Again, But Better(8)

I blow out a breath. “Maybe I do have a problem,” I concede as somberly as I can. “I’ll try and keep it under control.”

“First step is acceptance,” he says, putting on a haughty voice and bumping me lightly in the shoulder. Another laugh huffs out of me. Up ahead I can make out a sign with red glowing letters that reads TESCO. The name rings a bell.

“That’s the grocery store, right? Tes-co,” I test the word on my tongue. “Interesting name for a grocery store.”

“Shane. Interesting name for a girl,” he teases.

I narrow my eyes. “Pilot. Interesting name for a human.” He snorts.

When Tesco’s doors slide open, we’re greeted with an onslaught of familiar sounds: carts squealing, elevator-esque music playing overhead, and the repetitive beeps as people check out.

“So, Shane, what kind of music do you listen to?” Pilot asks, as I scoop up a basket.

“Music? Who brought up music? We’re getting food.” I snicker shamelessly at my bluntness. I don’t usually say stuff like that to people I’ve just met. I look at Pilot again. “I don’t want to answer that; it feels like a trick question.”

“I’m just curious!” he says innocently.

“You write music, so I think there’s a ninety percent chance you’re a music snob.”

“I am not a music snob.” He pauses and his lip quirks up. “I’m only a little bit of a music snob.”

My smile is big and stupid again. “Do you want to go through all the aisles? Is that okay? Because I really, really want to go through all the aisles.” I power walk into the first one, and Pilot trails behind.

“Pilot, look at these soda bottles. Are you seeing this? They’re slightly skinnier than our soda bottles!” I gesture wildly to the soda lining the shelves.

He grins. “So you were about to tell me about the music you listen to,” he prompts again. We turn into the next aisle.

“I listen to all types of music,” I answer diplomatically, as I reach down and pick up a tub of Nutella to drop into my basket. “I have a general appreciation for music.” We stroll past the peanut butters and the jellies. “I like the Beatles…”

“Wait.” Pilot comes to an abrupt stop mid-aisle.

“What?” I say hesitantly.

“The Beatles?” he breathes. “No way. You like them? No. Way. No. Way—”

I roll my eyes. “Stop—” I interject.

“No. Way!”

“Stop!” My voice hits squeak levels yet unknown to mankind.

“I love them! I thought I was the only one who knew about them.” He beams.

I run away into the next aisle. I hear him laughing behind me as I enter the bread section. I definitely like this boy. I skid to a stop in front of the UK pasta spread. All the pasta is bagged. What even! In America we box pasta!

“The pasta is all in bags!” I turn to Pilot, expecting him to share my sentiment.

He looks like he’s about to make fun of me again.

I try not to smile. “No, ’cause in the United States, most of the pasta is in boxes!” He shakes his head, grinning. “This is an interesting tidbit, Pilot. You’ll be happy I pointed this out in the future when you need to know it … for a game show trivia question about how England packages their pasta.”

I drop a bag into my basket and skip—oh dear lord, did I really just skip?—down the aisle to find the tomato sauce and skid to another abrupt stop. I shuffle back a bit to make sure I haven’t missed anything before emitting an involuntary gasp.

Pilot appears at my side. “You okay?”

“It’s just this sauce section,” I explain.

His mouth twitches. “Did the sauce offend you?”

“No, but look. There’s only two types of tomato sauce here. What kind of world does England live in where there’s only two types of sauce!” I gesture around wildly for emphasis.

He takes a step back, smiling broadly now, and points casually toward the sauce and then back to me. “Did you … did you gasp because of the sauce?”

Blood seeps into my cheeks. “Sauce is a big deal.”

I flounder to grab a jar so we can move on and out of this aisle. As I snatch it off the shelf, a second jar slides to the edge along with it. My breath catches, and I lunge to snatch it out of the air, but I’m not fast enough. I leap backward as the second jar crashes to the ground. The glass shatters, and a mild splattering of sauce lands across my feet.

I freeze, staring at the floor. I can’t believe I dropped a jar of sauce in front of Pilot. Shit. Shit, shit.

After a second, someone takes my arm and pulls me out of the aisle, away from the destruction zone. It’s Pilot … He’s touching my arm again. He’s laughing. We turn a corner into an aisle full of alcohol.

He lets go and looks at me pointedly. “You murdered the sauce, Shane.”

I shake my head. “Accident,” I squeak.

Pilot scans the shelves before reaching down to scoop up a case of English cider called Strongbow. He clucks his tongue, shakes his head, and suppresses a smile as we head toward the checkout counter. “And the violence continues.”



* * *



We make our way back to the Karlston at a slower pace. I’ve suddenly decided that I want to call Pilot Pies, and I don’t know if that’s okay. Pies is fun to say, and then we’re friends, right? Or, we’re something? Where there’s a nickname, there’s a bond. That’s what I … always say.