Again, But Better

3. I Thought Time Was an
Hourglass Glued to the Table
Going to sleep after finding yourself six years in the past and
waking up in the same predicament is a fucking trip. When I
open my eyes, I’m still here, sharing a room with twenty-year-
old Babe and Sahra.
Getting ready as past Shane is unsettling. My hair’s at least
eight inches longer than it was when I woke up yesterday in
New York. My makeup bag is severely lacking—past Shane
doesn’t even own foundation—and all these old clothes in my
London closet feel bland and out-of-date.
Babe and I chitchat endlessly about Disney World and
movies on the way to Greenwich. I already know half the
things she’s going to say before she says them. It’s
disconcerting. She’s one of my closest friends in 2017, but this
Babe doesn’t know me yet. I’m dying to discuss all the time-
travel weirdness, but unfortunately the one person who’d
understand is actively keeping his distance.
Pilot remains quiet and withdrawn all morning. He
positions himself next to Atticus and Sahra in our group
huddle as we float down the Thames. He stands on the
opposite end of our group pictures. He physically walks to get
to the opposite side of our lineup when I ask a stranger to take
a group picture of us in front of the Maritime museum.
Whenever I get close, he starts talking about nothing to
Atticus.

---

I re-experience the day in a constant state of déjà vu.
Things are slightly different because of Pilot’s mood, but for
all intents and purposes, Flat Three has the same Greenwich
adventure. After exploring the Royal Observatory, it’s time to
head down to the pub where we had burgers and decided to go
to Rome.
The five of us settle in at the same wooden table. Because
Pilot’s been lagging behind, he’s forced to take the last
remaining seat: the one across from me. My lips flip up into a
snarky grin as he plops into the chair.
The waitress comes around, distributing waters and taking
our orders. I so vividly remember living this moment: how
tempted I was to take out my camera and ogle at all the
pictures we took today, how Atticus laughed when he became
the fifth person in a row to order the same burger for dinner,
the way my heart stuttered when Pilot asked us if we wanted
to travel while we’re here. That question sparked my first taste
of wanderlust and opened me up to possibilities I never even
considered to be 
possibilities
.
Pilot’s currently staring past me at nothing. I try to catch
his eyes so I can roll mine at him. Babe’s watching and shoots
a confused glance between the two of us before taking a sip of
her water.
“So!” she starts cheerily, tossing her dark hair over her
shoulder.
I straighten in my seat. “So,” I echo, smiling at her and
shifting to look at everyone. “Do you guys want to travel
while you’re here?”
“Oh my gosh, yes!” Babe exclaims.
“Definitely,” Sahra asserts.
“Yeah, I hope I can find time to squeeze in some travel, but
the theater track is really intense,” Atticus explains.
The four of us turn to Pilot for his response. He’s leaning
against the table, head propped up on his arm. He treats me to
a mildly irritated look before facing the rest of the group.

---

“Yeah,” he answers tiredly.
“Great. Well, we should go to Rome for the weekend!” I
say cheerily.
“Yes!” Babe agrees.
“I’m in,” Sahra adds.
Atticus explains that he can’t join us because of his
internship.
“Pilot, are you coming?” Babe asks him carefully.
He scratches his head before responding blandly, “Yeah.”
“Yay!” she cheers before raising her glass of water. “To
Rome for the weekend!”
Sahra, Atticus, and I raise our glasses.
“To Rome for the weekend!” I repeat. I never carried
around water bottles during this era, but nowadays I have one
on me at all times. How did I live? Apparently in a constant
state of dehydration. I end up chugging half my glass before I
set it down. Across the table, Pilot’s watching me carefully.
His mouth twitches.
I blink at him. “
What
?” I ask.
“Nothing. I was just noticing how soft the landing was
there,” he says.
My eyes dart from the water to him. A smile tugs at my
lips. “Yeah, I guess some dude yelled at me about the way I
put down my drinks six years ago, and I’ve since gained a new
respect for glassware.”
“I don’t think he yelled at you.”
“Some guy yelled at you about the way you put down your
drink?” Babe jumps in, appalled.
I drop my gaze to stifle a laugh. When I look back up,
Pilot’s smiling. He’s looking at the table, but he’s smiling.
I shoot Babe a grin. “It was nothing, I was exaggerating.”

---

Back in the kitchen, we buy our plane tickets for Rome.
Babe’s Googling for the inn we’re going to stay at, and Sahra’s
relaxed on the couch with her laptop. Pilot’s in the seat across
from me. He’s trying to catch my attention over our computer
screens. He gives a little jerk to the right with his head. I look
to the right at the blue wall and furrow my brow. He does it
again, stands up, and strides toward the door. I stand to follow.
My chair starts to fall, but I scramble forward and forcefully
set it upright. “You stay there.
”
“I 
can’t win
with these stupid-ass chairs,” I find myself
hissing as I step out of the kitchen. “Even when I get up
carefully, it’s like it doesn’t matter, they still flip over just to
piss me off.”
Pilot’s in the hall, leaning against the wall, arms crossed
over his chest.
I fall against the opposite wall. “What’s up?”
He visibly inhales. “How are we supposed to go off
looking for some mystical reset button when we’re in Rome
with Babe and Sahra?”
I shove some hair behind my ears. “I don’t know. I figured
we’d figure it out as we go. Maybe we can break away from
them at some point?”
“Don’t you think it would have been easier not to tell them
about Rome at all and go without them so we can fix this?”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Well, she said 
the Rome trip,
which alludes to the trip we previously took, and they were
there, so maybe I didn’t want to take any chances on changing
the circumstances and the button not being there because of
it.”
I watch as he nervously runs a hand through his hair and
looks past me at the wall for a moment. I turn to go back into
the kitchen.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday,” he says quietly.

---

I turn back around, crossing my arms. He uncrosses his
and stuffs them in his pockets. I stay silent until he looks me in
the eye.
“You know this is all a big shock for me too,” I tell him.
He presses his hands farther into his pockets. “It just felt
like, in the moment, you were trying to…”
My expression hardens, and he speeds up, “I was an ass.
I’m sorry.” He pauses, glancing at the floor for a moment.
“I’m just as bad as the chairs.”
I grunt a laugh and look away.
He sidesteps, his eyes finding mine again with a new
sincerity. “Can we start over?” he asks.
I exhale, relief coursing through me. I turn and walk
around the corner, stay there for a count to three, and stride
back to where Pilot is still standing, now clearly confused.
“Hi, Shane Primaveri, almost doctor, hater of kitchen
chairs, lover of watermelon, French toast, and writing.” I hold
out my hand.
He reaches out to take it. “Pilot Penn, no association with
the Fountain Pens.”
We shake. “So the Ballpoint Pens, then?” I add
diplomatically.
He nods vigorously, eyes alight. “Exactly.”

---