Again, But Better(57)

She leans into to my ear. “Is there something going on with you and Pilot again? You haven’t talked about him in forever.”

“Nothing is going on with me and Pilot,” I mumble.

Babe shakes her head and meets my eyes, putting on a serious face. “Do you like him still?” She tries to study my expression. I never told her about Amy and Horcrux Nine. I haven’t told anyone.

I blow out an exasperated breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She sighs as we reach the bar. Babe orders her drink. I have to get Pilot alone. Maybe I should buy him a drink and lure him to a different table?

“Can I get a glass of red wine?” I ask the bartender. I hesitate for a second then add, “And a Guinness, please.”

“You’re getting a Guinness?” Babe asks beside me. I turn to respond to her and startle. There’s a tall, curly-haired man standing right behind her. The guy introduces himself, shakes our hands, and quickly orders us all shots of whiskey. I exchange a look with Babe, but she’s into it. They start up a line of small talk.

I glance back over at our booth and see Pilot watching us. He raises his eyebrows at me in amusement. I look away, trying not to smile. He’s so stupidly charming.

Four shots come on a platter and the guy distributes them: one to me, Babe, and his dark-haired, lanky friend who appeared out of nowhere while I looked away, turning our little triangle into a circle. I bring the tiny glass to my nose, take a quick whiff, and pull away. It smells like a mixture of wood and rubbing alcohol.

“To tonight!” says the curly-haired guy. The three of them shoot the liquid down their throats. I take a sip.

“Oh my god.” My face squishes up, and I spasm like a dog shaking the water from its fur. It burns.

“Shane!” Babe says, laughing. “You can’t sip it!” The curly-haired guy laughs with her.

I hand the shot to Babe. “Here, you have mine,” I tell her. I grab my wine and the Guinness from the bar and stroll back to our booth.

I slide in next to Pilot, holding both drinks—and freeze up. I can’t lure him to another table if I’m already inside the booth. Good job thinking this one through.

A moment later, Sahra and Atticus slide out.

“Where are you guys going?” I ask quickly.

“To get a drink,” Sahra answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Pilot will stay here with you until Babe gets back.” Atticus laughs before zeroing in on my Guinness. “You got a Guinness?”

“I, yeah, just,” I flounder as they get up and out of the booth. Atticus grins but doesn’t wait for my explanation. I watch them walk away. Babe is still chatting up the guys over there. I slowly look over at Pilot, widening my eyes and pulling a hmm-I guess-it’s-just-us face. How do I open?

I look at my drinks. “Uh, I actually don’t think I want this,” I say, pushing the glass of Guinness forward. “You can have it if you want.”

He smiles hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, please take it.” I push it toward him.

“Thanks.” He picks it up and takes a swig. “How was that whiskey shot?” he asks with amusement.

“Oh god, it was nasty. I felt rude not at least trying it, though.”

He smirks and shakes his head, bringing the beer to his lips. I feel myself smile and then force my lips back down.

I take a sip of the wine. It’s so sour. Okay, say your words, Shane.

“How’s the book going?” Pilot lowers his beer.

I never actually started my book.

I swallow. “Um, not going too much. I’ve been trying to catch up on some other studying.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry about what happened with your parents…”

“Um, yeah, I never got to say thank you for, you know, going to that, and um, attempting to prevent that dumpster fire of a conversation.” I gulp down another sip.

His eyes find mine, and hold them for a beat, like a sort of metaphysical hand squeeze. “Anytime, Shane.”

I glance over at the bar. Atticus and the girls are cheers-ing with the whiskey guys and downing another round of shots.

I turn back to Pilot, twitchy with nerves. “I have to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” he says.

I grip my glass tighter. “Um, okay, well, um, do you know about that night in the kitchen?”

He grins. “I think you’re going have to be more specific.”

“Um, the night my parents visited, I lost my notebook in the kitchen…” I trail off.

“Oh shit, did you find it?” he asks. “You must have a crapload of hilarious story ideas in there.”

I loose a pent-up breath. He doesn’t know. Now tell him how you feel.

“How’s that album you’re working on?” I find myself saying.

“Oh, it’s um, kind of on hold for now,” he says with a sad smile.

“What? Why?” I lean forward, forearms on the table.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel like I’m totally happy with it anymore, so I’m taking a break until I figure out what’s not sounding right.”

“Oh…” Tell him.

I watch as he looks down at his drink thoughtfully. He looks sad. I don’t want him to be.