Again, But Better(106)

I sob-breathe. “Here is hurting me, Pilot … I can’t choose us because I need to choose me. I’m not ready for this. Here, I’m still in school and I’m still dependent. I can’t break from my shit path. But in 2017, maybe I can do something. I have some money saved, and I’ll break up with Melvin and start over or something. I can figure something out there.”

“Shane,” he breathes.

“Pilot, I want to reset. I need to steer my own boat, and I can’t do it with you in my head. Just go back to Amy. This was a mistake.”

A tear rolls down Pilot’s cheek. “How can you say that?” He scrunches his eyes closed and swipes his palm across his face.

My mouth quivers as he gets up and leaves. The door shuts quietly behind him. I cross the room and slam my back against it. Nausea fills my gut. I sob freely as I slide to the ground. The chair Pilot was sitting in looms in front of me. I rein in my legs and explode outward, kicking at it. It blows over sideways, right into the chair next to it. The second chair starts to fall as well, and I scream in surprise as both it and Sawyer crash to the ground.

“No, no, no, no, nononononononono.” I leap up, grasping at the metal legs and throwing the chairs away from my computer. I frantically drag my finger back and forth across the touchpad.

The screen flickers to life with a huge black crevasse stretching across its center. Even the lit-up parts fade and flicker as if in shock. I hold down the power button to restart.

“Please please please please please.” The screen goes to black, and then half a buffering circle fades into view on the screen. The top half is blacked out by the same thick, dark crevasse. “Please just turn on,” I beg.

It buffers and buffers and buffers, but never whooshes on.

All my half-finished stories. The detailed outline for my great American novel. The three thousand words I threw up onto the page my first day of take two. The cloud doesn’t automatically back up my shit here. It’s all gone. And I don’t have the money to replace it. Am I breathing? I feel like I can’t breathe. I stand and put Sawyer on the table. I think I’m suffocating. I run upstairs and barge out the front door of the Karlston.

My boots carry me down the sidewalk. The locket is slick in my palm. My insides are fissuring. I can’t be here anymore. I only make it to the corner before I unclasp my hand, flip open the locket to reveal the obsidian-black heart-shaped button within it, squeeze my eyes shut, and bring down my thumb to detonate.





21. Ford Every Stream



One at a time, I unscrunch my eyelids. Tears are still sliding down my cheeks. I glance around. Everything looks the same? I’m still on King’s Gate? I sprint down the block to the newspaper stand. It’s still 2011.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I stare blankly down the street on the corner of Gloucester Road until someone rams into my shoulder from behind.

“Excuse me!” I bark, stumbling to the side as they stride on by. It’s a woman in a suit.

“Not how it works,” she sings out, red hair bouncing behind her. I stare for a moment before chasing after her.

“You said this was our way out!” I yell to her back, holding up the locket. I’m only a few feet behind her, but suddenly the sidewalk is congested and I’m weaving through tons of people in suits coming toward me, all chattering away on their phones. What the—

“Come back!” I stumble to a stop, and press down on the obsidian heart again.

Still nothing. There’s a tap on my shoulder. I whirl, and she’s right behind me.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand.

“It’ll work when y’all are ready,” she says simply before rejoining the tide of suited individuals in movement.

I gasp through tears, stumbling after her. “But I am ready! I’m ready!”

I press the button again and again, sidestepping and twisting through the crowded pavement.

“Please, I’m ready! Please! Stop! Everything’s ruined!” I trip over my feet and crash to the ground, scraping my knees against the concrete. My chest caves in on itself as I stumble to my feet again.

Shoulders convulsing, I press my hands to cover my eyes. Trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped here.

When I lower my hands, the sidewalk is clear. She’s gone.



* * *



Headphones are back in my ears. Nobody speaks to me, despite the tsunami spilling down my face. That’s the way it is on the Tube. You can always trust people not to talk to you.

Shame snakes through me. I made Pilot cry. Wendy doesn’t like me. I killed Sawyer. I didn’t stay late when there was a meeting I could have listened in on. I haven’t made any tea at the office. I have no connection to the internet. I told Pilot to go back to Amy! All my files are gone. I can’t reset. I ride aimlessly, switching lines every once in a while, feeling perpetually nauseated.

The sky is streaked in darkness when I step outside again. I exited at a stop called Bethnal Green. My eyes are swollen and raw as I roam the sidewalks.

At some point, I come to a halt, blinking at the building across the street. It’s … a bookstore? There’s a bookstore.

I swipe my face dry and cross the street. Inside, the air smells of wooden shelves, fresh paper, and a hint of must. I inhale it gratefully. The place is narrow, but there are two floors, and every inch is packed with book-laden furniture.