Again, But Better(102)
“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.”
19. Heavy as the Setting Sun
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?”