Again, But Better

5. Reaching in the Dark
The hustle and bustle of Victoria Station streams around me as
I make haste for the Gatwick Express. My backpack bounces
lightly against me as I weave in and out of swarms of
travelers. I giddily make eye contact with strangers as they
stride by. Some smile back, a lot of them abruptly look down. I
don’t care, I’m feeling wonderfully empowered right now—
free.
I haven’t been able to stop grinning since I left the 
Packed!
office. I just re-interviewed for my internship. I forgot how
cool the office was. I forgot how much I liked Wendy. When
she teased the idea of writing a piece about studying abroad in
London, my heart flew around in my chest all over again.
Now, I can’t stop picturing my name under an article in their
magazine. I’ve written some stuff for scientific journals these
past four years … but I don’t know. I don’t know why it feels
so different for me with this travel magazine. But it does. The
scientific journals felt like an obligation. An obstacle I had to
hurdle for my impending medical career. This feels like a goal.
A finish line I’d like to cross.
It’s not till our plane has taken off and we’re up there in the
atmosphere that I remember 
the button
. I’m not just going to
Rome for the weekend. I’m headed on a wild goose chase for a
mystical button.
We’ve been flying for about forty minutes. I’m currently
treating myself to a free mini bottle of white wine. Beside me
is the same drunk couple as last time. The two of them are
chattering away, but all I can hear is the roar of the plane in

---

my ears. The uncaged feeling from earlier saps with every
passing mile. Pilot’s a few rows back in a middle seat across
the way. I thoughtfully swig another mouthful of wine before
turning to steal a glance at him. When I hitch myself up and
twist around, I find him looking right at me.
Instinct is to drop back into the chair, but I fight it. 
I don’t
have to hide
. Instead, I raise my eyebrows. Pilot dips his chin
hello before dropping eye contact. I slide back into my chair,
finish off this mini wine, and unbuckle my seat belt.
I stand the best I can to catch the attention of the drunk
couple. “I’m sorry. Could I get out, please?”
Once free, I take the few wobbly steps to Pilot’s row. He
watches me curiously. The middle-aged woman sitting in the
aisle seat next to him looks up at me. I put a hand to my heart.
“Hi!” I knit my brow. “Sorry to bother you. I just, that’s
my brother, and he’s holding it together right now, but he has a
crippling fear of flying. I can see he’s having a really hard
time, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind switching
seats with me so I can be next to him? I can calm him down
when he’s hyperventilating and stuff.” I jut out my bottom lip.
She looks to her right, at Pilot. My eyes flit to him as well.
He’s gaping like I just grew two new heads.
The woman turns back to me. “Oh my goodness, of course
we can switch. What seat were you in?”
I feel crappy about the lying, but I need to take advantage
of this Babe- and Sahra-less time to discuss our current
predicament. Thirty seconds later, I flop into the aisle seat next
to Pilot with my backpack. Up ahead, the nice middle-aged
lady scoots in past Tweedledee and Tweedledrunk to my
window seat.
“What the hell was that?” Pilot asks.
Hmm, how to begin?
I angle myself sideways so I can see
him more easily. 
Hi, Pies, so I’m not so sure about this reset
button thing.

---

I cluck my tongue and loose a sigh. “Pies, we haven’t done
shawarma yet.”
This is valid.
“What?” His eyebrows furrow.
“We didn’t. Get. Shawarma this week,” I try to enunciate,
but my words bleed a bit more than I’d like. 
Am I tipsy from
that baby wine?
He swishes his head from left to right. “So…”
Where am I going with this?
“So … we should have gotten shawarma.”
“Did you switch seats to get this very important message to
me before we landed? Do you need shawarma when we land?”
he asks blandly.
My head tilts slightly to the left as I consider this. I burst
out laughing.
“Shane?” he asks calmly.
I compose myself. “I came over here because I wanted to
talk to you.”
“About shawarma,” Pilot says, eyebrows raised.
I choke on another laugh. “You remember in 
Avengers
—
you saw 
Avengers
, right?”
He nods.
“Remember when Iron Man was like, 
Let’s get shawarma
,
and then they did get shawarma?”
“Yeah.” His lips turn up.
“Yeah, all I could think about when that happened was the
amazing shawarma we had here.”
“Shwenesdays,” Pilot confirms nostalgically.
“And now it’s all mainstream, you know. Everyone’s all,
Yeah, shawarma like in
The Avengers, and I’m all like, 
No, I
knew about shawarma before it was cool.
”

---

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You know, you’re
completely right. How dare the Avengers want shawarma; we
invented that.”
I keel forward, cackling at the angst in his voice. “Yes!
Totally ripped us off. But, there ain’t no shawarma like Beirut
Express shawarma! Because Beirut Express shawarma is da
best!” I sing-talk.
Pilot’s expression flatlines as he executes a dramatic blink:
“Did you just make a random S Club 7 reference?”
My eyes ignite. “Did you just pick up on an S Club 7
reference?”
He squints, grinning now. “Touché.”
I smile. “Have you had good shawarma since London?”
“Are we back to this?” he asks the seat in front of him.
“I’ve had okay shawarma, but not excellent shawarma, and
I’ve tried like five different shawarma places.”
He twists to face me. “You’ve said the word 
shawarma
at
least fifty times since you’ve sat down, and you’ve been here
for like three minutes.”
I smother another bout of laughter. “Well, I just wanted to
say that we should have gotten shawarma.”
“Sorry, so to clarify, you made a woman switch seats so we
could discuss shawarma.”
“Well, I came over so we could chat because we’re about
to go on some ridiculous mission through a foreign country to
find a button to reset ourselves forward in time, and we
haven’t really thought out a plan.”
“I tried to suggest a plan, and you said we could just”—he
raises his hands to do air quotes—“‘figure it out.’”
I lean forward. “Well, I was still kind of reeling from the
whole we’re-back-in-time reveal. I needed time to process.”
“What is this conversation?” He scoffs in disbelief.

---

“What do you think we should do about the button?”
“We’re going to find the button, and use it, so we can go
back to our normal lives.”
I click my tongue playfully. “But how will we find it? I’m
assuming it’s going to be somewhere we went the first time
around.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Do you think she left clues maybe?” I widen my eyes
dramatically.
His forehead scrunches up. “No?”
“If there were clues, this would like be just like 
The Da
Vinci Code
!” I beam. Pilot laughs toward the ceiling and I
deflate. “Oh yeah, I forgot you haven’t read that one.”
His lips twitch. “Actually, I did read it a few years ago.”
“What?” My heart does a little jig.
“Yeah, I’ve read all his books now.” Color floods his
cheeks. “You raved about them enough while we were here.”
“Oh, man.” I look at the seat in front of me while I process
this. “Okay, come on, don’t lie, the prospect of a baby 
Da
Vinci Code
is kinda exciting.” I grin. He smirks back.
We fall into silence after theorizing a bit more about the
mysterious button. I’m hoping it looks like one of those
Staples 
Easy
buttons. That would be nice and clear. But what
if it looks like something else—like a random sewing button
on the ground or if it’s camouflaged to look like its
surroundings? She wouldn’t do that, right? That’s too
complicated.
I lose myself in button-centric thoughts, and then we’re
landing. I’m treated to a new swell of dread in my gut as we
descend.
“You okay?” Pilot asks quietly.
Great, Pilot can sense my dread.

---

“Yeah, this is all still freaking me out a little bit,” I
whisper.
“Hey.” He puts his hand on my knee. My eyebrows jerk
up. “Just a little longer, and we’re going back home.”
I swallow hard. 
Sentence so unhelpful in quest to ease
dread. But hand on knee making heart perform “Swan Lake”
across chest cavity.
A jolt shakes the plane, vibrating up
through our seats as we touch down. Here we go.

---