Again, But Better(65)

“What’s a macro lens?”

“—And I don’t think I want to be with him. I’m not sure why we’re even together anymore. I barely remember how I got to this point. I thought I was tethered. I knew where I was going, but then he said that thing about taxes and whatever imaginary rope was holding me just snapped and I’m floating away into oblivion. Even you just asking me that question, Why gastroenterology? Like why? What? I don’t even know! What am I doing—”

“Whoa, Shane. Take a breath.”

I vacuum up an audible breath and begin again, more slowly. “I started thinking about London again, and I haven’t thought about London in ages.” I fix my gaze on a small nick in the table. “And I started thinking about you and— Do you ever think about our semester abroad?”

There’s a pause before he answers, “Yeah, of course.”

I meet his eyes. Here we go: “Do you ever think about us?”

He blinks. I sit back in my chair. He doesn’t move or speak. My heels bob around under the table.

I give him a minute. A minute thirty.

Crap. I broke him.

“I. I, eh,” he stutters over himself, finally breaking his silence. Blood seeps into his cheeks. “What do you mean, us?”

“I mean like you, Pilot, and me, Shane,” I answer plainly.

The words hang there. I imagine them expanding to fill the space between us.

“There was no—” He stops and wipes a hand quickly down his face.

I swallow. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I thought I was past it, um, but I’m apparently—not past it?” I cock my head to the side, glancing away for a moment. Eloquent, Shane.

He’s staring at the table now. This is embarrassing; why am I doing this again?

“I’m just here because I want to move forward from the whole us idea. It’s still this open door in my brain,” I blabber on. “It’s been six years, and I’m still going back over these moments we had. So, I wanted to clarify, to know officially, that I’m just making this all up in my head, so I can stop wondering about it. Was there something there, with us, for you?

“I know this sounds ridiculous, but I was up all night thinking about the differences between how I felt then and how I’ve felt throughout my entire relationship with Melvin and—”

“What?” Pilot’s voice cracks.

“—For me, there was always something there.” I pause. “More than something, apparently, because I’m here, talking to you, out of the blue, during what future Shane might describe to friends and family as a psychotic break.”

Pilot’s shoulders move with what I hope is a suppressed chuckle. It takes another minute, but eventually he meets my eyes.

“Shane. I—I’m with Amy, and I was with…” He looks away and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

I heave in a breath. I can feel twenty-year-old Shane resurfacing, making a play to shut up and let this go. I close my eyes and push past her. You have nothing to lose.

“That’s not what I asked,” I reply softly.

The barista returns with our hot drinks and sets them down in front of us. I keep my eyes on Pilot. He pulls his elbows up onto the table in a frame around his drink and rests his head in his hands.

I watch the steam rising from my tea.

“I’m still with Amy, Shane,” he mumbles from behind his hands. He lifts his head, fear in his eyes now. “I don’t know what you’re expecting from me.”

“I just want to talk.”

“Shane, I’ve been with Amy for six years,” he says the words slowly, like he’s proving a point. His forehead scrunches in discomfort.

“Okay, are you two engaged?” I ask quietly.

He looks into his cappuccino. “No.”

“Is she the one? Are you happy?”

“I don’t know!” He runs a hand through his hair in panic. “Why are you asking me this? You can’t just waltz into my office and drop all this on me, Shane! What are you doing? Why aren’t you talking to your boyfriend about this? It sounds like he’s the guy you should be talking to!” He’s almost yelling.

“I don’t know, Pies! I don’t know. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to talk to you!” I stop abruptly, my hand whipping up to my mouth. I can’t believe I just shouted in this little coffee shop. A flush flashes up my neck, and I join Pilot in staring at the table.

I speak these next words in my best, calm, collected voice. “I’m just here for closure, and research, to put this to rest. Did I make this all up? Am I making this more than it was? Please. Just answer the question.”

Pilot’s silent for the longest minute known to man. Finally, he runs his hands down his face and mumbles: “You’renotmakingitup.”

My head tilts, processing that jumble.

I’m sorry. I was prepared for: Yes, you’re ridiculous. Yes, you’re making this all so much more dramatic than it actually was. Yes, please leave and let’s never discuss this again.

The emotion that comes out of the woodwork in response to that mumble is debilitating. It scares me. I can’t speak for a full thirty seconds because I didn’t know I cared this much. Christ, I’m harboring a full-blown Gatsby complex. I need to find a therapist.