Again, But Better(89)

His head kicks forward. “I forgot about the shower.”

I throw a hand over my heart. “You know how I love a good forty-five-second shower.”

The hostel’s just as unimpressive as it was the first time. Babe’s waiting with our keys when we arrive. She introduces us to the same brosef Chad I remembered. I purchase a lock, anticipating the need for one before we head up. Pilot snags a map from the brochure stand next to the check-in desk. Upstairs, we drop our things in the lackluster lockers and go out to find food.



* * *



When Pies and I get back to the room post-dinner, I head to the shower because I’m not sure what protocol is now. It’s strange to share a room on a first date. When I reemerge, he’s lying on his bed, head propped up on his palm, waiting for me.

“I feel like this first date is ending rather anticlimactically,” he says thoughtfully as I climb into my own bed. I throw my damp hair over my shoulder and mirror his posture.

“Well, it’s not really the end, though. We have all of Paris,” I reason.

“Yeah, but a date is a day, it’s right there in the word, if a date was a weekend, it’d be called a wate.”

“I mean, if you’re gonna do that, I feel like week-ate makes more sense.”

“I guess this is the end of our first date, but we can come back around to rating the wate as a whole, Sunday night.”

I snicker. “I’ll write up a full review for Yelp.”

Pilot makes an irritated tuh sound. “Shane, you know I’m only on Trip Advisor.”

I drop my head, cackling. “Well, our date isn’t completely over yet.”

He perks up. “Oh, are we continuing it with our new friends: forty-year-old-sleep-apnea man and random teenager in the corner?”

“We could play a game,” I suggest.

“Are you going to wake them, or should I?” Pilot teases with a nod toward the far-right corner.

I snort. “It’s a game just for us; we don’t need them.”

Pilot squints at me. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

“The opposite game.” I smile goofily.

“The opposite game?” he repeats in an amused, ridiculous voice.

“Yeah, the opposite game.”

“I hate the opposite game,” he says in a fervently serious voice.

“I hate the opposite game too,” I whisper.

He smirks. “I love this pillow.”

“I love this pillow too.”

“You’re just taking all my opposite ideas. I win the game,” he says.

“Yes, I win the game.”

Pilot snorts and I giggle deliriously.

“This isn’t the opposite game,” he retorts.

“This isn’t the opposite game!” I say cheekily.

“I like brussels sprouts.”

“I like lemons.”

“I’m from the future.”

“Ha!” I beam. “But you are from the future. I think that means I win.”

He falls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling now. I can see the white of his smile in the dark. I fall on to my back and look up at the ceiling as well. We lie there like that for a few minutes.

“Hey,” he breaks the silence. “I really hate this situation we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

I rotate so that most of my body is belly-down on the bed. My arms fold under my pillow, propping up my head. “I don’t like you,” I whisper, smiling like a five-year-old.

He rotates onto his stomach to mirror my position. “I don’t like you either.”

I bury my face in the pillow, laughing, and pull the blanket up over my shoulders. I’m still smiling when I close my eyes. “Morning, Pies.”

“Good morning.”



* * *



I get up early to beat Pilot to the bathroom and get myself sorted. I’m back waiting on my bed before he’s even opened his eyes. I realize too late that I never did download Angry Birds. I should have brought a book.

“Hey.” Pilot’s sleep-ridden voice stirs me from my thoughts.

“Hey.”

Spikes of his hair stick up in weird directions. “Why are you already ready?” he grumbles.

“I needed to beat you to the bathroom. This way you don’t have to wait around and deal with zombie Shane.”

He smiles lazily. “Zombie Shane? I want to meet zombie Shane.”

I scoff, “Maybe another time.”

We meet up with Babe and Chad, grab croissants from the hostel’s built-in diner, and stroll down to the nearest Metro station. Babe and Chad walk a few feet ahead of us. My hands are jammed in my pockets, like Pilot’s beside me. The streets are fairly empty—to be expected given that we’re in the East Jabip sector of the city. Around the next corner, a Metropolitan sign comes into view. The sight sends an unexpected bout of happiness bubbling through me.

I’m on a date in Paris. I smile to myself, feeling fearless as we approach the underground. On a whim, I extricate my hand and take hold of Pilot’s arm. Delicately, I pull it from his pocket and slide my hand into his. Pilot looks taken off guard for a second and then, doing his best to strangle a smile, glances down at our now intertwined hands. Glitter pulses through my fingers. Nerves shoot around in my stomach.