Again, But Better

26. The Fear of Falling Apart
April 15, 2011 (take two)
Mom and Dad,
I know I’ve created a rift. Whether or not
you’ve been aware, it’s been forming for
a while. I don’t know what’s going to
happen when I get home, but this time, I
won’t stop trying to close it. There might
be times where I need a break, and I
retreat for a while, but I’ll always try
again. I need to live my own life, but that
doesn’t mean that I don’t want you in it.
XO,
Shane
I catch the 3:40 p.m. train to Edinburgh.
The gray cityscape outside my window softens into an
endless span of sheep and greenery. I pen down two new
chapters of my work-in-progress as the sun falls away.
The moon hangs full and bright in the sky when I finally
wander up to my bed-and-breakfast. It’s 9:00 p.m. and I’m
starving, so I drop my stuff in the room and meander down the
road until I find a cozy old-fashioned-looking pub. I take a
seat at the bar with my copy of 
Prisoner of Azkaban
and order
a burger. There’s a handful of other people here chatting and

---

enjoying a drink under the warm yellow lighting. It’s nice. I
open my book and fall in with Harry.
Halfway through the first chapter, I’m distracted by a
young guy with longish dark hair and disarming gold-brown
eyes who sits two stools away. I watch as he orders a Guinness
with a Scottish accent. He turns and catches me watching. I
quickly return to Harry Potter.
“Hey,” he says. I glance back over. He’s smiling at me
now.
“Hi.” I pull a half-assed, embarrassed smile.
“American?” he asks in surprise.
“Affirmative,” I respond, raising my eyebrows and taking
a sip of my drink. “Scottish?”
He laughs and propels us into conversation. He reminds
me of a young Henry Ian Cusick (Desmond from 
Lost
). His
name is Greg; he’s studying law at Edinburgh University. He
does most of the talking, especially once my burger comes.
Chatting with Greg makes me think about chatting with Pilot,
and for the first time in weeks, I give in and let my thoughts
wander in that direction. I would rather be here with Pilot,
having stupid conversations about evil chairs or how likely it
is that we run into J.K. Rowling on the street tomorrow, than
be laughing and smiling politely with attractive Scottish Greg.
But I’m mad at Pilot, aren’t I? Or am I mad at me? Have I
forgiven myself? Did I make up for it? Can I be with Pilot and
find the headspace and time to navigate a creative career? I
don’t know. I’m never late for things, but Pilot makes me
forget about time. Or … I forget about time because of Pilot. I
hate that Pilot didn’t make sure Amy got his message.
I’m so confused.
Scottish Greg has a great accent and seems really smart,
and wow, he has great hair, and he’s keeping the conversation
going, and it seems like he has a decent sense of humor. But
the longer we talk, the more I want to excuse myself and head
back to the B and B.

---

“Something wrong?” Greg asks. He’s telling a story, and
I’ve checked out.
“Oh, no,” I answer. “Go on. I’m sorry!”
When he wraps up, I stand from my stool so Greg can see
that I’m ready to head out.
The bill’s been sitting untouched on my left, so I pull out
my debit card. I do a double take when I glance at it to catch
the price. There’s a handwritten note across the top of it. I
blink, my heart ramming uncomfortably against my ribs.
You’re ready, if you’re ready. x
Frantically, I glance around for the bartender. It was a man
earlier—but there she is, red hair knotted up, serving someone
ten feet down the counter.
“Hey!” I yell down to her. She looks up and meets my
eyes.
“It’ll work now?”
She nods. I pivot and leave the pub.
My pulse is still racing as I drop onto the bed at my B and
B and extricate the locket from my purse …