Again, But Better(18)

It seems like he’s not serious about this girlfriend. Why have a girlfriend long distance if you’re not serious about her? You definitely don’t ask a girl you’re in love with if you can put your relationship on hold for four months while you’re in another country. You don’t introduce the idea of your girlfriend to people with the phrase “we’ve only been dating for three months” if you’re in love. You don’t say, “I don’t know, we’ll see what happens” in response to a question about staying together long distance if you’re in love. You don’t, you just don’t. You don’t. You don’t. You don’t. You just don’t. You don’t.

Why wasn’t this on Facebook?

How do I act around him now? As if everything’s fine? As if everything’s the same? Are they going to break up?

He said, “We’ll see what happens.” Like, what the actual fudge? Metaphorically rips hair out.

In other, less depressing news, I’m prepping to use Skype for the first time.





8. I Want to Be the Rainstorm, Not the House of Cards



It’s Thursday, and it’s pouring. I can hear the rain pummeling the Karlston. I’ve set myself up in the kitchen with Sawyer and a bagel. In my email, I find a letter with the name and address of the place I’m going be interning: a travel magazine called Packed! For Travel! I have to interview with them before things are definite. My interview is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, a few hours before we catch the plane for Rome.

I’ve been conditioned to think of creative jobs like mystical beings. Finding one would be like finding a unicorn. When I filled out the Common App for college three years ago, both of my parents were in the room, hovering over my shoulder. When I scrolled down to creative writing and added it as my major, Dad jolted behind me. I knew it wasn’t what they were expecting.

“What are you doing?” Dad yelped.

“I’m choosing a major.”

“Honey, we’ve known for years you want to be a doctor.” Mom smiled encouragingly.

“Well, I’ve been thinking—”

“No.” Dad tried to end the discussion.

“What about journalism?” I moved the cursor to select it.

“Where is this coming from? You’ve got straight A’s in all your math and AP science classes; you’re going to be a great doctor,” Mom pushed.

“Yeah, just, I took that creative writing elective last year and it was so fun. It got me thinking, maybe—”

“There is no maybe. We talked about how that class was just for fun. I’m not going to drop fifty thousand dollars a year for you to graduate with no job prospects. What are you tryin’ to pull here?” Dad said.

“I’m not trying to pull anything—”

“Look at me,” Dad commanded. I twisted to look him in the eye. “Do you trust me? Do you trust your dad?” I felt my lips start to quiver. I smashed them into a line, gave him a quick nod. “We know what’s best for you.”

I get where they were coming from, but—Packed! For Travel! is a real-life, well-known magazine that can lead to a real-life job prospect.

I spend the morning in the kitchen, alternating between researching Packed! and reading book three in the Vampire Academy series: Shadow Kiss. When I break midday and head out into the hall, it’s full of music. Guitar. I tread lightly down the corridor and stop outside my room.

Across the way, Pilot’s door is wide open. He’s sitting inside on a navy-blue twin bed, fiddling with a shiny tan guitar. There’s a big map of the UK pinned up on the wall behind him. It takes a few moments for him to register that I’m watching. When he does, he stops playing.

“Hey,” he starts.

“Hey.” I hesitate a moment before crossing the hall to lean against his doorframe. Be outgoing and act normal. “You were able to bring your guitar here with you?” I say softly.

“Oh yeah, of course! I can’t go four months without playing. I carried it on the plane.”

I feel myself smile. “Does she have a name?”

“What, my guitar?”

“No, your bed,” I quip.

He looks at me nervously and I feel my cheeks redden, oh my god. Oh god.

“Yes, your guitar!” I add quickly.

“Hmm.” He considers for a moment. “She doesn’t have a name, but now that you mention it, maybe she deserves a name.”

“She deserves a name,” I agree. “My computer is Sawyer.”

He laughs. “As in Tom?”

“As in James Ford, the con man with a heart of gold, who changed his name to Sawyer, as in Tom Sawyer.”

Pilot narrows his eyes in confusion.

“It’s a Lost thing.”

“Ohhh,” he says, understanding dawning. “I never watched that show.”

I put on my best snob voice. “It’s only one of the greatest shows of all time.”

He purses his lips. “I’ll add it to the Netflix queue.”

“So, your guitar?” I prompt.

“So, my guitar.” He rests it on his lap so it’s facing upward, and runs a hand reverently along the edges. “I’m thinking she feels like a Lucy.”

“‘In the Sky with Diamonds’?”