Again, but Better (29 page)

January 24, 2011 (take two)

Mom and Dad,

When I write these, all I can think about is 2017. I’m so confused about my life. When did I stop manning the wheel? Was it here? Was it when I came back home? Was it a gradual process or did I let go all at once?

Last night, we Skyped before you went to dinner at Aunt Marie and Uncle Dan’s. When was the last time we did that?

We don’t even try anymore. When did you stop trying? Why did you stop trying?

XO,

2017 Shane

After class, I knock on Pilot’s door with my digital camera. It swings in after a few seconds. He openly smiles at me, and it’s wonderful. His guitar lies on the blue bedspread.

“Hey!” He steps aside so I can come into the room.

“Hey, have you been guitar-ing?” I ask.

“Yeah, doing some light guitar-ing,
working on some new stuff.” I watch as he catches sight of the camera in my hand. “What’s that?”

“This is my blender. I thought we could make smoothies.”

He presses his lips together and takes a step back. “Did Shane Primaveri just make a dry, sarcastic remark?”

“I’ll have you know, I make more than one dry, sarcastic remark per year now.”

He drops back on the bed with a chuckle. I lean against
the doorframe.

“So?” he asks with raised eyebrows.

“Oh yeah, so!” I do a little hop as I stand up off the wall I was leaning on. “I’m here to jumpstart your musical career.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I have an evil-genius foolproof plan. It worked for Justin Bieber, and it’s going to work for the Swing Bearers.”

He rolls his eyes, but humors me.

“We’re gonna start your YouTube channel.” I walk over
and sit next to him.

“You know YouTube and all that stuff really isn’t my thing.”

“Is music your thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want people to hear your music?”

“Yes,” he says with a small smile.

“Would you want to potentially make music for a living?”

He glares at me with a cynical grin and half-lidded eyes.

“This is just a platform to jump off. YouTube is huge. People can discover you there;
you can build an audience there; it’s a portfolio when you’re trying to get a job. It can provide endless possibilities! I spend a lot of time on the internet. I’ve watched it with my own eyes!”

“And what exactly are you planning with the camera?” he asks, amused.

“We’re going to record your first video!”

“Right now?”

“Why not?” I raise my eyebrows. His lips come together as he ponders this.
After a moment, he picks up his guitar.

“I was thinking a duet.” I scoot back so I can lean against the wall and sit crisscross applesauce.

He grins now, guitar in position. “You sing-sing?”

“You doubt me?”

“I would never,” he says matter-of-factly.

We stare at each other for a moment before I clear my throat. “Okay! So, I think we should do a duet of ‘Wrecking Ball.’”

He laughs, shaking
his head. “Still set on that?”

“Just this one song. Come on. We’ll call it a cover. We won’t take credit. Humor me here,” I ramble incessantly.

He smiles at the ceiling for five seconds before he turns to look at me again. “Give me half an hour to work out the chords.”

I grin. “See you in half an hour.”

When our slightly altered version of “Wrecking Ball” comes to an end, we smile at each
other for a good long moment. I get up quietly and stop the recording before retreating to my spot next to him on the bed. During the half-hour break, I dressed up a little fancier and threw on some red lipstick for my YouTube debut. Now I feel a smidge overdressed.

“You have a nice voice.” He carefully sets down his guitar by his desk.

“Thank you, O musical one,” I say, crossing my legs. “Are
you happy with that take?”

“I think that’s going to be our most genuine take.” We only did one take.

“I agree. It’s 2011 YouTube; we can get away with that performance.”

I hand him the memory card. He pops it into his computer and drops the file to his desktop before giving it back to me. I replace it as he lies down on the bed. He puts his hands behind his head and watches me. I stay seated
on the edge, legs hanging off the side.

“That red lipstick is driving me crazy,” he says after a few moments.

I laugh. “Did you want to use it?”

“Lamppost.”

My heart ricochets. “Did you just use
lamppost
unprovoked in a real-life conversation?”

“I think I did.”

I bring my face within centimeters of his. “You know cutesy, romantic callbacks to our shenanigans are my kryptonite.”

He’s silent
for a beat before he says it again: “Lamppost.”

I suck in a breath. “God, that’s so hot.”

He chuckles and tucks a batch of hair behind my ear. “You look gorgeous. We should go out.”

I laugh. “Okay.”

Paris was freezing but it’s beautiful in London. The sun’s out and the temperature’s in the low sixties: it’s
mild
, as I’ve heard the British call it. Pilot and I walk through the city hand in
hand. I ride the London Eye at sunset with Pilot standing behind me, his arms draped around my waist, my head against his shoulder. We kiss on benches and on bridges. We get dinner and stop in at a pub for a drink. We walk through to Hyde Park. We find a perfect spot, not far from the Karlston, lie in the grass, and talk.

I learn more about his little sisters. He tells me about the day he taught
the younger one, Holly, to ride a bike when his parents were on vacation. He seems really protective over them.

“Can I ask you something?” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the deal with you and your family?”

I’m quiet for a moment. I don’t know how to
really
talk to people about my family. Where do I start? You share surface details, and they don’t understand why I needed to get away. But you
dig too deep, and they only see the bad.

“It’s hard to explain. I guess they always end up making me feel like I’m not welcome to be myself. That sounds dramatic.” I sigh. “But they have this preconceived idea of what I should be, and if I don’t lean in to it, I feel like I’m not up to par.”

Pilot’s thumb skates around on the back of my hand.

“I’ve been trying to lean in my entire life. I love
them. I know they love
me. I know they think they’re helping me by setting these invisible rules. But I can’t fit that mold, no matter how hard I lean, and it makes being around them”—I stare up into the cloudy night sky—“exhausting.”

Pilot squeezes my hand. “Have you ever told them that?”

I shake my head against the hood of my jacket and heave in an uneven breath. “Topic change?”

Pilot releases
my hand and rolls onto his stomach, leaning over me. He traces a finger down my jawline. Across my collarbone. “What’s your favorite song, Primaveri?” His eyes sparkle.

“Like, what’s my favorite to hear, or my favorite that makes me feel all the feelings?”

He settles on his side next to me, head propped up on his arm. “Both.”

“Favorite to hear is ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ When it came on in the
car, my dad always used to crank it, and the three of us would fall into the different parts as if we’d discussed it beforehand, belting out the lyrics.” I grin, thinking of my mom headbanging to the guitar in the passenger seat.

He nods. “Solid.”

“I feel like I’m going to be judged for my other favorite.”

“Is it your BFF T-swizzle?”

I grin. “Yes.” I gaze into the darkness. “It’s called ‘All
Too Well.’ And it’s beautiful. I love the words and the pictures they paint and the way it always tears at my heart. Do you know it?”

“I do.”

I whip my gaze back to his. “You do?”

“I do. I have
Red
in my iTunes library.”

“Since when?” I demand.

“Since it came out in 2012,” he says.

“You know the year? What, you like Taylor now too?” I ask incredulously. “But you’re like that guy who thinks
his indie record is so much cooler than hers!”

He laughs outright at that. “I am not.” He drops back onto the ground.

I watch him suspiciously. “Sing something from ‘All Too Well.’”

He raises his eyebrows, and sing-speaks, “
Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it.
”

“I can’t believe this.”

“
I’d like to be my old self again.”

I fall next to him on my back. “I can’t believe you’ve been
holding out on me for, like, two weeks as a closet Taylor Swift fan!”

He laughs.

“What’s your favorite song?”

“It’s from one of my obscure artists.”

“To be expected,” I say, propping my arm up under my head again to look down at him. “What’s it called?”

“‘Holy Branches.’”

My forehead crinkles with unexpected recognition. “I know that song,” I divulge happily. He smiles skeptically at me
now. “No, I really do! The Radical Face?”

“What?” he yells, amused.

“What are the chances?” I say, feeling cocky.

He’s giving me suspicious side-eye now. “How do you know them?”

“They’re on my work playlist.”

“How did you find them?”

“An author I love recommended one of their songs once. I have, like, six of their songs on my playlist.”

“This is weird.” He grins and pulls his hands up behind
his head.

“Holy crap, it’s two a.m.” I drop my phone back in my purse and roll on top of Pilot, hovering on my forearms. “We should probably head back.” I smile down at him. I’ve been smiling for hours. I lift a hand and trace his eyebrows.

“Then the night will end,” he says. “And I don’t think I’m ready for that.” He watches me for a few moments. I feel like a googly-eyed teenager. We’ve been
talking for hours.

“Remember that notebook you had, back in the day?” Pilot says softly.

My finger stops tracing. “Yeah.”

He studies me thoughtfully. “I used to watch you scribbling in that all the time. You don’t do that anymore.”

My lips part. I scoot onto the ground again. Pilot shifts to catch my eyes.

“Your mouth would move like you were talking to the page. I imagined the sound of your
voice being drawn out—going straight from your mind to the paper, like your arm was an audio cord.”

I swallow, tamping down a sudden urge to cry. “Yeah, I guess I don’t trust notebooks with my thoughts anymore.”

Pilot frowns, dragging a finger delicately from my temple to my chin. “When did that happen?”

I watch the sky. “Sometime that year, someone got ahold of one of my notebooks and read
it.”

He squeezes my hand. “Shit, that’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

Pilot’s wrapped around me, still asleep. Slowly, I extricate myself enough to look over the edge of my bunk. We got back so late, and snuck up here in the dark. I blow out a breath when I see the girls are both already gone. The blinds to the kitchen are open, but I don’t see anyone in there. It must be late, usually someone’s—

“Oh my god!” I bolt up in bed and hit my head on the ceiling with a bang. “Ah!” I fall forward and clamber over Pilot’s legs to get to my phone sitting atop the closet against the bunk.

Pilot stirs as I snatch up the phone. “What? Are you okay? What’s going on?” His voice is groggy.

Panic courses through me. Eleven o’clock. It’s 11:00 a.m.! I turn to see Pilot propping himself on his elbows,
hair poking every which way.

“Pilot, it’s eleven and our internships started today!”

His eyelids fly back.
“Shit.”

It’s 12:16 p.m. when I step up to the door of
Packed!.
My hair is still wet, and I’m wearing minimal makeup. I’ve dressed in the first suitable thing I could find in my closet: dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt. I ran from the Covent Garden Tube stop, so I’m sweating. I fly up the stairs and bust through the office door as soon as Tracey buzzes me in. Tracy’s
sitting behind the desk, watching me.

“Tracey, hi!” I drop my hands to my hips, breathing heavily.

“Hi.” She glances at her computer. “Are you okay? You’re two hours and sixteen minutes late,” she says quietly.

“Yeah, Tracey, I’m so sorry. My alarm didn’t go off, and it won’t happen again.” I take a few more heaving breaths.

“Okay.” She clicks a few things on her computer and turns back to
me. “You can sit over there.” She points to my old station. The aged white MacBook is already sitting on the table. “If you need any help, you can contact me via IM.” I wring my hands in front of me, waiting for more, but she goes back to her work.

“Um, okay, great, thank you!” I stammer. I swipe my wet hair into a ponytail and sit in front of the laptop, still catching my breath as I power it
up. I wonder if Pilot got to work okay.

I pull the British phone from my purse to find a text waiting.

Pilot:
Hey, did you get to work okay?

Me:
Yeah, I made it! I look like waterlogged newborn baby, but I’m here.

Pilot:
Trust me, you do not look like a newborn baby. Waterlogged looks good on you.    ;]

Me:
Waterlogged looks great on you too

Pilot:
Want to get waterlogged later?

Me:
Lamppost
down for waterlogged

Pilot:
Waterlogged has lost meaning

I message Tracey three times throughout the day, asking if she has any tasks, and eventually she sends me to the grocery store for food and asks me to look up coatracks. Pilot and I text all afternoon. By the end of the work day, I’m itching to get back to him. When Tracey dismisses me at five, I practically leap out of my seat. I beam
the entire way home—I think I left a trail of sunshine on the sidewalk.

Pilot sits against the far wall on the bed, and I sit perpendicular to him on the adjacent wall with my legs draped over his lap. My laptop is on my lap, and his laptop is balanced on my shins. Atticus is out at his internship, so we have the room to ourselves. We book train tickets to Edinburgh for Friday afternoon after
class, and a bed-and-breakfast for the weekend.

“Oh, man, look at this. They have famous ghost tours!” Pilot exclaims.

“Ghost tours?”

“And famous cemeteries,” he continues.

“I’ve always dreamed of visiting a city famous for its valleys full of corpses.” I swoon.

He grins, continuing his scroll through
Packed! For Travel!
’s top ten list of Edinburgh activities. “It’s going to be an interesting
trip.”

I go back to scrolling on my own computer. “Look at this. They have a thing we can climb! A real nature thing!” I scoot across the corner so we’re against the same wall, to show him my computer screen. “Look, it’s called a crag, and we hike it to Arthur’s Seat!” The pictures look beautiful.

“Whoa.” He leans in to see my screen. “We’re hittin’ Arthur’s Seat, for sure.”

“Fo sho,” I tease
in a Chad-like voice.

I dress to the business-casual nines the next morning and arrive to work ten minutes early in my best black pants and black blazer with my hair done up in a bun.

“Morning, Tracey! Anything you want me to start with today?” I ask. She hasn’t showed me the tea station.

“I might have some mail to be sent out later.”

“Okay, great … well, I’ll be over there whenever you need
me.”

My phone buzzes as I sit at my table.

Pilot:
You were a vision in business casual when you left this morning =]

Shane:
LOL thanks … I didn’t see you this morning???
=
P

Pilot:
If you’re within sight, Shane, I see you.

Shane:
When was I within sight?

Pilot:
Saw you walking from the kitchen to the stairs on my way to breakfast.

Shane:
You should have stopped me and said good morning!

Pilot:
Figured you were trying to get there early.

Shane:
I was, but I’d have time for you.

I put down the phone, my skin tingling. I’ve started to crave his touch in the same way I crave food or water. I look up to see Wendy switching up the office music at one of the editing bay computers. I haven’t had a chance to say anything to her. My phone buzzes in my lap.

Pilot:
Can I take you to dinner
tonight at 6?

Shane:
I already can’t wait.

Pilot keeps me entertained until 4:30 when Tracey finally tells me she’s ready with the mail. I head up to her desk.

“Okay, here’s a bag of the mail. You can drop these off at the post office and head home, or you can come back and stay. We’ve got a potential sponsor coming in for a seven o’clock meeting today if you want to stick around.”

“Thanks,
Tracey! Um, I think I’m going to head home because I have plans, but thanks! I’ll get these to the post office stat!”