Again, But Better

10. The Green Light, I Want It
We’ve been home for twenty minutes. I’m sitting behind
Sawyer in the empty Flat Three kitchen, editing the few photos
I took and gearing up to maybe write a blog post about Rome.
I pull up Gmail and find four missed messages from Mom
and Dad, each more panicked than the one before. I haven’t
checked in with them since the day I “got here.” 
This is so
strange.
I quickly shoot back a response, log into Skype, pay
the ten dollars for real phone call minutes, and dial my house
in New York. My mom picks up. Mom, six years ago.
The whole experience is surreal. She talks about my
younger cousins who’re still in middle school. She tells me
how worried she’s been because I haven’t posted anything on
Facebook or responded to an email in days. I tell her about
Rome. She’s shocked and excited to hear more details. Talking
to her is so casual and easy. When we get off the phone an
hour later, my eyes are glassy. We’ve fallen into such an
uneven cadence these past few years. I lost the desire to share
anything but the surface details of my life with her. I love my
mom, but I felt this need to step away sometime during med
school, and I never stepped back.
I work on a Rome-centric blog post until Pilot walks into
the kitchen. I glance at the time: 11:30 p.m. He looks at me
expectantly. I give a tug on my old white iPod headphones,
letting them fall to the table. “Hey.”
“Hey, can we talk? You hungry? Shawarma?” he asks in
quick succession. His face lights up with that last one. He’s
fidgeting. I close my laptop with an amused look.

---

“You writing?” he asks.
Using extreme caution, I slide horizontally out of my chair
and stand. “Yeah, I figured I’d try to post something on my
blog. I’ve been slacking.”
He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Can’t leave those
French Watermelon readers hanging, Shane.”
I grab my bag and jacket, grinning at the mention of my
blog. “So, shawarma?”
“Relax, Shane, we’re gonna get your precious shawarma.”
I bark a laugh as I follow him out the door.
Almost everything in Kensington is closed by this time, so it
feels like we have the entire sidewalk to ourselves as we stroll
down fancy-white-buildings lane. I wait impatiently for Pilot
to initiate whatever conversation he wanted to have. After four
minutes of silence, I nudge him gently with my elbow.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, stuffs his hands in his
pockets, takes a breath like he’s going to speak, doesn’t speak,
runs a hand through his hair again.
“The suspense,” I tease.
He laughs nervously, but we continue to walk in silence.
London and I wait with bated breath for 108 more seconds.
Out of nowhere, he blurts, “I’m gonna do it.”
I eye him sideways. “Do what?” I ask tentatively.
“I’mgonnabreakupwithAmy.”
“You’re going to…?” He smooshed all his words together,
but I got the gist.
He might not actually do it. Keep your hopes down.
Let’s be real; there’s no stopping my hopes. They pulse
through me like an adrenaline rush. They run and jump and

---

twirl down the street. I manage to hold onto a neutral
expression.
“I’m gonna break things off with Amy,” he says more
clearly.
I inhale a slow breath. “You are.”
“Yes.”
We’ve come to an intersection. We get the walk signal,
cross left, and continue on.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “There was some truth to your Kelly Clarkson
speech.”
I worry at my lip.
He exhales a long breath. “Things were kinda different
with Amy and me after I came back from London. She was
worried about my relationship with you while I was out here.
And like, I felt so guilty about it because she was right to
worry.
“And when I got back to New York, I tried so hard to fix it
.
I promised myself I’d never let something like that happen
again … but in a way the damage was done. She, like,
investigated every woman I interacted with.
“After a while, she stopped voicing her concerns aloud, but
I catch her doing it to this day. I mean, not this day, but in
2017. And I can’t fault her for it. I just go through this guilt
cycle because she’ll forever have a right to feel paranoid …
because of how I felt about you.
“I always picture that image from the 
Princess and the Pea
story. Like that one seed of distrust I planted years ago is
buried under all these years we’ve spent together, all these
memories, but we still feel it.” He pauses as we cross to the
next block.
Pilot shrugs, emotion bleeding into his voice. “I think,
maybe, the best thing Amy and I can do is let each other go.”

---

I blink at the ground, sadness welling in my chest.
“I’m sorry, Pilot. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t be.” He sighs. “I was trying really hard to do what I
thought was the right thing for so long, and turns out maybe
the right thing was the wrong thing.… It’s hard to come to
terms with that. And it’s crossed my mind so many times
before.… Confrontation is just so fucking hard.”
I stay quiet. Beirut Express comes into view a little way
down the sidewalk.
“I’m gonna do it tomorrow,” Pilot adds carefully.
I swallow, letting the words sink in as we approach the
restaurant.
A couple minutes later, when we’re right in front of the
door, I open my mouth to speak again: “I’m sending Melvin a
preemptive breakup letter, just to cover my ground, even
though we haven’t technically met.”
A laugh blows out of Pilot.
I nudge him gently. “Shall we shawarma our troubles
away?”
I’m high on hope and shawarma as we mosey back to the
Karlston.
“So, Pies, while we’re here, what’s the plan to jumpstart
your music career? Can we get you on YouTube? I’m gonna
really push for this ‘Wrecking Ball’ cover.”
He grins and shakes his head—default humble, cool guy
response.
“I just want to sing ‘Wrecking Ball’ and claim we wrote it
first. Just one time!”
He laughs now. “You’re ridiculous.”
“This is a great idea! I have a camera. Why not?”

---

“You have a video camera?” He perks up curiously.
“Uh, duh, my Casio has a video setting. I myself thought
about starting a YouTube channel about writing and such
many a time circa 2010, 2011.”
“French Watermelon Nineteen: the YouTube channel?”
“But of course.”
“How ’bout French Writer-melon?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I reply melodramatically.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t make any sense?” he
protests.
“The internet knows me as French Watermelon. I don’t
want to tarnish the good French Watermelon Nineteen name.”
He smirks at me, eyes gleaming. “Ridiculous.”
“You say ridiculous, I say tech savvy. Tomato-tomahto.”
We cross another intersection.
“What country do we want to hit next?”
“I’m pretty sure Babe’s gonna pull me aside tomorrow and
convince me to go on a trip to Paris with you and that pain-in-
the-ass Chad.”
“Oh jeez, how could I forget Chad? You up for Paris
again?”
“Am I up for Paris again?” I say in a mocking tone. “Does
a bear shit in the woods?”
He snorts.

---