Begin Again(52)

I look him square in the eye. “I want to do the Friday show,” I say, just barely louder than my thundering heart.

Milo smiles this slow, satisfied smile, one so disarming that for a moment it takes everything in me not to stare directly at it. Not to wonder about the origin of it—if it was a smile that he used to smile often, or one that has only ever been reserved for rare moments like this.

My next breath rattles slightly, but the words are firm. “I’m not ready to do things on the fly yet. But if there’s a way to give advice as a segment—something I could record in advance—then I think I could do it.”

Milo’s smile seems to soften then. It suits him—brings out the mossy green of his eyes, the small crinkles in his cheeks and eyes that I don’t think I’ve seen before.

“Welcome to The Knights’ Watch, Squire.”





Chapter Seventeen


The first time I record my segment in advance of the show, I rehearse no fewer than twenty times and sit with my notes so close to my face that when Shay shows me a picture she took of me, it looks like I’m trying to eat them. For the second one I’m still a jumble of nerves, but manage to maintain a respectful distance from my notes. By the third I only have to look at them a few times, anchored enough in my rehearsal that I even throw in some comments off the cuff.

But the real stress comes every Friday morning, when Milo plays my segment in the middle of the show. By the fourth week of it, I’m somewhat used to the strange dread and thrill of hearing my own voice play back at me, but I’m more than a little relieved when the recording ends and Milo takes the first call for “Call-in Friday.”

“Hi, I’m, uh . . . I’m calling because, well. I need some advice. Mostly about being in a long-distance relationship.”

My eyebrows fly up. We haven’t gotten live callers asking for advice since I started the segment. On our request, they’ve just been writing in.

“You got a name, or should I just call you Long-Distance Listener?” Milo asks.

The voice on the other end is throaty, like they have a cold. “You can call me . . . Bea?”

Milo makes brief eye contact with me. I’m already sweating like I’m competing with a puddle.

“Okay, Bea,” says Milo. “Shoot.”

“So I have this situation. I have this long-distance . . . almost relationship? I’m not sure exactly. We both say we’re open to making it work, but I’m not so sure how committed he is. Things have been really uncertain for a while. And I want to give it a chance, but I’m also kind of crushing on someone else. Someone who’s here.”

“Crushing, huh?” Milo repeats wryly.

“Well, yeah. I guess I don’t know if it’s because we’re actually right for each other, or just because we’re like, actually, physically close. So I was just wondering if maybe . . . you or the Squire had any advice?”

“Well,” says Milo, cutting another glance at me, “the Squire’s segment is already done for the morning. So, uh. You’ve got me. And my professional advice is just chuck the whole thing out, love’s a scam.”

“Milo,” Shay hisses.

“Which is, you know. Unhelpful,” he recovers. “So my actual advice is, uh . . .”

Only then do I realize Milo isn’t looking over at me in acknowledgment. He’s looking over at me because he has no idea what to say. He’s looking at me because I know what to say, and we both know it.

And then, for the first time, I’m not reaching for the braver version of myself I once was. This time she seems to reach out to me. This time she seems to shove.

I nod once at Milo, and he slides off the stool so I can take his place and lowers the mic down to my mouth. I’m expecting my heart to pound. Expecting to feel that same strange distance that makes me feel like I can’t connect with people as my actual self nearly as well as my practiced one. But when I open my mouth, I feel more myself than I’ve ever been.

“You’ve got the Squire, Bea.”

“Oh, good. Hello, there.”

I find myself smiling. “Hello to you, too. And listen . . . I know how hard long-distance relationships are. Trust me, I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So I’m not going to tell you what to do, because I can’t. But let me ask you a question. Do you love the person you’re long distance with?”

It feels like slipping into an old skin. One I’ve been easing into now for a while, and am starting to make new again.

The caller blows out a breath. “I care about him.”

“Then you know the distance isn’t forever,” I say effusively. It’s my words I hear, but Connor’s broad grin I see. “Do you think if you can wait it out, you can make it work?”

Milo’s eyes are on me again, this time with a different weight. I try to ignore it to keep focus, but that’s the curious thing about Milo. I’m always aware of him. Where he is, the way he moves, the littlest of forces that push and pull and make up his world. Even my own self, when I’m one of them.

“Yeah,” says the caller on the other end. “If we both can wait.”

I settle onto Milo’s stool with the kind of ease I haven’t felt in all my weeks of doing this. With an ease I don’t think I’ve felt in years. “In the end, you have to follow your heart,” I tell the caller. “But if it’s just the distance you’re worried about? I’ve got faith that you can make it work.”