Again, But Better(64)

We step in silently. There’s one button inside as well. It’s labeled REWRITE, the name of the cafe.

“Check this out.” I point, before pushing it. We lurch upward.

“This is kind of creepy,” he notes.

“Me or the elevator?” I half joke.

“Oh, definitely you, but the elevator too.” He grins.

I hesitate. “I’m sorry if I am actually creeping you out with this surprise visit. I didn’t mean to—”

He interrupts, “Shane, that was a joke. You’re way too … you to be creepy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I can be creepy,” I protest.

“No, not really, no, you can’t.”

“I can creep if I want to—” The ding of arrival interrupts my argument. We spin around as a second set of doors behind us slides open.

“Whoa.” Pilot’s jaw drops. I echo the sentiment.

We must be at least twenty stories up. Before us is a quaint rectangular space. One full wall is just window, providing a fabulous view of the city. The other three walls are plastered in the aged, browning pages of books. The ceiling is covered in words. Lanterns hang off long chains hovering over delicate-looking French tables and chairs scattered throughout the room. Even the floor is in theme. It looks as if it’s been littered with thousands of discarded book pages.

There’s one other customer: a middle-aged man in a business suit reading a paper and having a cup of coffee in the corner. A barista stands behind a large counter on our left. I stumble forward, gawking at everything.

“Welcome to Rewrite!” the barista greets us.

“Thanks, good morning!” I reply automatically as I make my way to a table near the far wall (aka the giant window). Pilot follows closely behind me.

The metal chair scrapes lightly against the floor as I pull it out and sit. Pilot sits across from me, still glancing around at the decor.

“This place is really cool.” He nods, impressed.

I’m smitten with the ambiance, but nerves chase away further comment from me. The barista comes over and places two small Rewrite menus in front of us. I glance up at her. She looks familiar.

“Thanks.” Pilot shoots her a smile before she leaves us be.

The menu’s typed in Courier New so it looks like a movie script. I put it aside and bring my attention back to Pilot. He’s watching me, waiting.

He raises a brow. “So this mysterious meeting we’re having?” he prompts.

My eyes travel up from the raised brow to his unfamiliar haircut. The sides of his head are shaved, and the top is long, flopping over his forehead.

I blow out a breath. “So—”

I’m cut off as the barista steps up to our table. “Can I take your orders?”

I look up at the woman again. She’s maybe in her late forties, pale and freckled, with a nest of bright red hair tied up on her head.

“I’ll have a cup of English Breakfast tea with milk and sugar please.” I hand over my menu, studying her features.

“I’ll have a cappuccino,” Pilot says, handing her his menu as well. The woman retreats.

Our gazes fall back to each other. I press my lips together, trying to gather how best to start this conversation. “So…”

Pilot scoots a little closer. “So, I was trying to crack this visit open…”

I gaze out at the view of New York, take in a deep breath, and—the woman’s face snaps into place.

“Oh my god.” I jump up out of my seat and whip around. My hair smacks me in the face before resettling over my shoulders. The woman’s moving around behind the bar.

“What?” Pilot asks.

I look back at him with wide eyes. “Do you see that redheaded lady over there right now?”

He glances between the bar and myself with a confused expression. “The woman making our coffee? Yeah…”

My eyes zips back and forth between the two of them a few times before I swallow and sit back in my chair.

You’re acting insane.

“Are you okay?” Pilot asks. I blink.

Forget the lady. Get your head in the game, Primaveri. You came for closure.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Never mind.” I blink some more.

“You were about to fill me in on why we’re here.”

“Yes!” I concentrate on Pilot again. I can do this. Just go. “My boyfriend proposed to me yesterday—” I start.

“Oh, wow—” Pilot’s expression shifts in surprise.

Not the opening I had in mind.

“We were sitting on our bed, and I was reading, and he was doing something on his laptop and out of the blue he said”—I deepen my voice—“‘You know, we probably should get married; it makes sense for tax reasons,’ and I put down my book to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at me, he was still looking at the computer. And I said, ‘Did you just propose?’ And he said”—I put on my deep voice again—“‘Yeah, I guess, what do you say?’”

Pilot’s head tilts to the side.

“And I told him … I had to think about it—”

“Shane, why are you telling me this?” he interjects quietly.

I continue like I didn’t hear him, “It’s like I’ve been living through a macro lens and all of the sudden everything just zoomed out—”