Again, But Better(116)

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?”





27. Marching On



Pilot laughs and continues playing the guitar slung over his shoulder. Am I hallucinating? I blink in confusion as he settles onto a single, random, boxy black rock ten feet away.

Then he starts to sing, “And I neverrrrrrrr, saw you coming-ing, ayayayayayayay.”

I inch closer, like a spooked kitten. “What are you doing?” I shout.

“And I’ll neverrrrrrr be the say-yah-yay-aye-yay-ahh-mme.” He raises his eyebrows with impish amusement.

Did he get my text? How is he in front of me on a mountain playing Taylor’s … “State of Grace”?