Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  He laughs now. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “This is a great idea! I have a camera. Why not?”

  “You have a video camera?” He perks up curiously.

  “Uh, duh, my Casio has a video setting. I myself thought about starting a YouTube channel about writing and such many a time circa 2010, 2011.”

  “French Watermelon Nineteen: the YouTube channel?”

  “But of course.”

  “How ’bout French Writer-melon?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I reply melodramatically.

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t make any sense?” he protests.

  “The internet knows me as French Watermelon. I don’t want to tarnish the good French Watermelon Nineteen name.”

  He smirks at me, eyes gleaming. “Ridiculous.”

  “You say ridiculous, I say tech savvy. Tomato-tomahto.”

  We cross another intersection.

  “What country do we want to hit next?”

  “I’m pretty sure Babe’s gonna pull me aside tomorrow and convince me to go on a trip to Paris with you and that pain-in-the-ass Chad.”

  “Oh jeez, how could I forget Chad? You up for Paris again?”

  “Am I up for Paris again?” I say in a mocking tone. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  He snorts.

  11. Come Together

  I can’t eat breakfast. I’m too worked up thinking about Pilot and Amy; my stomach is in knots. Will he do it? I get down on the floor and flow through some yoga before leaving for class. Babe asks if she can join me. I welcome the distraction and quietly walk her through it. She giggles as we struggle through poses in our jeans. Sahra snorts when she wakes up to find us both in downward dog. As I heave my backpack onto my shoulder to take off, Babe asks if I want to get lunch together. I stop at the post office on the way to class and send off my letter to a clueless past Melvin.

  At noon, I meet Babe outside of Byron’s. We grab a booth, and Babe proceeds to pitch Paris for Chad’s birthday. I do my best to drag Chad, but past Babe won’t be swayed by Shane-she-just-recently-met-who-has-never-even-met-Chad. I find myself studying her face, marking the differences between her and the Babe I talk to weekly in 2017. Future Babe’s hair is different; she has voluminous curls instead of the polished upturned ends she has now. And future Babe has switched to a slightly darker red shade of lipstick.

  She comes to a close with her double-date question as the waiter arrives to take our orders. It’s not my spirit guide. I’ve had my eyes peeled since I walked in, but there’s no sign of her.

  “So, what’s going on with you and Pilot? Are you up for this? Will you come?” She shoots the questions one after the other, without giving me a second to respond.

  I vacuum in a breath. “Okay, so let’s just keep this between us, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Pilot’s supposedly breaking up with Amy today,” I tell her quietly.

  “What?” Her hands fly up.

  “I know.”

  “What— Are you two going to be a thing?”

  “I don’t want to jinx anything,” I say hesitantly.

  “So, you’ll come this weekend!” she says abruptly, her eyes lighting up.

  I nod, a smile breaking across my face. “I’m so excited to go again!”

  “You’ve been to Paris before?”

  “Uh, no, I mean, like, go again … to a place … with you and the gang. Pilot. Again.”

  * * *

  Later, Babe and I sit in the kitchen together. I’m working on another new blog post. I’m surprised to find a comment from Leo on the Rome post. On my blog. Using his lame old screen name.

  LeoBaseballPrimaveri

  Why aren’t you posting anything on Facebook?

  I don’t even know what Future Leo is up to. He got a job at the local gas station for a while after he dropped out of school, and then moved out to New York City. 2017 Mom never talks about him in our bristled conversations, and Future Leo doesn’t use Facebook.

  I haven’t posted all the Rome photos, but I included a bunch in this post. They’re not on Facebook because I’m not in the market for a running life commentary from the fam. If they want to see what I’m up to, they can read it on the blog.

  Next to me, Babe’s plucking away at a paper, waiting patiently for Pilot to return so she can pop the Paris question. She jumps to attention when he finally walks through the door with a frozen meal.

  “Hey, Pilot!”

  “Hey, Babe.” He turns to me with a smile. “Shane.”

  “Happy Monday.” I grin.

  “So, Babe, I was thinking we should go on a trip again this weekend,” Pilot says casually.

  Babe eyes me with a suspicious smile, and I raise my eyebrows: I didn’t say anything.

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she says slowly.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asks suspiciously.

  “How about we both say where on three?” Pilot suggests cheekily.

  “Why?” Babe asks as I start counting.

  “One, two, three!”

  “Paris!” they exclaim simultaneously. Pilot laughs, and I cackle behind my computer.

  Babe is amused. She thinks I told him. “Okay, you two talked already. Does this mean you’re down?”

  “Why not,” Pilot agrees as he pops his frozen meal into the microwave. I glance at Babe, and she waggles her eyebrows at me. I roll my eyes, suppressing a grin.

  Babe and I make ourselves pasta while Pilot eats his frozen meal. When he’s finished, he takes out his laptop, pulls on his headphones, and retreats to the chair in the corner to work. I settle in at the table to eat and watch something on Sawyer.

  “Hey,” Babe starts. I look up to where she’s dressing her pasta in a bolognese sauce. “Do you play cards at all? I picked some up earlier.”

  A smile tears across my face.

  * * *

  We buy our train tickets to Paris. We’re leaving on the same schedule as last time and staying at the same crappy hostel. I let Babe plan it the same exact way because I’ve been itching to redo this trip for years. It wouldn’t feel right changing the setting.

  The three of us spend the evening playing Rummy 500. Sahra whooshes in and out during our first few rounds before finally settling in to join us. Atticus shows up at eight and suggests a game of BS. We chat and cackle until my cheeks hurt from smiling.

  Atticus leaves the kitchen first because he has an early morning. Babe, Sahra, Pilot, and I play one last round of BS. It’s not till then that I remember: Pilot was supposed to break up with Amy.

  My stomach lurches. How the hell did I forget? From that point on, I have a hard time focusing on the game. When Babe wins, she and Sahra pack up and walk back to the room. Pilot shows no sign of leaving, so I linger, pretending to do something on my computer.

  “You going to sleep too?” he asks. I swallow, suddenly feeling nervous.

  “Um, yeah I guess so.” I close Sawyer, pick him up, and hop out of my chair. A millisecond later, I sense it falling. I whirl around with a gasp and snatch it awkwardly by the seat with my one free hand. Carefully, I lower myself and the off-kilter chair to the floor.

  Pilot stands, watching me across the table with an amused expression. “I’ve noticed that you’re trying super-hard to make peace with the devil chairs.”

  I shake my head. “I’m being so nice to them, and they just continue with the rudeness.” I gather my feet under me and pop up off the ground. Pilot’s here now; he picks up the chair and pushes it back into place at the table.

  “Some chairs never change,” he says.

  I snort and head slowly around the table toward the door. He follows me out. We walk together down the hall, veering off to our respective doors. I dig in my bag for my key.

  “Hey,” Pilot says behind me. I turn around. He’s leaning against his door, so I stop fumbling and lean against my ow
n door.

  There’s a long pause where I look at him expectantly. Oh god, he’s having second thoughts. He wants to leave. He didn’t break it off. Is he waiting for me to speak?

  “Hey,” I respond belatedly.

  “I broke up with Amy,” he says.

  My heart jumps two feet outside my chest. Shit. Get back inside me.

  “You—” I start.

  He cuts me off. “Yeah.”

  I swallow, pausing to look at the ceiling. He did it! What do I say? My head bobs around, not in a nod or a shake, just in a weird bob.

  I decide on, “Okay.”

  He pulls a thoughtful Soprano frown, jutting out his bottom lip, and nods. “Okay.”

  I nod in return, still at a loss. “So, good night … uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  A smirk flickers over his lips. “Good night.”

  He doesn’t move to unlock his door, so I don’t either. I wait a few seconds.

  “Are you going in?” I ask, amused.

  “Are you?” he challenges.

  “Yeah, I’m going in.” I smile.

  “Okay, so am I.”

  “Okay, same.” And then the door supporting my weight flies out from behind me, and I’m falling to my death. “The fuck?” flies out of my mouth as I twist in the air to catch myself before hitting the ground.

  “Jiminy Cricket!” Babe’s voice comes from somewhere near my crashing body. I manage to fall on my right forearm, but that’s going to leave a bruise. Pilot’s in front of me, grabbing my hand, helping me up. Babe’s apologizing profusely.

  “Oh my goodness, I kept hearing someone outside the door. And I thought maybe you didn’t have a key, and oh Mylanta, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Babe,” I breathe.

  “You okay?” Pilot asks when I’m upright again.

  “I’m fine,” I insist with an embarrassed chuckle. And then I keel over laughing. Babe and Pilot join me.

  “Good night, Pies,” I repeat one last time. He nods and I nod back. He retreats to his door again.

  “Night,” Babe adds. He finally turns around to put his key in the lock, so Babe and I close our door. Sahra’s on her laptop with headphones in.

  “What was that about?” Babe asks excitedly.

  I snort as I head for the bathroom to take a shower. “Nothing, we were just saying good night.”

  “Did he break up with her?”

  I pivot, make my eyes super-wide, squeeze my lips together in a line, and nod.

  “Oh my goodness!” She falls into her bed, giggling.

  “What? What happened?” Sahra says, lowering her headphones.

  “Pilot broke up with his girlfriend!” Babe squeals excitedly.

  “What? Why?” Sahra asks.

  “Because of Shane!” Babe laughs.

  “No!” I say immediately.

  “What?” Sahra says in surprise.

  I lock myself in the bathroom and hop in the shower to avoid an inquisition.

  12. The Rush at the Beginning

  I’m at the kitchen table Wednesday morning, working on a bagel, when Pilot strides in. My heart kick-starts. We head to Paris tomorrow.

  “Morning,” he greets me casually before flipping on the electric kettle.

  “Morning.” I smile at him before returning to my studious Twitter scrolling on Sawyer. He fixes himself a cup of tea and sits across from me, grinning.

  I pull away from the computer and raise my eyebrows in question.

  “So,” he starts, “ah … I don’t want to come off super-forward, but would you maybe want to come to Paris with me this weekend?”

  “Like on a date?” I say with mock surprise.

  “Yes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, good.” His grin widens. “What time does your class get out tomorrow?”

  “Four thirty.”

  “Four thirty,” he repeats. With that, he stands, puts his tea in the sink, and leaves.

  * * *

  Thursday has come. I’m in class. We’re discussing world-building by dissecting Harry Potter and it’s everything. I’ve got my backpack and rolling suitcase with me at my desk because I have to leave straight from here to make the six-thirty Eurostar. When the lecture ends, I’m the last one out, bringing up the rear with my luggage. As I drag my bag over the building’s threshold, I catch sight of Pilot standing out on the sidewalk, wearing his backpack and carrying a plastic bag.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask cheerily, as I step up to where he’s waiting.

  “Got us some travel food.” He holds out the plastic bag.

  I gasp dramatically at the contents. “Shawarma! How did you know I liked this?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard you talk about it.”

  * * *

  We sit side by side on the Tube. We’re nice and smooshed with the incoming rush-hour crowd. We’re on a date. A first date. Which is weird because we already know each other. First dates are usually so … new.

  But how much do I really know about Pilot’s life outside of London? I turn to where he is on my right, and he meets my eyes.

  “Pies, we’ve never really talked about our lives outside of … study abroad. Is that weird? I felt like I knew you, I feel like you knew me, but did we?” My eyebrows pull together.

  “That’s a loaded question.” He tilts his head. I watch, freely admiring how attractive he looks right now, because I’m allowed, because we’re on a date! The Tube lady’s voice rings overhead: “Mind the gap.”

  His eyes refocus on me. “We knew each other. I guess I kept stuff about life back home private because it just didn’t come up. There were so many other things to discuss because everything was new.”

  “Yeah, I never really offered much information about life at home either. I guess it was kind of like an escape, being here and not having to dwell on anything but the novelty of being here.”

  He frowns slightly, nodding. “I mean, just because we didn’t talk about our lives back in the US doesn’t mean we didn’t know each other.” He smiles a bit now. “I knew that when you got up in the kitchen, the chair would fall.”

  I snort.

  He continues matter-of-factly, “I knew that if a song you knew came on, or if someone started singing randomly, you’d sing along. I knew that if you tripped on the street, you’d do a crazy dance and manage to stay upright. I knew I could probably always find you writing in the kitchen. I knew your eyes were ice blue. I knew I could always poke fun at the weird stuff you do because you’d laugh right along with me. I knew enough to know you.”

  I stare, speechless for a moment. He drops his gaze, smiling at his hands and fiddling with a strap on his backpack. “You know, you never really gave me any shit back then, when I’d give it to you,” he finishes.

  My lip quirks up. “You’re not as weird as I am; it’s harder to make fun of you. Back then, I barely knew how to make fun of myself—not jaded enough yet, I guess.”

  “And you’re jaded now?” He smirks.

  “In terms of me, I’m jaded,” I answer with a scoff. “I came here so sheltered. It’s hard to be cynical when you’re constantly spinning around in awe of the stuff around you. So many times, you’d crack a joke or say something ridiculous, and so many times, I wouldn’t realize it for a good three minutes because I was too distracted by the world to pick up on the sarcasm and I’d feel like an idiot for having missed it and not reacted in the moment.”

  He grins, shaking his head.

  I continue in earnest, “We were gallivanting around in foreign countries I’ve never seen before! It was a lot to take in.” I laugh, looking at my knees. “Now that I’ve been here before, it’s a little more familiar than foreign.” I meet his eyes again. “I feel a little less like a newborn puppy than before.”

  Pilot nods with a small smile. “I’ve noticed.”

  “Noticed what?” I ask with a smidge of attitude.

  “You’re bolder than before.”

/>   * * *

  We eat our shawarma in the Eurostar waiting area. Once we’re settled in on the train to Paris, I turn and ask him something that’s been on my mind for a while. “Why did you want to do study abroad?”

  “To get away from everything and travel, see the world.”

  Everything? “Really?”

  “And get a break from school. It’s a lighter semester, and when else are you going to be able to live in a different country?”

  I nod and look down at my lap.

  “What about you?”

  I purse my lips. “I mean, I needed to get away, I guess, but at the time I was fixated on starting college over.”

  Pilot tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

  “My roommates from freshman and sophomore year had gone ahead and booked a double without me for junior year. They were my closest friends at YU. I was left super-alone in a single apartment, all sad and friendless. I was going home every weekend. I found the writing program on the study abroad site—and the rest is history.”

  He studies me thoughtfully. “And you’re glad you did it?” He raises his brows, eyes twinkling because he already knows the answer.

  I fiddle with the edge of my jacket. “Best unintentional decision I ever made. You?”

  He grins. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.” He reaches for his backpack on the ground and plunges his hand inside. It comes back out holding … a pack of Beatles cards!

  I gasp and he chuckles. “Picked these up yesterday. Didn’t feel right not having them.”

  “You went to the Beatles store without me!” I nudge him playfully.

  “I wanted them to be sort of a surprise.”

  “Well, thanks.” A fire stirs to life in my chest.

  “Shall we play?”

  13. Close

  My hand smacks over Pilot’s as a second queen shows up. I topple sideways, cackling in defeat. I might lose this round of Egyptian Rat Screw.