Again, But Better(74)

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Back in the kitchen, we buy our plane tickets for Rome. Babe’s Googling for the inn we’re going to stay at, and Sahra’s relaxed on the couch with her laptop. Pilot’s in the seat across from me. He’s trying to catch my attention over our computer screens. He gives a little jerk to the right with his head. I look to the right at the blue wall and furrow my brow. He does it again, stands up, and strides toward the door. I stand to follow. My chair starts to fall, but I scramble forward and forcefully set it upright. “You stay there.”

“I can’t win with these stupid-ass chairs,” I find myself hissing as I step out of the kitchen. “Even when I get up carefully, it’s like it doesn’t matter, they still flip over just to piss me off.”

Pilot’s in the hall, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

I fall against the opposite wall. “What’s up?”

He visibly inhales. “How are we supposed to go off looking for some mystical reset button when we’re in Rome with Babe and Sahra?”

I shove some hair behind my ears. “I don’t know. I figured we’d figure it out as we go. Maybe we can break away from them at some point?”

“Don’t you think it would have been easier not to tell them about Rome at all and go without them so we can fix this?”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Well, she said the Rome trip, which alludes to the trip we previously took, and they were there, so maybe I didn’t want to take any chances on changing the circumstances and the button not being there because of it.”

I watch as he nervously runs a hand through his hair and looks past me at the wall for a moment. I turn to go back into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday,” he says quietly.

I turn back around, crossing my arms. He uncrosses his and stuffs them in his pockets. I stay silent until he looks me in the eye.

“You know this is all a big shock for me too,” I tell him.

He presses his hands farther into his pockets. “It just felt like, in the moment, you were trying to…”

My expression hardens, and he speeds up, “I was an ass. I’m sorry.” He pauses, glancing at the floor for a moment. “I’m just as bad as the chairs.”

I grunt a laugh and look away.

He sidesteps, his eyes finding mine again with a new sincerity. “Can we start over?” he asks.

I exhale, relief coursing through me. I turn and walk around the corner, stay there for a count to three, and stride back to where Pilot is still standing, now clearly confused.

“Hi, Shane Primaveri, almost doctor, hater of kitchen chairs, lover of watermelon, French toast, and writing.” I hold out my hand.

He reaches out to take it. “Pilot Penn, no association with the Fountain Pens.”

We shake. “So the Ballpoint Pens, then?” I add diplomatically.

He nods vigorously, eyes alight. “Exactly.”





4. I’m the First in Line



January 12, 2011 (take two)

Mom and Dad,

We haven’t really talk-talked in a while, so it’s extra-weird to be writing these to you again. This is when everything really went to shit—for a couple of months, I stopped worrying about making you happy. I’ve been trying to make you happy for six years now, hoping somehow that would make me happy too, but I don’t think it’s working. You’re not really happy with me because I’m not happy with you because I’m not happy with me.

XO,

2017 Shane





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My mom’s parents used to have this old-fashioned record player. We don’t see them as much as I see my dad’s family. But, when we did visit, I used to look forward to playing with that record player. Hunting through their album collection until I found Mary Poppins. Carefully pushing the record onto the device. Positioning the needle like my life depended on it. Grinning ear to ear as music magically began to play. Spending hours dancing around their living room to “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” This morning I got up and re-attended the first class of my abroad semester. The professor gave us our first blank postcards and the famous first-sentence writing prompts. I honestly don’t remember the last time I sat down to write something that wasn’t gastro-related. It felt like being back in that living room. Setting the needle down on a record full of music that lights you up from the inside.

We have two nights before we fly out to Rome. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the start of my first study abroad blog post. I’m not sure what to do with it. Rewrite what I wrote the first time around? I close out of the blog and open the file with the outline I have all prepped for my great American novel. Scrolling through it sparks excitement in my chest. I open a blank page and start typing, because honestly, why not?



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I have three thousand words down on the page when Pilot strides into the room with a sandwich.

“Hey.” He pulls out the chair across from me and sets down his food. “You writing?” He raises an eyebrow.

I bite back a smile and yank out my headphones. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

He grins to himself, settling into the seat.

“This is so weird … going to class again.” He shakes his head and peels the cling wrap from his food.