Begin Again(39)

“I can’t believe I overslept. Yesterday was nuts,” he says, running a hand through his curls. “I’m so—”

“It’s my fault,” I cut in before he can apologize. “Remember that decaf version of Eternal Darkness I made?”

Milo says without missing a beat, “I can still hear my Italian ancestors weeping, so yes.”

I wince. “I left it in the back and Sean accidentally brewed it yesterday.”

For a few moments Milo just blinks. “So you’re telling me yesterday I drank three cups of lies.”

“And then you overslept, and I did that terrible show this morning, and you have every right to be—”

“Oh, I listened to the show. You were great,” Milo says, so casually that he’s not even making eye contact with me when he says it, but focusing on the cream cheese display case.

My jaw nearly drops. I’m sure it goes against some RA policy to shred what’s left of my ego, but he doesn’t have to rewrite history here.

“Milo. I bombed.”

He waves me off. “You picked it back up. Anyway, consider your Friday mornings booked. I need a day off.”

That’s extremely not happening, but I’m too thrown off to press the point. “You’re really not mad?”

“Oh. To be clear, if you ever mess with Eternal Darkness again, I will take that Earl Grey tea you love so much and dump it in the lake like it’s the Boston Harbor,” he says, leaning into the counter. His eyes are on mine in that wholly focused way of his, but there’s something different about it now. Something wry. Something amused. “But no. I am not mad. Annoyed, maybe. But also impressed.”

“I really am sorry,” I say.

“If you’re sorry, then pay me back with an Everything Pretzel Bagel with bacon egg and cheese.”

The almost-smile on his face lilts a bit, just enough that I feel like I’m tipping sideways right with it. But then the guilt of screwing him over today kicks back in, and I tear my gaze away.

“Of course,” I say, typing his order into the screen.

Milo’s brother Sean clears his throat from behind me. “What, you didn’t scam enough free meals from home this week?”

“Thought I’d keep on theme, after scamming your old jacket from the house, too,” says Milo, stepping back and putting his hands in its pockets.

I feel Sean frown from behind me. “That’s not mine, bro. That’s Harley’s.”

Milo’s expression goes static, his almost-smile so unmoving that I find myself stopping in place, too.

“Or, uh . . . maybe it was mine first. Can’t remember. Too many little brothers,” Sean recovers. “It suits you, though.”

Milo’s entire demeanor changes as he pulls his hands out of the pockets. Before I can read too much into it and double down on my “don’t get involved” mantra, he’s looking at me again.

“I mean it, new kid.”

I step back away from the counter, swallowing down some of the residual nausea. “Milo, I—”

He holds his hand up to interrupt me. “If it makes you feel any better, my first broadcast, I was so nervous I . . . basically burped uncontrollably.”

I don’t mean to smile. I only do because I remember his first broadcast. I rarely miss a show, and certainly not any show where a new Knight is introduced. He was endearing as always, but he burped enough times to sponsor a soda brand.

He catches the smile and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. See you in the studio.”

Sean returns with a bagel and Milo sinks his teeth into it right there at the register, which gives me just enough of a beat to panic about the fact that I am not good enough to be doing any broadcast, let alone a weekly one.

“Damn,” says Milo through a mouthful. “How do these bagels just get better and better?”

I take in a breath, resolved. “I’m not going to—”

“Nope. I’m sleeping in on Fridays now. You owe me,” say Milo. “No ifs, Andies, or buts about it.”

Before I can protest, he takes the coffee Sean brings him and says, “If this isn’t the real thing, you both better hope I don’t die first and haunt you for the rest of your lives.” But he gives me a slight smile as he raises the cup to me and heads back out into the street.

In the lull between customers I stand uncertainly, waiting for the ache to harden again, or to roil in my stomach. Instead it seems to do something it’s never done. It reaches up and up, and it yearns.





Chapter Thirteen


“Okay,” says Shay. “I’m ready to get turned into a human slushie.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” I say for maybe the umpteenth time today.

We’re not sure what the ribbon event is this afternoon, just that we’re supposed to meet up in the quad and “dress warmly,” because it has something to do with the fresh coat of snow over campus. It’s a miracle we’ve even gotten that much of a hint from this morning’s broadcast—whereas all the blue-ribbon events of January were strictly trivia-based, the red-ribbon events of February seem to be anarchy-based. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. So far I’ve been sent to the student life building for a challenge to make silly meme versions of our college brochure, to the yard outside the physics building to help paint the school logo on a brick wall, and now, I suppose, to the quad to freeze our tails off.