Again, But Better(72)

Grill Man looks up with a confused expression. “What are you two doing back here?”

“S-sorry, we thought we…” I stutter, “um, and so we came to look, but—”

“You have to get out of here,” Grill Man scolds.

Pilot shakes his head that way you do when you’re having an argument with someone who’s being ridiculous, and you can’t deal with them anymore so you just shake your head and turn away. Pilot’s mad, but I can’t help but feel a trickle of excitement. He pivots out of the kitchen, and I follow at his heels.

“Pilot,” I start as we descend the steps at the center of the room.

“Shane, I can’t talk right now.”

“But—”

A waiter up ahead is saying things to us. I’m too distracted to listen or respond. We barrel past him, toward the door, and back out onto the sidewalk. It’s a nice night. Pilot heads in the direction of the Karlston with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He keeps his gaze focused straight ahead. I have to power walk to keep pace with him.

My mind spins back to our first night here: the grocery store, there’s no food in the kitchen. That almost kiss. The Flat Three Taboo game we initiated.

I speak up as we round the block toward fancy-white-house lane, “Pies, we’re going back to a kitchen with no food. Maybe we should grab something little, at least to have as a snack during the flat bonding game? If everything’s the same as before, I should have a bunch of British cash in my purse that my mom gave me right before she dropped me at the airport. I can pay you back ASAP.”

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t turn to look at me. He keeps on toward the Karlston, walking even faster now. I stop moving and stare at his back as he gets farther and farther away. What the hell?

My hands curl up into fists against my jeans. I sprint to catch up to him. I’m out of breath when I grab his arm.

“Pilot!” I gasp-yell.

He turns to me with a flat expression. “Why are you out of breath?”

“I—” I suck in more air. “I fell behind, so are we going to get the flat together and play Taboo tonight? That’s what we did last time we … did this,” I say in my normal tone of voice.

“I’m not feeling up to it,” he responds. There’s attitude lurking behind those words.

“What is wrong right now?” I demand.

“Really?” he says to the sidewalk.

“I mean, yeah, apparently we’ve been thrown back in time, and yes, that’s completely mind-boggling, and in a way, terrifying, and I understand being in shock. I understand being scared and uncomfortable, but what the hell is this drastic change in tone? Why are you acting like you’re angry at me?”

He turns away, walking toward the Karlston again.

“Pilot!” I yell.

He pivots. “I am mad at you, Shane!” The words blow out of him, and I stumble back a few steps in surprise.

He rolls his head in an irritated little circle. “We barely know each other anymore. I didn’t ask for this.” He takes a breath. “You did. You drop in unannounced after six years without so much as a conversation. You just showed up at my office! You wanted to go for coffee. You wanted to dredge up the past. You needed closure. I didn’t have a say in any of this.” He throws his hands up.

I strain not to blink. We are at the foot of the Karlston steps now. He turns away. I find the control to spit out one more sentence before tears compromise my voice. “How can you blame this on me?”

He doesn’t look back. He takes the steps two at a time and disappears inside the building. I look up at the sky for a moment before spinning away from the Karlston. I’m not going back there without groceries.

Halfway down the block toward Tesco, I realize I don’t have any money. I pivot again and hurry back to the Karlston.

“Student ID, please,” requests the security guard without looking up from his computer. Crap.

“I’m so sorry, I left it downstairs in my purse. I forgot my whole purse. Can I go grab it?” He makes eye contact. Immediately his expression softens; he can tell I’m crying.

“Go ahead, that’s fine.” He hastily waves me forward like I’d proposed a conversation about my period.

I run into the kitchen. It’s empty. Thank the time-travel lord who brought me here. Sure enough, my old cross-body is lying on the floor, under the table. I pick it up, sling it across my chest, and tromp back out into the night for groceries.



* * *



When I return an hour later, I find Sahra on her computer in our room. I float the idea of heading to the kitchen to chill, and she’s up for it. As she gathers herself, I dash across the hall and knock on the boys’ door. Atticus pulls it open, grinning.

I smile back. “Hey! Um, so we’re gonna go hang out in the kitchen and play some games, do some flat bonding. Want to join us?”

“Of course!” Atticus exclaims. He turns to Pilot. I catch a glimpse of him on the bed with his guitar. “Pilot, did you hear?” Atticus adds.

“Yeah, man, go ahead,” he says without looking up.

“Okay.” Atticus looks at me expectantly. I linger awkwardly, wanting to talk to Pilot alone. Across the way, Sahra emerges from our room.

“Go ahead to the kitchen. I’m going to get my iPod. I’ll be there in a minute!” I tell them both. They head off. I catch Pilot’s door before it closes and pull myself into the frame.