Again, but Better (27 page)

“Obviously
Lost
—Juliet inspires me. Harry Potter always makes me happy. I love walls full of pictures. If I ever build my own house, I’m making a room just for pictures, where I’ll plaster them on every surface. Extreme photo-albuming!” I pause for a second. “Black raspberry ice cream because it’s delicious, but mostly because it’s a wonderful
purple color, and it doesn’t taste like grape. And I like when thunderstorms make the lights go out at night, and you’re stuck inside with your family using flashlights for hours. Everyone acts like it’s the worst and such an inconvenience. And it is, but the bigger part of me gets excited by the darkness, and the lack of technology, and the need for flashlights. It’s the best way to gather everyone
around a table to play cards. No one’s distracted by anything, and you play by the candlelight, and you all watch the storm through the big back windows, but you stay away from the windows because you don’t want to get electrocuted.” I sigh, suddenly fighting off a wave of homesickness. The last time that actually happened, I was sixteen. The three of us were at Uncle Dan and Aunt Maria’s for
dinner.

Pilot eyes me thoughtfully.

“Your turn,” I whisper.

“I’ve never met someone as outwardly passionate about their favorite things as you.”

“Well, things inspire me and make me happy and feel more understood … if I can give that to someone else by recommending my things, I want to.” The way he’s watching me, I feel like I’m under a spotlight. I swallow.

“So, your turn now,” I say quietly.
“What things do you like?”

“I like mint chocolate chip ice cream,” he says, trying not to smile. I wait.

“Because…” I goad.

He looks thoughtful again. “Because it’s refreshing. Like when you walk out onto the street in the fall and the leaves are swirling around, and you get pummeled with the perfect amount of windchill.” I nod appreciatively.

“Music, guitar, records. Troubadours in the wild.
The idea of living day by day, making music, brightening someone’s life with the things you make. The courage it takes to do something like that is admirable. They make me want to make things.

“Exploring places on foot with a real map, no GPS.” He pauses. “My family. I can really get behind a good game of cards.”

“So nothing too nerdy, then?” I ask.

“I like you.” He grins.

I smile down at
the bed, closing my eyes for a second. “What a line. I guess I set you up for that.”

He continues, “I know you hate those chairs in the kitchen, but I can’t help but hold a special place for them in my heart. Watching that ongoing struggle, Shane versus chair, has brought me so much joy.”

I reach out my free hand and push his shoulder. He catches my elbow, slowly sliding his hand up to my mine
and weaving our fingers together. I can feel the heat coming off him.

This has gone as far as I’d like it to in a room with two sleeping strangers. I sit up, twisting away to put my feet back on the floor in between our beds. I’m radiating dangerous levels of joy. The bed moves as Pilot sits up and scoots toward me.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. His concern fades when he finds me strug
gling to
subdue the banana-sized smile spread across my cheeks. I bring my face close to his again, reveling in the electric feeling that sparkles over my skin. “I like you too,” I whisper. “I’ve changed my answer: five-star Yelp rating for date number two.”

He leans in to close a kiss, and I back out of reach.

“Good night.” I chuckle, rising from the bed.

“Hey.” He catches hold of my hand. I drop back
down, grinning.

“Is this you officially surrendering to my whisper move?”

He scoffs. “Five-star Yelp rating, and no kiss at the end of the night? That just doesn’t add up.”

“Admit your surrender.”

He holds my gaze. I shrug and push off the floor to stand. He tugs me back, and I twist around, landing happily back on the bed.

“You win,” he concedes. His lips find mine, and they’re charged full
of fire. I’m floating when I pull away.

In the morning, Pilot and I meet Babe and Chad in the lobby before heading to the Louvre. We wander the museum as a foursome. Chad uses the word
bro
fifty times more frequently than necessary.

We all climb to the first tier of the Eiffel Tower. I’m bursting with blissful energy. I dance my way across the landings and skip up the steps. When it’s time for
tier two, Babe and Chad turn off toward the elevator.

Pilot meets my eyes with an impish grin. “So predictable.”

I’m drunk on excitement. Happiness. I’m really happy. And it’s intoxicating. I smile, turning my attention back to the first-tier view of Paris.

Pilot nudges me gently. “Ready to attempt to climb to the top and be turned away due to high winds?”

I snort. “Always.” We round the corner
and start the second leg, hiking side by side up another collection of metal steps.

Did I really just say
always
?

“Pies, would you agree that we’re on a rom-com-esque date right now?” I start.

Pilot smiles at the steps, keeping his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

“Well, I just said
always
a second ago when you asked me a question, and I hated it,” I sass.

He scoffs, “Hated it? Like, hated the
question?”

“Hated the word
always
.”

“Because?” he asks, humoring me.

My smile spreads. “Well, I’m glad you asked. See, all the famous book-slash-movie couples have these, like, deep, meaningful moments where they say
always
in response to some deep, meaningful, cute, adorable question. And then all the fans of said book-slash-movie couple get
always
tattooed on them as a nod to that couple
or that moment, and the word
always
is so completely overused that, like, how am I even supposed to know what couple or moment they’re referring to in their meaningful tattoo, you know?” I drop my flailing hands back to my sides.

Pies pulls a goofy
eh
expression. “I guess,” he concedes.

“And then there was
Okay, Okay
in
TFIOS
, where they finally broke the mold, and it was beautiful,” I say,
continuing my lecture as we circle around another landing and onto another flight of steps.

“What’s
TFIOS
?”

“A great book.”

“Okay,” he agrees automatically.

“Okay, so the point is: Since we’re in our own rom-com right now, we should have our own stupid, unique
always
, so people can make tattoos about us!”

He laughs. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. We don’t want to mess this up.
We have to think it through, so we go down in history the right way.”

Pilot snorts.

“What was that laugh?” I accuse, trying not to laugh myself.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“This is deep, meaningful stuff, Pies.”

He smiles, hands still stuffed in his pockets. We climb in silence for a few moments, the metal reverberating under our feet.

“Any ideas?” I ask curiously.

He juts out his bottom lip. “
Leather?
”

“
Leather?
That sounds a little dirty.”

Another snort.

“What about
lamppost
?” I propose. “It’s innocent, catchy.”

“Lamppost?”

“Yeah, as in,
lamppost
will be our
always
.”

Pilot treats me to a deadpan glare.

“It’s gonna be great. Here, let’s test it out. Ask me a question.”

Pilot’s smiling at the air in front of us now. “What kind of question?”

“Anything! Just a tester question.”

He stops on the landing between staircases for a moment, so I come to a halt in front of him.

He clears his throat and puts on a funny romantic voice. “Shane.” He gazes into my eyes like a cartoon prince. “Are you Santa?”

I step up close to his face. “Lamppost.”

He turns away with an eye-roll-smile combo.

“That sounded nice, right?” I goad. He pulls his hand from his pocket and takes mine
as we continue up.

When we reach the second tier, I hurry over to the edge, pushing my hand up against the metal cage around us. Pilot shuffles up next to me.

“Still incredible,” he says.

“Pies?” I ask, cheerily turning away from the view.

He turns to me abruptly. “Lamppost.”

“No!” I whack him in the arm, compressed laughter buzzing out of me. “That’s not how it works! I have to ask a question
where the answer is—”

“Oh, that’s not how it works?” he interrupts, smirking. “This isn’t how it goes?” He closes the gap between us and catches my lips. I get lost in the glitter for a second.

I’m smiling and shaking my head as we break from the kiss. “I was setting up for the perfect lamppost question!” I protest.

“Ah, but it was time for me to clock in another move.”

“Time for you ‘to clock
in another move’?” I mock him, crossing my arms. “Do you have a quota to hit or something?”

“Yeah,” he responds matter-of-factly. “Gotta keep on top of things if I want to maintain my Trip Advisor rating, Shane.”

I scoff.

We catch up with Babe and Chad back at the bottom. Pilot and I break
physical contact as we come up behind them. The four of us walk along the Seine. As the sun’s setting
Babe stops short and spins to look back at the Eiffel Tower.

“Wait! What time is it?”

“Bro, you pumped?” Chad wheels around to Pilot as we stroll toward the sounds of music in the Bastille.

“Toe, I’m so pumped,” Pilot replies enthusiastically.

“Bro, I bet it’s hype up in that one down there.” He points down the street to the bar we went to last time.

“So hype, Toe.”

Next to me Babe’s brow
crinkles. “Are you saying
Toe
?” she asks loudly. I cackle.

Chad strides forward without comment. Pilot falls into step on my other side.

“You excited to hit this place again?” he asks quietly as the four of us come up to the black awning.

“Lamppost.”

He smiles.

I raise my eyebrows. “How doth one top a live oldies-classic-rock-punk-rock-from-the-early-2000s cover band, Pilot? It doesn’t get
better than that.”

The band is in full swing as we mosh our way to the bar. It’s not long before our foursome is torn into pairs by the mass of people chomping at the bit for alcohol. Pilot and I both order a gin and tonic before heading out onto the floor.

We situate ourselves side by side, swaying and playfully singing along with the set. When they play “What’s My Age Again,” I jump around,
baptizing everyone in the vicinity with my drink. We’re mazing our way to the back of the room to set down our empty glasses when “Basket Case” starts to play.

“Oh shit!” I exclaim, lightly whacking Pilot in the arm. I hold his eyes, bobbing my head with the beat, and he laughs at me.

“Let’s dance!” I talk-yell.

He holds his lips in a small smile. “I thought we were getting new drinks!”

“
I am one of those melodramatic fools, neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it!
” I yell-sing dramatically, shaking my shoulders in time with the bass.

“Remember how I don’t really dance?”

I shake my head. “Nope, you are not pulling that crap after the Versailles stunt.”

His smile stretches to full capacity as he rolls his eyes. I raise my eyebrows expectantly. We stare each other down for a beat.
And then he abruptly joins in with the band, “
It all keeps adding up—
”

I grab his hand, leading him back onto the dance floor, hop-skipping to the music. This time we face each other, not the band. I let go of his hand and flail-dance, singing at the top of my lungs. It’s a technique I use to scare people into moving out of the way, thus carving out some space to actually dance. He watches me,
unmoving and stone-faced for a good twenty seconds. I stubbornly hold eye contact:
Dance with me.
And then he does—bobbing his head around a little more intensely than usual. I mirror his cool-guy head bob.

As the song comes to a close, I grab his hands, pull him toward me, and drag us to the right. I let my arms straighten out, dropping back, changing our momentum, and then I pull myself toward
him again. We crash into each other. He lets go of one of my hands and manages to spin me out like he did at Versailles. I laugh like a madwoman, whipping away from him, hair covering my face. I slam into the nearest human who’s crept his way into our dance space and spit a stream of apologies as I quickly whirl back to Pilot. My back slams up against his chest, and I’m cackling, and I can feel
his chest vibrating behind me as the song fades out.

Our hands are still connected, and he twists me around in the sudden silence. My heart hammers as our foreheads fold together.

“I don’t know if we should keep going. You’re a hazard to everyone within a six-foot radius.”

I bring my arms up around his neck as the band starts a new song. “I’m not the one who whipped out the ballroom dance moves
in a mosh pit.”

He raises his head, looking thoughtful for a moment. My brain takes note of the familiar song floating around us now, much calmer than the previous one. “Yellow Submarine.” The room falls into a mellow side-to-side sway as they sing along. We join them.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies.

“You almost kissed me during this song,” I tease softly.

Pilot’s eyebrows come down comically.
“And you pulled away.”

My heart jumps into my throat.
So I did. Affirmative.
My mouth dries up with my heart all in there. We rotate silently for a stretch of lyrics before I tell him, “I got scared.”

Pilot’s thoughtful as the song draws to a close.

“How’s present Shane doing?” he asks. Another song from my middle-school years explodes through the room.

“She’s great. How’s Pilot?” I yell-talk
over the now blasting music.

“Scared shitless, to be honest.” He smiles.

I raise my eyebrows. I want to come back to that, but right now I need to dance. I let myself drift outward, letting go of his hands to dance more freely.
All the, small things, true care, truth brings.
He sings along and starts trying to mirror my random assortment of moves, looking absolutely ridiculous.

Watching. Waiting.
At some point, I topple over to my right and smack into a girl with a sparkly-gold tank top, flailing for purchase. But before I get any closer to the ground, Pilot catches hold of my arm and yanks me back over to him. I fly upright, colliding into him, and then his arms are tight around my waist, and we’re kissing and dancing, and my heart’s having one of its out-of-body experiences. I feel
it floundering around above my head like in The Sims. The music surges:
Nananananananananananananana
.

I don’t want to break apart when we break apart.

“Shit.” His twinkling eyes search mine.

“Shit,” I agree.

The band starts a new song. “Want to grab a drink?” he asks.

“I actually have to hit the BR. Go grab yourself a drink, and I’ll meet you over there!” I assure him with a dopey smile.

I run into Chad at the mouth of the hallway into the dance/bar area on my way back from the restroom. He strolls right up to me.

“Hey, Chad,” I say reluctantly.

“Hey.” He comes closer.

I take a half step back. “What’s up?”

“You have really great hair.”

I widen my eyes sarcastically. “Thanks.”

Over his shoulder, I spot Pilot making his way over with a beer. I refocus on Chad to find him already
going for it. His eyes are closed, and his lips are coming at me. I pull back and smack my hand across his face. It makes a lovely
thwack
.

“Ahhh!” His hand comes up to cup his cheek. He glares with drunken, slow-motion shock.

“Step away, asshole. You’ve seen me with Pilot literally all weekend, and you’re here with Babe. You don’t get a douche-kabob pass because it’s your birthday.”

I step
past him to where Pilot is watching wide-eyed and amused. He falls into step next to me as we walk away. I glance around for Babe.

“Damn, is that what happened last time? Because I can’t believe I missed that!”

“No.” I snort. “Last time, I slid down the wall, ducked out, and ran away. I thought maybe this time would be a little different since the weekend has been so different, but nope, still
a douche canoe.”

He shoots me a goofy smile. “Look at you, relapsing back into your old smack-happy ways.”

“Ha. Ha.”

He shakes his head. “Once a smack addict, lamppost a smack addict.”

I snort. “Pilot! You’re using
lamppost
all wrong! And you’re making the word
smack
sound like slang for hard drugs.”

He throws his head back, cackling. I spot Babe in the opposite corner of the room, leaning
against the wall with her arms crossed.

“Babe’s over there. We should go keep her company.”

The band finishes up twenty minutes later, and the three of us funnel toward the stairs. “We have to find Chad,” Babe sighs as we make our way down.

“Don’t worry. We’ll catch him at the coat check,” Pilot reassures her. Behind Babe, Pilot takes my hand. His thumb draws light, sparkly circles on my wrist.
It’s distracting.

“Are you gonna be okay with him tonight?” I ask her.

“Yeah, he’s a drama king, but he’s harmless. I went in to make a move earlier because I thought … I mean, I know him trying to hook up with you was his super-mean way of driving home the point that he only wants to be friends.”

“Well, that’s pretty shitty,” I point out.

“This is a pattern with him. He acts out like a five-year-old.
We’re in a room with two other people, so he won’t be obnoxious.”

“My phone’s on if you need me,” I assure her. “Also, just for reference, we’ve already missed the last Metro, so we have to head straight for the taxi stand.”

As we come around the corner of the staircase, Chad is visible, standing near the door with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The three of us get our coats, and
Chad joins us silently as we walk to the cab stand down the street. Babe takes up a brisk pace, speeding ahead, and Chad lags behind.