence for fifty-four minutes when Pilot decides it’s time to break it.

“Good thing we didn’t finish our drinks, huh?” he opens.

My lips twitch. I look up from the floor and narrow my eyes.

He studies me for a moment before continuing, “You think you still feel whatever you felt before, even now?”

I blow out a breath. “Remember how we talked about what three places we would go back in time to if we could?”

“Vaguely.” He’s thoughtful for a moment. “We were going to hit a Beatles concert?”

“Yeah, and the Constitutional Convention, but I never came up with a third one.” I fixate my gaze a few inches to the right of Pilot’s head. “I think my third would be January 2011.”

He stares, expression
too neutral to read.

I stare back. “If you could go back and do London all over again, knowing everything you know now, would you do it?”

He looks up at the ceiling for a few beats before dropping his eyes to meet my gaze. “Maybe.”

Another jolt rocks the elevator and it shifts violently to the right.

“
Holy!
” I slide across the floor toward Pilot.

“Shit,” he breathes. Loud creaking noises
cut at our ears. My arms clutch at the black railing running along the walls. The elevator’s creaking.
What is creaking? Why is it creaking?
There’s a bang. I close my eyes and scream.

I wait for impact. When fifteen seconds pass and it doesn’t come, I hesitantly unscrunch my eyes.

I’m sitting at a table in a light blue kitchen with a laptop in front of me.
What the—?
I jerk out of the seat, disoriented. The chair flips backward and clangs against the ground. I jump, whirling around.

No.
I was in an elevator. Where’s the elevator? The elevator was creaking.

My breaths come fast and shallow. I glance back at the computer on the table. On the screen, Pages is open to … a blog post about London?
Not possible.

I slam the laptop shut. There’s a white
Lost
Dharma Initiative MacBook decal on the back.

“Gah!” I jump away from it.

My legs tangle with the fallen chair, and in seconds I’m slamming up against the floor. Pain lances from my ass up my back.
That’s going to bruise.

That’s my old computer up on the table. That computer’s dead. Sawyer died at the end of 2011. I had to get a new one—Sayid.

“What the fuck?” I yell to no one. I smack my cheeks and shake my head, trying to clear the room from my vision.

Nothing happens. I scramble off the ground and spread my arms out in
front of me, Chris Pratt raptor-style, and slowly back away from
the laptop. My eyes fall to the white chair lying on the floor. My heart pounds.

“No,” I insist. A scream crawls up my throat, so I let it out. It bounces around the room. Echoes around my head. I drop to the floor in a squat.

“This can’t be real this can’t be real this can’t be real this can’t be real. Inhale, exhale.” I inhale and exhale. I focus on my feet. Black boots.

I was … I was wearing
those little heels. I yelp again, leaping up off the floor. Horror washes through me. I’m also wearing jeans. Jeans! “Did someone change me?”

What happened? We were in the elevator. I was in the elevator with Pilot. In New York.
Did I pass out?
Did someone kidnap me and change my clothes and fly me to London? Where’d they get my old computer?
This can’t be.
My head spins. I sink back into my
squat.

There’s a bang behind me as the door smashes against the wall. I spin in my squat and end up on my ass facing the door. Pilot’s there looking wide-eyed and furious.

“
Shane
?”

I look up at him from my sad spot on the floor.

“What the fuck is going on? Did you set this up?” he yells.

I’m lost. I blink. “Set what up?”

His arms flail about. “What is this? Are you insane? Is this like some
weird set-up you thought would be cute? Did you knock me out?”

I shake my head. “I— What?”

“Did you pay someone to recreate the flat? What the fuck?” His eyes bulge. He’s scared. He looks up at the ceiling and takes two steps to collapse on the leather couch against the wall with his head in his hands.

“I don’t understand,” is all I manage.

He looks up at me, still wide-eyed. “I can’t believe
you called Atticus in on this!”

I shake my head again. “What are you talking about? What is
this
? I don’t know what this is, Pilot. What the hell are you saying?”

“This!” He gestures around the room. “This creepy replica of the London flat, Shane!”

Why is he yelling at me? My eyes sting.
No crying.

“I don’t know what this is! Why the fudge and how on earth would I even go about getting a replica
of a flat made? Christ, listen to yourself, you sound insane!”

I’m still on the floor, legs stretched in front of me like a rag doll. Pilot’s expression clouds.

“What do you mean, Atticus?” I ask hesitantly.

“Atticus is here, he’s in ‘my’”—he holds up air quotes—“room.”

How can Atticus be here?

“Did we get drugged?” I ask, my voice is ten pitches higher than normal. “Do you feel drugged?”

Pilot runs a hand down his face. “I … I don’t really feel drugged … You mean at the caf
é
?”

“
Yes.
We were in a caf
é
.” I grasp at the words. That happened.

“You only had a few sips of your tea, and I didn’t even drink mine.” His voice raises a few octaves. “Are you serious? You don’t know what’s going on right now?” His wild, panicked eyes search mine.

“
I don’t know what’s going on right now!
” I didn’t mean to yell, but I’m having trouble staying calm.

My hands tangle up into my hair, smooshing it up and away from my face. I feel dizzy. I fold forward, letting my head hang between my legs.

“Shane?”

I stare hard at the ground.
You’re fine, you’re okay.
“I’ll be okay in a second. Hold on,” I mumble. A moment later, I feel Pilot’s hand on my back.

“Here, get off the floor and sit
on the couch,” he says.

I lift my head to find his hand hovering in front of my face. I grab it. He pulls me off the floor. I drop his hand and fall to the couch. He sits three feet away from me on the other end of it. I’m trying to get a grip on the panic soaring around inside me, but it feels like a losing battle.

I pull my legs up and clutch them to my chest. “Someone changed my clothes.”

His eyes expand as he looks down at his own clothes. “Mine too,” he says, surprised. I watch his throat bob as he swallows his fear. “Maybe we should go talk to Atticus.”

I bob my head okay. He bobs his head back, and we rise from the couch.

“Wait!” I say abruptly before we open the door. “We’re unarmed, maybe we should be armed.”

“Armed?” he says skeptically.

I run over to the utensil drawer
near the sink and yank it open.

“Pilot,” I say as I rifle through it and grab two steak knives, “what if someone knocked us out and brought us here?”

I pivot around, gingerly holding the utensils, and shove the drawer closed with my butt. Pain shoots through me.
Ow,
butt bruise.

“Okay,” he concedes. He carefully takes a knife, holds it down by his side. I grip mine tightly and point it out
in front of me.

I creep behind Pilot as he strides down the hall. The hall. It’s just like the hall from London. This is the hall.

“Oh god.” I stare dumbstruck at the two doors at the end of the corridor.
This can’t be happening.
Pilot moves toward the left door, puts his hand on the knob, and twists.

He frowns. “Shit, I don’t have a key.” He instinctively drops his free hand to his pocket.
A second later he pulls out a set of keys. He gapes at them, eyebrows pulled low.

“I don’t know how I got these.”

And then the door in front of him just swings open. Atticus stands there wearing his familiar goofy smile. “Hey, you lose your key?” He catches sight of the keys in Pilot’s hand and laughs. “Apparently not.” His gaze falls to me and he laughs again. “Are you cooking?”

I stare at
him, confused. Why would I be cooking?

“What?” I ask.

“You’re holding a knife…”

I gaze down at my hand, remembering. Oh yeah. I drop my knife hand so that it dangles by my side.

“Where are we, Atticus?” Pilot demands.

Atticus’s expression screws up, and he turns to me, as if to share a look of bewilderment, but I just glare angrily. He brings his eyes back to Pilot.

“Uh … London,” he says,
not without sass. “What’s with the theatrics?” He smiles expectantly, like he’s waiting for the punch line of a joke.

Pilot and I share a look. Atticus takes this moment to walk back over to his bed where he’s unpacking a suitcase full of clothes.
No
 …

“What do you mean, we’re in London?” I demand.

Atticus turns around holding a folded shirt in his hand. “Uh. London, like the city? London,
England.”

“How did you get us here?” Pilot asks in shock.

“What?” He whirls around with a laugh and sets down the item of clothing he’s holding. “We met this morning. I’m pretty sure you both took separate planes of your own volition.”

My head starts to spin again. I feel the knife fall out of my hand and thump mutedly against the carpet.

“Cut the crap, Atticus. Tell us what’s going on; this
isn’t funny,” Pilot says. He drops an arm to the doorframe, leaning against it for support. Atticus stands in the center of their room, now with his hands on his hips.

“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he states simply.

“How can you not know what I’m—” Pilot’s words muffle. I turn and look at the door across the hall. Head for it. A roar’s building in my ears. It only takes
a few steps and I’m knocking. The door creaks as someone opens it from the other side. Sahra’s face appears in front of me. My jaw’s gone slack.

“You misplace your key already?” she asks.

“Hey, Pilot,” Sahra shoots over my shoulder. Darkness creeps at the edges of my vision.
Shit.