Again, but Better (14 page)

“What’s that accent?” he exclaims
happily.

I continue, “I don’t know to what you’re referring?” Before I can register what’s happening, he pulls me to his face and we’re kissing.
Whaa?

I clutch my wineglass in one hand and the other hangs limply at my side. He’s kissing me, but I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing. It’s wet and warm and—my mind flashes to a time Leo unexpectedly grabbed my head and forced me underwater in the
deep end of the pool.

We break apart. That was weird. I look at the ground, eyes wide. I’ve never been so close to another human’s face before, but
I did it … I kissed someone.
Someone whose name I don’t even know. How anticlimactic.

He takes my limp hand and holds it between us as we lean up against the bar. We make forced small talk for another ten minutes. It’s not much fun because I have
to propel the whole conversation, and he responds with quick, boring answers whenever I ask him things.

Finally he asks, “So, could we go out sometime? Can I get your number?”

How do I say,
Lol, no thanks
, without sounding mean? I slowly retrieve my block phone.

“Um, yeah, hold on a sec,” I say, navigating through to my address book with the stupid tiny buttons. I don’t have my number memorized.
I had to put myself in my own contact list. I click on the contact and turn the phone so he can see it. He plugs the number into his phone.

“Thanks!” He puts his iPhone away. “This was fun.”

He pulls me in, and we start kissing again. I let it happen because this is still such a mystery. I want to feel it out, so I’m not floundering when there comes a time I care about the human I’m kissing.
This kiss is better. I kiss back for sure this time, and it goes on for a little longer before we break apart. Okay, that was better. That was kind of nice.

1/29/11 10:30 a.m.

It happened. I sit here eating breakfast and writing to you as a kissed human being. It doesn’t technically count as accomplishing a goal on the list because I didn’t really like that guy. But I put myself out there a
smidgen, and I experienced the thing! And I feel slightly less left out of general society because of it. Now, I shall relax and begin my reread of Cassandra Clare’s
City of Glass
—which, yes, I brought to London in my suitcase—as a reward.

“Morning, Shane! You hear from Rugby Guy yet?”

I slap my notebook closed and look up at Atticus. He comes over waggling his eyebrows and sits across from
me with his laptop.

I snort. “No, have you heard from Man Bun?”

“I have indeed.
Nathan
and I are getting dinner on Sunday.” He grins.

“Wow, that was fast.” I smile at him, before pulling over
City of Glass
from where I left it on the table.

“Whatcha reading?” he asks, curiously glancing at it.

“
City of Glass
, one of my favorites!” I tell him happily. “The fourth book in this series is coming
out soon and I’m rereading in prep.”

“Never heard of it!” he says cheerfully.

“You’re missing out!” I tease. “What are you reading right now?”

“Currently
The Poet
by Michael Connelly. It’s creepy as hell, but it’s good.”

“I’ll add it to my TBR!” I proceed to pitch the Mortal Instruments series until he agrees to check them out.

Before heading back to my room to read in the bunk, I decide
to ask Atticus if he’d be up for exploring some more of London with me this afternoon or tomorrow. I have to start building my repertoire of knowledge for the potential
Packed!
article. He politely declines because he already has theater-related plans and then of course, his date.

I head out of the kitchen and freeze halfway down the hall when I hear Pilot’s guitar. We haven’t talked in six days
now. Should I see if Pilot would want to come with me? Maybe the only way to fix the weirdness happening between us is to push back against it with forced normalcy?

The door to his room is wide open.

I don’t give myself the chance to chicken out. I walk right up and lean against the doorframe. He’s strumming Lucy, wearing big old-fashioned headphones, and watching his computer screen.

“Hey,”
I say a little louder than normal. He startles, dropping the headphones back.

“Hey, I didn’t see you.” He laughs weirdly. Nervously?

He glances down at the computer screen again and back at me. Oh god, is he Skyping with someone? But the door was open!

“Um, sorry!” My heart sledgehammers in my throat. “I wanted to see if you wanted to, um, explore places in London, later today or Sunday with
me and maybe the girls? It should be fun. I’m doing research for an article I might get to write for
Packed!
and I’m working on this list of places I want to go check out and, uh … yeah.”

He blinks. “Um, I actually made some plans with the guys down the hall. We’re going to Bath today and staying till tomorrow, but—good luck, that sounds great.”

An uncomfortable sinking feeling fills my gut.
“Oh, okay, wow, um, have fun.” I spin around, bolt into my room, scurry up the bunk, and lie on my bed clutching Horcrux Nine and
City of Glass
.

That was weird; he was weird.

1/30/11 2:17 a.m.

Pilot left for a trip to Bath today … why didn’t he tell any of us about it? I mean, yes, I guess he’s not obligated to tell me about his life. But he didn’t invite me. Or any of us.

I hate that this
is hurting my feelings.

Babe, Sahra, and I are going to explore the city together tomorrow which should be fun.

I got a text from first-kiss Rugby Guy asking if I’d go out with him this coming Wednesday. I didn’t know how to say no nicely, so I panicked and told him I’ll be in Germany.

I can’t get to sleep. The day I landed here in London—it felt like my life lit up with a thousand strands
of fairy lights. I’ve been walking around all aglow for the last few weeks, but with Pilot edging away, a bunch of the strands are going out. Blergh.

“What’s this I hear about you havin’ a boyfriend?” Dad opens.

I got back from Monday class a couple hours ago and have been nervously anticipating this Skype call ever since—it’s our first since I started the internship.

I shift against the wall in my bunk. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I heard from Leo.”

“Well, Leo’s an ass.”

“What’s wrong with you? I’m just
askin’ a question!”

“Come on, Shane, don’t talk about your cousin that way,” Mom chides.

I harrumph.

Mom changes the subject. “Tell us about work!” She grins at the webcam. “What did you wear? Who are you working with?”

“I’m working at an urgent care office, and I’m shadowing the receptionist right now, her name’s Wendy, and my roommate Sahra works in the same building at the pediatrics office
there.” I pull up a forced smile.

Mom beams. “Wow, Shane, that’s great! You know I’m proud of you, right? I’m so proud of you! I just…” She trails off, putting a hand to her heart. “And that’s so nice that you have Sahra there. Do you two get to take lunch together?”

My heart hurts. “Yeah.”

“You learnin’ a lot?” Dad asks.

I nod vigorously. “Yeah! I’ve already been exposed to all sorts of medical
issues and emergency situations.”

Mom’s eyebrows shoot up with curiosity. “Any particularly interesting ones you want to share?”

“Um, no, I mean, well—”

Dad conveniently interrupts me with a new question. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he’s squeamish. We sign off a few minutes later. I feel like I just swallowed a cup of mud. I want to tell them about
Packed!
I want to tell them how great
the writing course is going, that I got another A on an assignment in class today. I love the way they look at me when they hear I’m doing well—the way my dad smiles and my mom’s voice wobbles because any heightened emotion brings her to the brink of tears. I like being their perfect daughter.

It’s inevitable that they find out I lied about all this, but I need it to be after the semester’s over.
Once I’ve sorted things out. Dad’s good at being proud. He’s good at providing, protecting, playing games. But he’s not good at being angry. It swallows him up. He goes into sleep mode and someone else takes the helm. I’ve experienced as much when the cousins and I have broken things by accident, or when I haven’t attended to a chore fast enough. Mom and I make Bruce Banner jokes after the fact,
but there’s nothing funny about it in the moment.

But it’s going to be okay when I come back to them with a job. He can’t be too mad if I get a job. I close my laptop. Through the window wall, I can see my flatmates in the kitchen, engaging in various stages of dinner. I climb down to join them.

I flop onto the leather couch, not wanting to crowd the cooking area where Babe and Atticus move
about chopping things. Sahra and Pilot are eating at the table.

“How’d Skype with the parents go?” Babe calls from the counter as Atticus wraps up the story he was telling when I walked in.

“Fine.” I smile.

“Any change in status with Friday night Rugby Guy?” Atticus asks in a silly this-is-scandalous tone.

“Who?” Babe exclaims, spinning around.

I swallow. It takes all my willpower not to
glance at Pilot. I stare at Atticus. “Um, he texted me last night. How was your date with Man Bun?”

“You missed it. I was just telling everyone how great it was!”

“Oh my gosh, that’s amazing!” I smile.

“Shane, who’s this Friday night Rugby Guy?” Babe puts down the knife she’s been chopping vegetables with and crosses her arms.

I glance at Pilot. He’s pushing microwaved lasagna around with
his fork. I open my mouth and close it wordlessly.

“Shane made out with some Lawyer Guy at the club on Friday,” Sahra says casually.

“Sahra!” I yelp. I stare at my keyboard now, cheeks blazing.

“Way to fill me in!” Babe accuses.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I tell her.

“So did he ask you out?” Atticus asks.

“He wants to go out on Wednesday,” I mumble.

“That’s exciting!” Atticus grins.

“Well,
I told him: No, sorry, I’ll be in Germany,” I add sheepishly. Out of the corner my eye, I see Pilot’s fork stop moving.

“You’re going to Germany?” Sahra asks.

“No,” I answer guiltily.

“Shane!” Babe giggles and turns to resume her cooking prep.

Atticus breaks into a full-on cackle.

Pilot turns his head and meets my eyes for the first time in over a week. “Why don’t you want to go out with
him?” he asks.

My heart rams against my chest.
You should ask him if we can talk outside.

I swallow. “I just … didn’t like him.” I can’t make my mouth form any more words. We hold each other’s gaze for an extra second in which I desperately try to communicate
But I do like you, can we talk, do you have any interest in me, what happened in Paris?
with my eyes. Sizzles and pops permeate the room,
disturbing the moment. I look away to find Babe breaking up a blob of ground beef on the stove.

Atticus pipes in from the sink where he’s about to drain his pasta, “Well, don’t worry. I’ll help you draft something to let him down easy.”

2/15/11

It’s been a while.

Other than interning at
Packed!
, which is fine (I’m still running basic errands), and doing writing assignments for class, which is going great, basically three things happened in these past two weeks:

1) Babe and I decided to plan a flat family dinner.

Because all of a sudden the whole flat got super-busy. We haven’t hung out all together in ages
(weeks but it feels like ages). I barely see Sahra, Atticus has always been busy, and Pilot’s MIA. Babe and I go out of our way to chat most days, but even that’s been difficult. I guess the combo of internships and class can do that. Babe and I discussed our lack of hangs and decided the way to fix it was a scheduled flat activity: an American family dinner with the works—baked ziti, wine, cards,
and beer pong. She started a group Facebook chat to work out what day would be best for everyone.

2) I didn’t speak to Pilot.

After that night in the kitchen when we talked about Rugby Guy, I didn’t even see Pilot for six whole days, let alone exchange words. I was writing in my bunk when I finally caught sight of him walking into the kitchen through the bedroom window. He set his open computer
down on the table and chucked a frozen meal into the microwave. For a minute, I debated going in there to “write,” but then I realized he was talking—Skyping again. My heart slunk further down into its metaphorical chair as he shared a laugh with the screen.

3) We scheduled the family dinner.

It might as well be a hundred years from now. When four of us can make of it, one of us can’t, and when
three of us can make it, two of us can’t. The date we picked was so far in the future that Atticus suggested we just save the dinner as a big last-day-in-London flat celebration.

So now, it’s scheduled for our last day in London (April 22).

I feel a little like I’ve lost control of my raft. Like, I came to this river with the boat, and I was rowing toward my destination, but somehow I got caught
in a tide. How do I reestablish control? Was I ever steering? I must have been. I got myself to London, didn’t I?

“Do you know what you’re doing for spring break yet?” Babe asks as she twirls some spaghetti Bolognese onto her fork. We coordinated our dinner eating times today, but I finished way before her and am currently working on character bios.

My eyebrows furrow, and I push my computer
screen down a bit so I can see her face at the end of table. “We have spring break? When?”

“Next week, Shane.” She laughs.

“
What?
That’s so soon. Don’t we all have work?”

“It’s written into everyone’s internship schedule; it’s part of our program,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’m going on a tour of Ireland! And I’m going by myself. It’s going to be great, like an epic adventure!”

“Wow, good
for you,” I say halfheartedly.

“Yeah, I’ve never gone somewhere by myself before, but traveling alone is supposed to be an amazing experience. And I’ll be on a bus tour, so I’ll meet people, and it should be kind of like a journey of self-discovery, you know. And Guinness was invented there. I think I’ll get to go to the factory.”

I smile at her enthusiasm. “Well, that’s awesome. Do you know
what Sahra’s doing?” I ask.

“Yeah, she’s meeting her boyfriend in Barcelona to celebrate her birthday!”

“Wow,” I respond softly.

I wonder what Pilot’s plans are.

Why are you wondering? You haven’t spoken in two weeks
.

The door bangs open as Atticus races in with a bag of groceries. “Hey, guys!” he greets us before reaching into the bag and whipping out yet another frozen meal. “I’m running
late for a play, but I’ve gotta take ten minutes and eat!” He rips the food from the box and stabs at it with a butter knife.

“Atticus!” Babe laughs from the table. “That’s so loud!”

“Yeah, I enjoy drama. What else is new?” he cracks.

The two of them cackle. I pull my computer back in front of me, so I can stare into space angstily without looking like I’ve just had a lobotomy. What if everyone’s
already doing things for break? I’m going to be stuck here alone in London all by myself for a week?

“We were talking about spring break plans!” Babe announces. “What are you going to be doing?”

I jump into the conversation. “Yeah, At, do you want to do something together?”

He turns to me. “Actually, my family is flying out here! We’re road-tripping across the UK, up to Scotland!”

Babe rinses
her dishes in the sink. “Oh my gosh, that sounds great. I’m going to Ireland on a tour, and I’m going by myself. I’m so excited! Traveling alone is supposed to be an amazing experience of self-discovery! And I’ll be on a bus tour so I’ll meet people…”

Hearing this a second time is depressing. I duck down under the table to grab headphones from my book bag. As I’m digging around, the door opens
again. Four of us in the kitchen at once?
It’s probably Pilot!
I yank my head up to check.

There’s a loud thud as my cranium slams into the corner of the table.

I’m catapulted forward with the rebound momentum and topple sideways, crumbling into a heap on the floor. My chair clashes onto the tile next to me.

The microwave bell goes off as I yell, “Freakin’ A!” and Babe yelps, “Jiminy Cricket!”

When I look up, everyone’s hovering.

“What happened?” Atticus asks.

“Are you okay?” Babe demands. “That was an epic bang!”

When Pilot steps into view, I cringe. Of course he’s here. The first eye contact we’ve made in weeks, and I’m in the fetal position on the floor.

“Did you really just use the phrase
Jiminy Cricket
?” I grumble to Babe, moving to get my legs back under me. “I’m fine. Evil
chairs are out to get me, falling every five seconds.”

As I get to my feet, Pilot shakes his head. “Devil chairs,” he accuses in an exaggerated Southern accent.

I want to be mad at him, because I am. I want to say something like: Where the hell have you been the last fourteen days? But instead, I loose a flustered huff, pick up the chair, and flop back onto it.

“These chairs are a hazard to
myself and others.” I wince, touching a finger to the bump forming on my head.

“Sure you’re okay?” Pilot asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I say dismissively. Atticus is at the table now, stuffing pasta puttanesca down his throat.

Babe swoops into a seat. “So, Pilot, what are you doing for spring break?”

I glance at him. Cross my arms. Uncross. Raise a hand to hold up my chin.

“I’m going with Steve and
Quail from Flat Four to Vienna and Amsterdam,” he tells her. Again, looks like we’re not invited.

Well, ask. Take charge of your raft.

I open my mouth. “Oh man, that sounds cool. Um, I don’t have any plans yet. Do you think maybe I could join?” I’m already having a hot flash. I can’t believe I just said that. Pilot drops his gaze to the table.

Oh god, he’s going to say no. I think I’m going
to cry. My face is burning. It’s gonna melt off.

“Uh … I’m sorry, Shane. It’s actually already planned, and it’s just gonna be a guys’ trip. I’m sorry.” He looks up at me. He is sorry. I see it in his conflicted mossy eyes. “If things weren’t—”

I cut him off, waving my arms around. “Oh my god, of course, I’m sorry. Why would I assume? I didn’t mean to … that was … forget I said anything.”

You’re fine. No crying.
Atticus is looking at me with his head cocked to the side. I shoot Babe a wide-eyed look:
Help!

She jerks into gear. “Wow, well, that’s going be awesome, Pilot! Guess what? I’m going to Ireland! And I’m going by myself on a bus tour…”