Again, But Better(63)
I blow out a breath. “Let’s save it for this quirky-ass café.”
He chuckles. “So, you’re gonna be a—what is it, a gastroenterologist?”
“Yup, working on it.”
“Why gastroenterologist, may I ask?” he asks curiously.
I purse my lips for a moment. “Well, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do, so I just kinda picked gastroenterology.”
“Just picked it?” He chuckles. “Isn’t it, like, a really giant life commitment?”
“Yeah, I’ve got six years of residency coming my way…” I trail off like a wind-up toy running out of steam. I decided I was working toward gastro somewhere between my first year of med school and now. Melvin was so passionate about it.
“Wow, that’s a lot of years.”
I shrug and pull a small smile. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m graduating top of my class, though. It’s going well.”
He nods and drops his gaze. “How are things um, with your family? Better? I still think from time to time about that night they showed up.”
I pause. “Things are still kinda shitty, but in a more boring way. We don’t really talk. I’m out in San Diego—I kind of needed to get away—but I’m doing well in school, and they’re happy with my progress.”
He’s quiet for a beat. The blare of New York swells in the silence.
“Wow,” he finally breathes.
“Wow what?” I ask as we make our way across another block. I grip my purse, one hand on the chain and one on the actual bag.
“I can’t believe you’re an almost doctor.” He raises his shoulders in a shrug-smile. God, it’s really cute. “You still writing all the time?”
I shake my head. “Nah, not really. Things are so busy, and I haven’t really had the time to write for fun … Do you keep in touch with anyone from London?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No, I’m completely out of the loop.” He speaks slowly. “Do you?”
“Well, yeah. Sahra graduated from Harvard a year back and she’s, like, a real lawyer. I track her success via Facebook. Atticus and I grab lunch in LA every few months—he’s producing a play there right now—and Babe and I still talk all the time! She just got engaged, actually.”
Pilot’s quiet as we cross to another block.
After a minute, I meet his eyes again. “Have you been back since we left?”
He shakes his head. “Um, no, haven’t been back, but I want to someday. Have you?”
“No—there have been times where I’ve really, really wanted to.” I even spoke to Melvin about maybe going during one of our breaks the first year we were together. He didn’t want to spend the money, which is understandable. “But like I said, things have been so busy with school and working, and I haven’t been able to take the time off.”
I heave a breath. “In my head the whole place has taken on this almost magical quality.”
A fresh wave of nostalgia washes over me. I catch a wistful glimmer in Pilot’s eye before he looks away.
Two more blocks and the café should be up on the right. Traffic roars down the street as we weave through a light crowd of midday walkers: middle-aged women, couples, and businessmen speed by.
Pilot’s studying me again. It lights me up with nerves.
“Are you still making music?” I ask suddenly. We’ve come to the edge of another sidewalk. I stare at the walk–don’t walk sign across the way. It feels so important that he’s still making music. Please say you’re still making music.
“Um, nah, not too much.”
I turn to catch his eye. “What? Not even, like, on the side?”
He shakes his head, passes me a small smile.
I blow out a breath and refocus. “I think it’s up here, on the right.” I point to a shiny silver business building up ahead of us. The number 5184 glimmers along its edge.
Pilot smiles, pulling out the flyer to check the address and looking back at me. “You think when they said quirky coffee place they meant corporate block of cement?”
I smother a laugh. “Maybe it’s camouflage. It says hidden café, Pies. There’s gonna be”—I hold up air quotes—“a ‘secret elevator.’”
He snorts as we climb the steps. I throw the fancy glass doors open, a little excited now. There’s a lobby desk much like the one in Pilot’s building. This one’s unmanned. A string of silver elevators line the wall to our left. Straight ahead at the far, far end of the room, a hallway stretches off the left and right corners.
The flyer says the elevator’s down that hallway on the right. I power walk toward it, and Pilot strolls behind me.
I clack around the corner into the hall and skid to a stop. Holy wow.
The entire corridor is painted black. Fifty feet away at the end of the hall is an elevator. This one’s covered in words. It looks like someone ripped a page from a giant book and plastered it onto the wall.
“Whaaat!” Pilot exclaims behind me. “That’s pretty sick.”
“It really is.”
I suck in a breath as we start toward it. I wasn’t expecting to go somewhere this cool—I can’t let myself get too distracted. We’re now moments away from sitting down and getting deep in uncharted conversational waters. I reach out and jab the up button, or the button; there’s only one button next to this elevator. It’s a tad sketchy, but the bookish decor on the doors has sort of put me at ease. They slide open a moment later to reveal a shiny black interior.