Again, But Better

26. Bye Bye Bye
Babe and Sahra are last-minute packing when I emerge from
the shower at 2:15 a.m. I venture to the kitchen for water.
I go home to my disappointed parents tomorrow.
Disappointment that will have no doubt rippled through the
entire family by now.
I manipulated my parents into paying for a study abroad
trip completely irrelevant to my degree
.
Standing at the sink, I close my eyes and heave a giant
breath, pressing my palms up into my eyes. The door opens
behind me. I turn to see Atticus. His happy-go-lucky
expression drops.
“Jeez, Shane, are you okay?” He takes a seat at the table.
“I’m fine, just, um, sad that this is all over.”
He presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah, me too. I
wish I went to school with you guys.” Atticus goes to a
different university that sent him to our program.
“Me too,” I agree. “But we’ll still keep in touch, right?”
“Yeah, of course!” he says adamantly. “Are you going to
be okay? Do you want to talk about it?”
I smile at him gratefully. “I’m fine. I think I just need a
second, you know?”
“Yeah, I do,” he agrees, understanding on his face. He gets
up and fills himself a glass of water before heading toward the
door. “Good night, Shane.”

---

I slump down into a seat, resting my head and arms on the
table. I’m going to miss Atticus. And Sahra and Babe. And
Pilot.
There’s a giant pit in my stomach. The kind you get when
you know you failed the test the teacher’s handing back, and
there’s nothing you can do about it.
In the morning, we’re all up early cleaning out the kitchen.
Everything needs to be thrown out or wiped down. It’s our last
flat activity. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this last
group hang isn’t fun. Everyone’s on edge. We don’t make
much eye contact, and we’re all quiet.
We clean for an hour before Atticus, Babe, Sahra, and I
make our way up the stairs with our luggage. Pilot helps us.
We roll up to the door with our bags. Pilot gives Atticus,
Sahra, and Babe each a hug, and then it’s my turn. It’s not the
goodbye I’ve romanticized. It’s barely a goodbye at all. He
avoids my eyes and leans in for the same generic hug he gave
everyone else.
“Bye,” he says quietly with his arms around me.
“Bye,” I whisper under my breath. It’s quick. He turns his
head, pulls away, and then he’s heading back down the stairs.
Babe walks off to catch the Tube to her new hotel (we’re
all kicked out of the Karlston today). Atticus, Sahra, and I
share a cab to the airport. We’re all on different flights, so at
Heathrow we part ways.
I wait in a long check-in line for Virgin Atlantic, and think
about how I’ve let everyone down. Including myself. Wendy
and Donna and Declan, and Mom and Dad.
I let all my writing goals go to shit, and I never confronted
Pilot.

---

I’m going to be waist-deep in premed work when I get
home, which will leave little to no time for book drafting. And
things with Pilot are really going to change when we get back
to the US—I’m never going to be able to tell him how I feel.
He’s going to go back to Amy, and it’ll be like nothing ever
happened. Maybe this wasn’t a big deal for him, but feeling
like this was … is a big deal for me.
“Next in line!”
I roll up to check in with my two bags and heave my giant
suitcase onto the scale.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, this is fifteen pounds overweight,” the
woman says.
I blink at her and take it off. I pull on my carry-on. 
I came
here to do things. Not regret things.
“This one’s four pounds overweight.” She points to an area
behind me. “You can go over there and try to rearrange things.
There’s a max of fifty pounds per bag.” I follow her gaze to
where two other young girls have their bags wide open on the
floor, repacking shit in the middle of the check-in area.
I came to take risks. I came to be outgoing. I don’t want it
to end like this.
“What?” I hear the check-in lady ask.
Did I say that out loud?
I pivot and drag my bags away. I don’t stop near the
repacking girls; I keep walking and head outside again,
gaining speed as a surge of adrenaline courses through me. I
wait for another cab. I give the driver the address of the
Karlston, and we plow back into London.
My heart beats outside my body, running in circles around the
taxi. I’m doing it. I’m gonna do what I said I was going to do:
I’m going to tell him. I’m at the end of the rom com, not the
drama. It’s not going to end with me getting on the plane.

---

I practice what I’m going to say: 
Pies, I really, really like
you. I don’t know how you feel, but I really, really like you and
I had to tell you. I had to let you know.
Simple,
straightforward, easy to remember. I can go off cuff from
there.
I repeat it over and over in my brain the entire way.
When we pull up to the Karlston, I leap out onto the
sidewalk. 
Pies, I really, really like you. I don’t know how you
feel, but I really, really like you and I had to tell you. I had to
let you know.
“I’ll be right back!” I tell the driver. “Can you please keep
the meter running?”
I slam the door shut, beaming now as I hurtle up the steps.
I’m doing it!
I’ve committed, and god it feels great!
I have my ID out and ready to flash at security. I sprint past
them and down the stairs, holding onto the railing so I don’t
trip and break my neck. I shuffle over to the kitchen and peek
in through the windows to see if he’s in there.
It’s empty, so I run down the hall to his door, heave in a
great breath, and knock. 
Pies, I really, really like you. I don’t
know how you feel, but I really, really like you and I had to tell
you. I had to let you know.
“Pies?”
I laugh. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Pies?” I knock again. “Pies!” I yell louder now. No
answer.
Maybe he’s listening to music. I put pressure on the
doorknob and find that it’s unlocked. I push the door open.
The room is empty save for the black comforters we were told
to leave behind.
“No,” I breathe quietly. “No,” I say again, wandering into
the room, looking for any remnant of Pilot that might suggest
he’s still here, just not 
here
.

---

“No.” I run out into the hall.
“Pilot?” I call. I go into the kitchen to make sure he’s not
hidden from view on the far end of the couch. I run down the
hall to the other flat where his guy friends live. “Pies?”
No one’s here.
I can call him!
He’s still in London! I fumble for the phone
in my cross-body for half a second before the idea crashes
down around me. I don’t have a phone. Dad broke my phone,
and I never got a new one because I hardly used it anyway. I
don’t know Pilot’s British number by heart. His US phone
doesn’t work here. I never thought to ask where he was
staying after this.
Maybe he’s on his computer wherever he is, and he can
give me a location? I sprint back up to the taxi, dive into my
book bag, and whip out Sawyer. I run back in and down to the
basement to connect to the Wi-Fi. I open Facebook chat.