Again, But Better(42)

She’s silent for a moment, before shrugging coolly. “You’re one to lecture. What’s going on with you and Pilot?”

My lips clamp shut. I swallow slowly, debating whether or not to share my breakup theory. I stay quiet.

She raises her eyebrows. I turn to look out the window.



* * *



We pick up burgers on our way back to the Karlston. I eat mine in the kitchen with Babe, both of us surfing the internet and catching up with the world. I import all the Paris pictures, edit them, and get an album up on Facebook. I spend some time on the Packed! For Travel! site, getting ready for my upcoming first day of work. At some point, Atticus comes in and asks us about our trip.

As we fill him in, he stabs animatedly at a frozen meal and stuffs it in the microwave. When we finish our highlights reel, he launches into a story about a strange show he had to go see for class that revolved around the life of a toad. We get a play-by-play of the entire thing, and it’s ridiculously entertaining through Atticus’s sarcastic retelling.

Thirty minutes into the toad show recap, the kitchen door swings open. Pilot strides in and flops on the black leather couch, looking exhausted. I feel a nervous smile pop up onto my cheeks. Last night—I mean, something changed between us.

“And then the whole cast is just squatted on the ground ribbiting for, I swear, five minutes straight with no dialogue—” Atticus, who had been pacing around the table, stops short, looking at Pilot.

“Hey! I’m telling them about the toad play!” he says cheerily. Pilot huffs a sarcastic laugh and lets his head fall back against the couch. “How’d your call go?” Atticus asks.

A call? I push Sawyer aside so I can see Pilot better. Could it be a breakup-with-Amy call?

Pilot runs a hand down his face and looks at the ceiling. Oh my god, something’s wrong. Was it a breakup call?

“Um,” he starts, “Amy’s going to come visit me next month during her break. She wanted to see me, so she bought a ticket to come. Visit.”

I suck in an audible breath as the cloud I’ve been dancing on dissolves under my feet. Pilot’s eyes flit to mine and then down to the floor. Babe shoots me a sympathetic look.

“That’ll be nice!” Atticus exclaims from his position leaning against the counter near the sink. “You guys should go back to Paris together, city of love and all that.”

I pull my computer screen in front of my face and stare at it blindly.

“Yeah that’s … that’s where she wants to go,” Pilot mumbles. He doesn’t sound excited. I don’t know if that makes this better or worse. I need to get out of here. I need to leave the room.

“Even though you were just there?” Babe asks hesitantly.

My limbs refuse to move. They need to hear all the details.

“Yeah, she really wants to go.”

“It’ll be fine. There’s always more to see in Paris,” Atticus says, taking a seat at the table.

Pilot stands abruptly and strides for the door. “Yeah, I have to—I have a paper,” he says.

I give it a minute before I pack up my computer to leave too. I want to be sad in the privacy of my top bunk. As I stand, the chair I was on topples backward, clanging obnoxiously against the floor.

I whip around to glare at it. “Fuck off!”

Babe and Atticus watch me silently with wide eyes. I swallow before placing Sawyer back on the table, picking up the chair, and breezing out of the room.





18. I Can Learn to Do It



January 24, 2011

Mom and Dad,

My internship starts tomorrow. My boss’s name is Wendy, and she’s already the coolest. She said if things go well, I might get to write a piece about studying abroad in London for the magazine! I spent the morning researching the company to get a better feel for their posting style. This afternoon, I’m going to put together a list of touristy things in London to try out these next few months. This way, if I get the chance to write that article, I’m prepared. Wish me luck!

XO,

Shane


P. S. I miss your cooking.

P. P. S. I like a boy. He has a girlfriend who isn’t me, and it’s the worst.





* * *



I’m outside the door of Packed!, jittery with freshly consumed caffeine pumping through my veins.

I glance at my phone again: 9:52 a.m. Eight minutes early. That should be fine. I push in the doorbell and step back as the buzzing sound blasts from the speaker.

Tracey the receptionist welcomes me in. She brings me to a little table outside the office kitchen and sets an old white MacBook on it. This is where I’m to sit. Then she speeds me around the wide-open space, introducing me to the employees. I try to take note of everyone’s name, but we only exchange quick hellos, so it’s difficult (Donna, Janet, Declan, George—and Jamie?). They’re all trendy-looking, and they all have English accents.

Then I get a rundown of their kitchen–tea station. They have cool cubed sugar, a stainless steel electric kettle, ten different types of tea, and a chart pasted to the wall with everyone’s specific tea preferences. I’m to make tea for whomever requests it. It’s a quick tour, and she finishes by leading me back to the little table with the white MacBook.

“So you can reach me on IM if you need me,” she adds before heading back to the front desk.