Again, But Better(33)

“I mean, I appreciate a good picture. I respect that.” A grin tugs at his lips.

“You’re a good co-photographer.”

“Co-photographer?”

“Yeah.” I turn my oversized grin away from his face. I need a second without eye contact to gather myself. “I mean, usually I end up having to give people lessons about how a picture should be framed.” I turn back to gauge his reaction.

He gives me a funny look.

“Like, they don’t ask for the lessons. I kind of obnoxiously teach them after they take a picture for me and it’s framed poorly—like, I give them a mini-lecture and make them do it again.”

Pilot laughs in disbelief. “What?”

“Yeaahhhh.” I look at the ground. “You didn’t get a lecture, though, and you’ve taken quite a few pictures for me.”

When I meet his eyes again, he brings a hand to his heart. “Wow, I’m so honored to have passed this secret photography test.”

I look away, trying to get my expression under control. “Mentally pushing you over again.”

He shrugs. “Sorry, mentally dodged you. Didn’t get me.”

A wave of giddiness roils through me, and I’m so distracted that I trip walking up the train stairs.



* * *



“I’m so pumped for tomorrow, y’all. I’m turning twenty-one. Shit’s gonna be amazing.” Chad’s voice snaps me back. I got lost in a Pilot-related thought spiral while eating my quiche. We’ve stopped in a French restaurant for dinner. Chad raises his drink off the table, and we all clink our glasses.

“It’s gonna be great,” Babe confirms. “I asked the girl at the front desk about the best area to go to.”

“I’m pumped to go to the top of the Eiffel tomorrow,” Pilot adds.

Chad nods his head past us at something. “Check her out, man,” he says in his bro voice.

I turn around to see a petite dark-haired girl walking over to the bar to get a drink. I’m about to turn back and serve Chad a dirty look when I notice the bartender. A woman with a shock of red hair piled up on top of her head moves toward the girl to get her order. It looks like plane/Starbucks lady? Why the heck would she be—? The woman looks up, makes eye contact with me, and winks.

“What the fudge?” I bellow, abruptly standing from my seat.

“Shane…” Babe mutters, embarrassed. I turn to face her. She thinks I’m about to yell at Chad. I glance at Pilot.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I look back at Babe, who’s silently urging me to sit. I raise my eyebrows. “No, I, it’s not that. I know the lady at—” I look back at the bar. She’s gone. There’s a guy there in her place, talking to the dark-haired girl. I blink, shaking my head. What the hell?

“I— Never mind.” I settle back into my seat. Why am I hallucinating a middle-aged British woman?



* * *



Back at the hostel, we split off to our separate rooms. Pilot brushes his teeth and gets into bed. I take a ridiculously short shower and snuggle into the single bed next to Pilot’s around midnight. He’s asleep facing the door again.

“Night,” he mumbles as I settle in.

I yank the covers up to my chin. “I always think you’re asleep, and you scare the crap out of me,” I mutter.

He turns toward me, wearing a mischievous smirk. “Muahahahaha!”

We’re only a little more than a foot apart. I grab my pillow out from under my head and whack him in the face. He snorts.

I pull it back under my head with a smile. “Night.”





15. Fail



I’ve always been under the impression that the Louvre was a museum under that iconic glass pyramid. We’re now standing in front of said pyramid, but it’s surrounded by what looks like another palace.

“Is all of that the Louvre?” I ask, stunned.

“Yeah, of course!” Babe answers.

“Holy crap.”

I’ve been dreaming about visiting this museum since I first learned about it in sixth grade, when we were all forced to take Intro to French and Spanish. And then of course The Da Vinci Code only added fuel to that fire.

I’m particularly hyped when we come upon the Winged Victory statue—the famous, armless angel missing a head. It’s from, like, 200 BC. I did a report on it in that sixth grade French class. I skip up to it. I’m only there alone for a moment before Pilot appears at my shoulder.

“You want a picture with it?” he asks knowingly.

“Yes, please!” I hand him my camera.

As I step out in front of the sculpture to pose, we make eye contact—he smiles and my brain malfunctions. I raise and lower my arms like they’ve just sprouted from my torso. Oh god, not this again. Hand on hip? Both hands on hips? Arms out in glee? One hand up? Pop a foot? Jazz hands? Stand sideways? Shit. I snap my arms down and smile with them straight at my sides like a soldier. And then it’s over, and I’m offering to take one of him, desperate to get back behind the camera as soon as humanly possible. He stuffs his hands in his pockets doing his cool-guy stance. Chill as ever.

I check the camera to see what pose he got. Jazz hands and Soldier. Cool.