Again, But Better(36)



Pilot orders a beer. He turns to look at me as the bartender fills his order. I hold eye contact, the lyrics to the latest song automatically flowing out of me, my head whipping side to side with the beat. “This is the ANTHEM, throw all your hands up!”

He laughs.

When the bartender returns with his drink, I lean up against the bar. “Um, water, please,” I request before turning back to Pilot’s eyes. Music pulses around us so I lean in as close as I dare (not very close; there’s still at least a foot of space between us). “Do you not like to dance?” I talk-yell with a smile.

“I’m not really a dancer,” he says as my water is placed in front of me.

“But anyone can dance. We’re all dancers!”

He grins and rolls his eyes.

We stroll back to approximately where we were standing earlier, but we’ve lost sight of Babe and Chad. The band has started playing the Beach Boys “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.” We sway back and forth, casually singing along. We’re not close enough that we’re touching, but now that Babe and Chad have moved, it feels like it’s just us here, out alone together.

Fifteen minutes later, we head back to the bar. I order another water. “When we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive. I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you,” belts the lead.

“This band is like my iPod on shuffle,” I comment, lazily leaning up against the bar and gazing out at the singer. “Except without the Beatles. Where are the Beatles? And also Lady Gaga.”

Pilot snorts. “Don’t forget Taylor.”

“Oh my god, it would be amazing if they played some T-swizzle rock style.” I sigh. “You should play at bars like this, with your music,” I suggest cheerily.

He grins at the floor. “That would be cool.”

We head back out. Twenty minutes later, we’re at the bar again. Pilot orders another beer. He watches me as we wait for his drink.

“It’s been a really great day,” he says, “a really great day, I’ve had a lot of fun—” He’s smiling with teeth, like an adorable goof. Heat spreads across my chest. We have an eye contact moment before he continues. “… with Chad, of course. What would Paris be without Chad to see it with?” he finishes. I convulse in laughter.

Back on the dance floor, a song I don’t recognize finally blasts though the room. It’s a punk-rock song I’m not as familiar with, but it demands movement all the same. I sing blindly, making up words. Pilot is still smiling. I’ve never seen him hold a smile for such an extended period of time. He’s standing right next to me now, and we’re bumping into each other as we jump and sway. My skin sings in response: Houston, we have contact.

He keeps turning to smile at me. I smile back and follow up each burst of eye contact with a giant swig of water. It’s a good excuse to break away and center myself. I’m slowly morphing into an anxious ball of nerves. What’s happening right now? Are we flirting? Like, flirting more intensely than before? What do I do? Nothing, just be cool, keep doing what you’re doing. I’m hyperaware of my movements as this unknown magical song that made Pilot more smiley comes to a close.

I think this is flirting. It has to be flirting. The band starts up a new, more mellow song. I know it—I gasp and break into a little happy dance as everyone starts singing along. “Yellow Submarine.” Pilot’s smiling so big at the band. He starts to sing along and I start to sing along, and then his arm comes to sit around my back.

I go full statue. He’s not looking at me this very second, but his arm is on me. His arm is wrapped around me like we’re together. My heart is drumming too fast for the music.

Okay, it’s fine. Just keep singing. I can’t remember the words.

I can’t think of anything but his arm. His hand has settled around my waist. I look up at him. He’s still singing. We sway together. He sways normally. I sway like a statue that someone’s knocked into by accident. At least I’m moving.

He pulls me closer to his side, and my heart kicks up to light speed. Oh my god. We’re smooshed together now. Body contact all along my left side. His warmth mingles with all of mine.

Stay cool, Shane, stay cool. What is staying cool? More swaying. Is the band still playing “Yellow Submarine”? Concentrate on the song. Yes, they are. The overhead lights keep whirling over us, the band keeps playing, and I keep my movements to a minimum in an effort to ensure our skin-to-skin contact stays intact.

I don’t know if he’s looking at me now. I haven’t looked over at him in ages. The idea of looking at him now stresses me out.

You have to look at him, Shane. This is it, this is a moment.

Slowly, I’m talking at molasses speed, I turn my head to the left. He’s already looking at me. Chills race up my limbs. It feels like when the band stops, this moment is going to stop, and I don’t want this to stop. Anxiety shoots up through me, bouncing off the walls of my insides.

His green eyes study mine. We’re looking at each other, but I don’t even know what I would do to initiate something. I’ve never kissed someone, and I don’t want him to know that. If we kiss, will he know that? Oh my god, he’ll know. How could he not know? I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even know what I would do with my arms! Where do arms go when you kiss? Do I just, like, grab him? I can’t just grab him! What if I do it wrong? Is grabbing him an invasion of personal space? Oh my god, I’m going to stand still like I’m doing a pencil dive with my arms flat against my side, aren’t I?

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