Again, But Better

You’re acting insane.
“Are you okay?” Pilot asks. I blink.
Forget the lady. Get your head in the game, Primaveri. You came for closure.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Never mind.” I blink some more.
“You were about to fill me in on why we’re here.”
“Yes!” I concentrate on Pilot again. I can do this. 
Just go.
“My boyfriend proposed to me
yesterday—” I start.
“Oh, wow—” Pilot’s expression shifts in surprise.
Not the opening I had in mind.
“We were sitting on our bed, and I was reading, and he was doing something on his laptop and
out of the blue he said”—I deepen my voice—“‘You know, we probably should get married; it
makes sense for tax reasons,’ and I put down my book to look at him, but he wasn’t looking at me,
he was still looking at the computer. And I said, ‘Did you just propose?’ And he said”—I put on my
deep voice again—“‘Yeah, I guess, what do you say?’”
Pilot’s head tilts to the side.
“And I told him … I had to think about it—”

---

“Shane, why are you telling me this?” he interjects quietly.
I continue like I didn’t hear him, “It’s like I’ve been living through a macro lens and all of the
sudden everything just zoomed out—”
“What’s a macro lens?”
“—And I don’t think I want to be with him. I’m not sure why we’re even together anymore. I
barely remember how I got to this point. I thought I was tethered. I knew where I was going, but
then he said that thing about taxes and whatever imaginary rope was holding me just snapped and
I’m floating away into oblivion. Even you just asking me that question, 
Why gastroenterology?
Like
why? What? I don’t even know! What am I doing—”
“Whoa, Shane. Take a breath.”
I vacuum up an audible breath and begin again, more slowly. “I started thinking about London
again, and I haven’t thought about London in ages.” I fix my gaze on a small nick in the table. “And
I started thinking about you and— Do you ever think about our semester abroad?”
There’s a pause before he answers, “Yeah, of course.”
I meet his eyes. 
Here we go
: “Do you ever think about us?”
He blinks. I sit back in my chair. He doesn’t move or speak. My heels bob around under the
table.
I give him a minute. A minute thirty.
Crap. I broke him.
“I. I, eh,” he stutters over himself, finally breaking his silence. Blood seeps into his cheeks.
“What do you mean, us?”
“I mean like you, Pilot, and me, Shane,” I answer plainly.
The words hang there. I imagine them expanding to fill the space between us.
“There was no—” He stops and wipes a hand quickly down his face.
I swallow. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I thought I was past it, um, but I’m apparently—not
past it?” I cock my head to the side, glancing away for a moment. 
Eloquent, Shane.
He’s staring at the table now. This is embarrassing; why am I doing this again?
“I’m just here because I want to move forward from the whole 
us
idea. It’s still this open door in
my brain,” I blabber on. “It’s been six years, and I’m still going back over these moments we had.
So, I wanted to clarify, to know officially, that I’m just making this all up in my head, so I can stop
wondering about it. Was there something there, with us, for you?
“I know this sounds ridiculous, but I was up all night thinking about the differences between
how I felt then and how I’ve felt throughout my entire relationship with Melvin and—”
“What?” Pilot’s voice cracks.
“—For me, there was always something there.” I pause. “More than something, apparently,
because I’m here, talking to you, out of the blue, during what future Shane might describe to friends
and family as a psychotic break.”
Pilot’s shoulders move with what I hope is a suppressed chuckle. It takes another minute, but
eventually he meets my eyes.
“Shane. I—I’m with Amy, and I was with…” He looks away and shakes his head. “I don’t know
what to say.”
I heave in a breath. I can feel twenty-year-old Shane resurfacing, making a play to shut up and
let this go. I close my eyes and push past her.