Again, But Better(101)

“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?”