Again, but Better (33 page)

Re: Pictures of published piece!!

________________________________________________

Sal Primaveri
            4/13/11

to Shane

Shane,

I don’t know what you think one article is going to lead to. You’ve betrayed our trust, and there will be consequences. Don’t expect to come home and for all to be forgotten. You crossed a line
when you flippantly misled us for months on end. We love you, but we cannot support this kind of behavior. I hope you can understand. You live under my roof, on my dime, and while that is the case, you will follow my rules.

Love,

Dad

I gulp another swig of my drink and set it down on the bar in front of me.

“Babe, that’s amazing!” I exclaim. Babe’s cowokers just connected her with
the Disney
college program in Florida that she’s been itching to get involved with. Last time, I didn’t get to celebrate with her when it happened.

“Thanks! I can’t believe it! Ahh!” She throws her hands up near her face. “How’s your job hunt going?”

I sigh. “I haven’t heard back from any of the places I’ve applied to.”

“There’s still time!” she insists.

“Not really, we’re done in a little over a week.
If I don’t find a job—” I stop short and take a breath. “If I don’t find a job, things are going to be really bad when I get back to New York, and then I don’t know what’s going to happen with school,” I ramble. If I don’t get a job, and that button doesn’t work, I don’t know what comes next for me.

“Shane, stop working yourself up!” Babe interrupts. “You’re going to figure this out! Come on,
we should be celebrating. You have a published article in a real-life, physical, you-can-frame-it-and-hold-it magazine that people read all the time! That’s huge!” She whips it out of her purse and waves around the copy I gave her.

“That’s still in your purse?” I shoot her a small smile. “Still, it doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t found a job.”

“A magical Harry Potter book spoke to you,
Shane—” she chides, grinning over her glass of Guinness.

“I regret telling you about that—”

“Don’t give up now!” She punches her fist to the sky with a laugh.

“I still haven’t found anyone to go to Edinburgh with this weekend.” Babe can’t come because she’s got a Disney DVD release party thing to go to with her coworkers.

“Well, you should go anyway,” she says.

I shoot her an exasperated
look.

“I’m serious! I think you should go yourself. It’ll be a journey of self-discovery. Do a tour or something. It’s good to travel alone. I’ve always wanted to do it. Heck, I’m going to after this!”

I snort at the d
é
j
à
vu. “Go by myself?”

“Yeah.”

“Travel alone in a foreign country?”

“Why not?” She grins.

I chuckle sardonically. “Because if I’m alone with my thoughts for too long, I’m
going to end up dwelling on Pilot drama.”

“Maybe you should.” She shrugs. “It’s part of the moving-on process. You have to deal with your feelings. What do you think I was doing all that time after Paris with the Disney movies in our room?
Dealing with feelings
.”

I drop my gaze to the table thoughtfully before yanking out Horcrux Ten. “Okay, but if I’m doing this, I’m uploading a pre-travel
post to the blog so people know to call the authorities if I never return.”

Babe giggles. “Feel free to use my computer!”

April 15, 2011 (take two)

Mom and Dad,

I know I’ve created a rift. Whether or not you’ve been aware, it’s been forming for a while. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I get home, but this time, I won’t stop trying to close it. There might be times where I need a break, and I retreat for a while, but I’ll always try again. I need to live my own life, but
that doesn’t mean that I don’t want you in it.

XO,

Shane

I catch the 3:40 p.m. train to Edinburgh.

The gray cityscape outside my window softens into an endless span of sheep and greenery. I pen down two new chapters of my work-in-progress as the sun falls away.

The moon hangs full and bright in the sky when I finally wander up to my bed-and-breakfast. It’s 9:00 p.m. and I’m starving, so
I drop my stuff in the room and meander down the road until I find a cozy old-fashioned-looking pub. I take a seat at the bar with my copy of
Prisoner of Azkaban
and order
a burger. There’s a handful of other people here chatting and enjoying a drink under the warm yellow lighting. It’s nice. I open my book and fall in with Harry.

Halfway through the first chapter, I’m distracted by a young guy
with longish dark hair and disarming gold-brown eyes who sits two stools away. I watch as he orders a Guinness with a Scottish accent. He turns and catches me watching. I quickly return to Harry Potter.

“Hey,” he says. I glance back over. He’s smiling at me now.

“Hi.” I pull a half-assed, embarrassed smile.

“American?” he asks in surprise.

“Affirmative,” I respond, raising my eyebrows and
taking a sip of my drink. “Scottish?”

He laughs and propels us into conversation. He reminds me of a young Henry Ian Cusick (Desmond from
Lost
). His name is Greg; he’s studying law at Edinburgh University. He does most of the talking, especially once my burger comes. Chatting with Greg makes me think about chatting with Pilot, and for the first time in weeks, I give in and let my thoughts wander
in that direction. I would rather be here with Pilot, having stupid conversations about evil chairs or how likely it is that we run into J.K. Rowling on the street tomorrow, than be laughing and smiling politely with attractive Scottish Greg.

But I’m mad at Pilot, aren’t I? Or am I mad at me? Have I forgiven myself? Did I make up for it? Can I be with Pilot and find the headspace and time to
navigate a creative career? I don’t know. I’m never late for things, but Pilot makes me forget about time. Or … I forget about time because of Pilot. I hate that Pilot didn’t make sure Amy got his message.

I’m so confused.

Scottish Greg has a great accent and seems really smart, and wow, he has great hair, and he’s keeping the conversation going, and it seems like he has a decent sense of humor.
But the longer we talk, the more I want to excuse myself and head back to the B and B.

“Something wrong?” Greg asks. He’s telling a story, and I’ve checked out.

“Oh, no,” I answer. “Go on. I’m sorry!”

When he wraps up, I stand from my stool so Greg can see that I’m ready to head out.

The bill’s been sitting untouched on my left, so I pull out my debit card. I do a double take when I glance
at it to catch the price. There’s a handwritten note across the top of it. I blink, my heart ramming uncomfortably against my ribs.

You’re ready, if you’re ready. x

Frantically, I glance around for the bartender. It was a man earlier—but there she is, red hair knotted up, serving someone ten feet down the counter.

“Hey!” I yell down to her. She looks up and meets my eyes.

“It’ll work now?”

She nods. I pivot and leave the pub.

My pulse is still racing as I drop onto the bed at my B and B and extricate the locket from my purse …
I’m ready now? I don’t feel ready.
I can’t wrap my head around erasing the last four months. So much has happened that I don’t want to forget.

In the morning, the B and B hostess gives me directions to the Elephant House. It’s a bit of a walk, but I revel
in the surprisingly warm weather and take in the city as I go. The architecture is all medieval-looking and walking through it is almost fantastical. When I spot the caf
é
, I skip up to it, jumping to a stop at the entrance. There’s a little sign in the window pronouncing it
THE BIRTHPLACE OF HARRY POTTER
.

To the naked eye, it’s just a caf
é
. There are four computers for use in the front left corner,
there’s a bar to order at, tables everywhere. It’s full of windows with a beautiful view of Edinburgh Castle. But, a tingly feeling spreads over me as I step inside. This is where J. K. Rowling came to sit and birth the phenomenon that changed millions of lives. This is where she created a world that I could retreat to whenever things weren’t so great in my own reality. I order a latte and
sit down at a table near the window reading
Prisoner of Azkaban
. After a while, I pull out Horcrux Ten and pen another chapter of my own book.

Down the road, I stumble onto one of Edinburgh’s famous graveyards.
I take my time there, roaming lazily from one elaborate gravestone to the next. I stop short when I spot one in particular that reads:
In loving memory of Thomas Riddell
.

“What?” I yell
in disbelief. I whip out my camera and snap a selfie.

When my stomach starts to rumble, I wander back onto the streets to find a pub where I can grab lunch and regroup. I settle in alone at a small table along the wall and pull out my British phone.

There’s a text from Babe.

Babe:
How goes the finding yourself?

I smile and type back.

Me:
This just in: I hate dealing with feelings, but Harry
Potter is helping numb the pain.

Babe:
Harry Potter heals all!:]

Me:
True story! I’m headed to go climb a crag-mountain-hill thing soon!

Babe:
Take a hoard of pictures for the blog!

Me:
OBVIOUSLY! =]

It takes twenty-five minutes to find the crag, but I make it there with just the waiter’s verbal instructions to work off. At the base of it is a park of sorts. Children and dogs splash around
in big contemporary fountains, and a bright sidewalk runs among big flat stretches of green grass. The crag looming ahead is rocky, green, and gorgeous. I’m going to climb the crap out if it.

I unzip my purse and check for texts again. There’s one new one from Babe.

Babe:
Excited to hear about it!

Shane:
About to start the hike. Cross your fingers I don’t slip on a pile of rocks, trip over
the edge, and die.

Babe:
PLEASE DON’T DIE.

I stare at my phone for a few more seconds before I pull up the text thread with Pilot. The last messages are from February.

Pilot:
I just heard someone use the word ravish at work. Can I pull off the word ravish? Or is it like knackered? =P

Pilot:
Is everything okay?

Pilot:
I’m back early today, so find me when you get home!

Pilot:
I hope everything’s
okay.

My chest tightens. I want to text him something stupid like
I miss you …
but instead I chuck the phone into my bag and trek toward the foot of the trail.

The path curves gently up and around the hill before narrowing out and getting steeper. Thirty minutes in, I take a seat off to the side of the trail on a giant rock. There’s been a group of four dudes maybe three hundred feet behind
me throughout the trek. I make a deal with myself that once they pass, I’ll get up and keep going.

The view from my perch is gorgeous: fantastic rock formations, endless green hills, and medieval-looking architecture. This must be such an interesting place to live. I glance down the trail, catching sight of the guys on their way around the corner before bringing my gaze back to the horizon. My
heart stutters. I think I just saw Pilot in that group? I slowly turn my head to look again.

My eyebrows pull together. No, just four college-aged dudes with hair in varying shades of brown.
Great, I’m Bella Swan-ing circa
New Moon. They pass me, chatting easily about sports in American accents. I push up off the rock and continue.

Forty minutes later, I stumble around a giant rock into a vast
green valley. At its edge, the ground cuts off with an abrupt drop. To my right, the land bulges upward toward Arthur’s Seat. I’m so close to the tippy top! A scattering of people are climbing up to the peak where the Seat is, but no one’s wandering the valley.

I pull my frizzy curls free of my ponytail and run out onto the green. My hair flies out behind me as I throw myself into a cartwheel,
my cross-body flying around and knocking into me. The land is surprisingly springy and soft. It feels a little like those fake turf football fields, but with more give. I leap around like a five-year-old, scout out a good spot, and collapse onto the ground to gaze up at the wispy clouds overhead.

A gust of wind tickles my nose as I fish my phone and the silver locket from my purse. I flip the
locket over, running the pads of my fingers over the inscription. Angst sidles around inside me.
What’s the right decision?

I applied to so many jobs. I stepped up my blog game. I got my piece published. I had the people I work with looking out for me … and nothing has panned out. If my parents throw me out, what will I do? What if they won’t pay for me to go back to school? What am I going to
do? Maybe I won’t get a degree or I’ll go to community college?

I don’t know what happens now. I don’t want to live in this world where I’ve proved them right:
I’m not good enough
. I do know I can be a successful gastroenterologist. I’ve got eight more interviews lined up for residency. My grades kicked ass. And with Pilot—maybe Babe’s right. She doesn’t know the whole story, but maybe the healthy
thing to do is
move on
. It’ll be easier to move on if I don’t remember this.

Disappointment swells in my chest. I blow out breath after breath trying to dispel it.

Palming the locket, I type up a draft to Pilot:
I miss you.
I stare at the words for a minute before backspacing them into oblivion. I type:
Depends how you use it, could be creepy.
I press send and wait.

My brain counts the seconds
as they pass. Two minutes. Three minutes.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

My fingers twitch. I drop the phone into my purse and stare at the sky.

I played everything out. I tried with Pilot. I finished the internship. I blink at the emotion gathering in my eyes as my fingers find the locket’s edge. The silver top flips back like a pocket watch. Inside, the image of a clock is etched delicately
into the silver. I didn’t notice that before. On the opposite side sits the obsidian heart. I close my eyes and let my thumb graze back and forth across the cold surface, trying to feel out a decision.
Do I hear music?
I listen harder.

There’s music in the wind. I think I know the song; my heart warms
with the familiarity of it. Is someone listening to music up here?
Don’t they know I’m trying
to enjoy nature and make maybe the most important decision of my life?

It’s getting louder. My brain clicks the song into place. I snap the locket shut in surprise and open my eyes to the bright afternoon sky, ears perked. It sounds like it’s just a guitar—and then Pilot’s face swings into view, hovering over me.

“Ahhh!” I scream, flipping onto my stomach and scrambling into a sitting position.
“
What the fudge?
”