Again, But Better(56)
A week a half later I get another email from Leo.
Your postcards are the talk of the town. What’d you say in those things? The ’rents won’t stop whispering.
I don’t hear anything from my parents.
25. One Last Time
Our last full day abroad comes without warning. Yesterday, I made a new Facebook chat thread for us to exchange American numbers. I need these friendships to stick. Everyone leaves their numbers, including Pilot. I stare at the digits next to his name, anger sparking in my chest.
This morning there was a new message in our family dinner group chat.
Babe
FRIENDLY REMINDER: Our flat
family dinner blowout is tonight!!
6:00 p.m. Be there!
I pull out two jars of sauce (my dinner contribution) and leave them on the table before heading out to do the Tower of London with Sahra and Atticus. Babe said she was too busy packing to come. Pilot just didn’t come. Maybe he went to hang out with the guys down the hall.
Tonight, I’m confronting him.
* * *
We head to the kitchen at 6:00 p.m., per Babe’s instructions. Inside, the table’s all set, and the room is already brimming with the sweet smell of melting cheese and tomato sauce. Babe’s leaning against the counter with a glass of wine. Atticus enters behind me, and we all chorus a round of heys.
“Did you start early?” I exclaim.
“Yeah!” Babe lifts her glass. “I just set the table, and I bought some wine yesterday. The ziti’s been in the oven for around thirty minutes, so it’ll be ready in like, fifteen. I finished packing early, and thought, why not get started!”
“Babe, we were going to help,” Atticus protests.
“Don’t worry about it. I love cooking!” She grins, picking the wine bottle up from the table. “Who wants wine?”
Atticus and I each pour ourselves a glass. I pull Sawyer out of my bag and put on a classic rock playlist. I place it on the couch at a low volume for background ambiance. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” kicks things off.
“’Merica!” Babe yells in the self-aware ironic way we do to make fun of ourselves.
“’Merica!” echoes a male voice. I turn around to find Pilot standing in the doorway, wearing one of his classic plaid button-ups. He holds up a plastic bag. “Got the ping-pong balls! I had to go to three places, but I finally found them at Primark so all is good!”
“I knew you’d come through.” Atticus grins.
I tense up and head over toward Babe and Atticus, taking a spot against the counter. Pilot places the bag on the couch near Sawyer and slings his backpack off.
“It looks like they don’t actually have solo cups here, but they had these.” He pulls a sleeve of medium-sized white cups from his bag. Babe and Atticus laugh.
Pilot hauls a pack of beer from his bag and puts it in the fridge before cracking one open for himself. He leans up against the counter near me. We’re all leaning against the nice wrap-around counter near the window. “What have you all been up to today?”
“Packing,” Babe drawls.
“We went to see the Tower of London. Remember, I invited you this morning,” Atticus teases.
“Oh yeah.” Pilot blinks. “How was it?”
“Educational and great!” Atticus exclaims.
“Nice.” Pilot takes another sip of his beer.
Sahra bursts through the door. “Woo! Family dinner night,” she yells with fifty times the enthusiasm of her usual voice. “I’m so ready to drink and be American together.” She throws her purse on the couch, strolls to the table, and falls into a chair. “How long do we have till it’s ready to eat?” she adds eagerly.
When the timer goes off, Babe grabs an oven mitt and pulls a casserole dish of steaming ziti from the oven. We pick up plates, and Babe takes charge, deeming herself the official pasta distributer. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” starts playing from my playlist. It makes me smile.
“Do any of you know all the words to this song?” I ask. “It’s one of my life goals to know them all one day.” Babe drops a scoop of ziti onto my plate.
“I want to too!” She laughs.
“Doot doot doot doot doot doot doot,” I sing along quietly.
“Wow, you already know so many of the lyrics,” Pilot says from the table. I snort as I make my way to my seat.
We finish our baked ziti in merry chitchat, catching up on all the things we’ve missed in each other’s lives. After dinner, we clear the table for beer pong. We play three on two and rock-paper-scissor for teams. I end up on Pilot’s. We play, and Pilot and I are winning and laughing and high-fiving, and I almost forget that he’s been avoiding me for ages and might know all my most intimate thoughts.
It’s 9:00 p.m. when we finish up a game of Kings, gather our jackets, and head out to a pub in Camden that Babe found on Yelp.
* * *
The inside of the pub is littered with round, dark green, fancy-looking booths. Music plays low in the background, so speaking is still an option. We pick a booth, and Pilot slides in first, followed by Sahra and Atticus.
As I lean to slide in, Babe loops her arm around mine and pulls me in the opposite direction toward the bar. “We’re going to go grab some drinks. Hold down the table and then we can switch,” she tells them.