Again, But Better

I’m ready now? I
don’t feel ready.
I can’t wrap my head around erasing the last
four months. So much has happened that I don’t want to
forget.
In the morning, the B and B hostess gives me directions to the
Elephant House. It’s a bit of a walk, but I revel in the
surprisingly warm weather and take in the city as I go. The
architecture is all medieval-looking and walking through it is
almost fantastical. When I spot the café, I skip up to it,
jumping to a stop at the entrance. There’s a little sign in the
window pronouncing it 
THE BIRTHPLACE OF HARRY POTTER
.
To the naked eye, it’s just a café. There are four computers
for use in the front left corner, there’s a bar to order at, tables
everywhere. It’s full of windows with a beautiful view of

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Edinburgh Castle. But, a tingly feeling spreads over me as I
step inside. This is where J. K. Rowling came to sit and birth
the phenomenon that changed millions of lives. This is where
she created a world that I could retreat to whenever things
weren’t so great in my own reality. I order a latte and sit down
at a table near the window reading 
Prisoner of Azkaban
. After
a while, I pull out Horcrux Ten and pen another chapter of my
own book.
Down the road, I stumble onto one of Edinburgh’s famous
graveyards. I take my time there, roaming lazily from one
elaborate gravestone to the next. I stop short when I spot one
in particular that reads: 
In loving memory of Thomas Riddell
.
“What?” I yell in disbelief. I whip out my camera and snap
a selfie.
When my stomach starts to rumble, I wander back onto the
streets to find a pub where I can grab lunch and regroup. I
settle in alone at a small table along the wall and pull out my
British phone.
There’s a text from Babe.
Babe: 
How goes the finding yourself?
I smile and type back.
Me: 
This just in: I hate dealing with feelings, but Harry
Potter is helping numb the pain.
Babe: 
Harry Potter heals all!:]
Me: 
True story! I’m headed to go climb a crag-
mountain-hill thing soon!
Babe: 
Take a hoard of pictures for the blog!
Me: 
OBVIOUSLY! =]
It takes twenty-five minutes to find the crag, but I make it
there with just the waiter’s verbal instructions to work off. At
the base of it is a park of sorts. Children and dogs splash

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around in big contemporary fountains, and a bright sidewalk
runs among big flat stretches of green grass. The crag looming
ahead is rocky, green, and gorgeous. I’m going to climb the
crap out if it.
I unzip my purse and check for texts again. There’s one
new one from Babe.
Babe: 
Excited to hear about it!
Shane: 
About to start the hike. Cross your fingers I
don’t slip on a pile of rocks, trip over the edge, and die.
Babe: 
PLEASE DON’T DIE.
I stare at my phone for a few more seconds before I pull up
the text thread with Pilot. The last messages are from
February.
Pilot: 
I just heard someone use the word ravish at
work. Can I pull off the word ravish? Or is it like
knackered? =P
Pilot: 
Is everything okay?
Pilot: 
I’m back early today, so find me when you get
home!
Pilot: 
I hope everything’s okay.
My chest tightens. I want to text him something stupid like
I miss you …
but instead I chuck the phone into my bag and
trek toward the foot of the trail.
The path curves gently up and around the hill before
narrowing out and getting steeper. Thirty minutes in, I take a
seat off to the side of the trail on a giant rock. There’s been a
group of four dudes maybe three hundred feet behind me
throughout the trek. I make a deal with myself that once they
pass, I’ll get up and keep going.
The view from my perch is gorgeous: fantastic rock
formations, endless green hills, and medieval-looking

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architecture. This must be such an interesting place to live. I
glance down the trail, catching sight of the guys on their way
around the corner before bringing my gaze back to the
horizon. My heart stutters. I think I just saw Pilot in that
group? I slowly turn my head to look again.
My eyebrows pull together. No, just four college-aged
dudes with hair in varying shades of brown. 
Great, I’m Bella
Swan-ing circa
New Moon. They pass me, chatting easily
about sports in American accents. I push up off the rock and
continue.
Forty minutes later, I stumble around a giant rock into a
vast green valley. At its edge, the ground cuts off with an
abrupt drop. To my right, the land bulges upward toward
Arthur’s Seat. I’m so close to the tippy top! A scattering of
people are climbing up to the peak where the Seat is, but no
one’s wandering the valley.
I pull my frizzy curls free of my ponytail and run out onto
the green. My hair flies out behind me as I throw myself into a
cartwheel, my cross-body flying around and knocking into me.
The land is surprisingly springy and soft. It feels a little like
those fake turf football fields, but with more give. I leap
around like a five-year-old, scout out a good spot, and collapse
onto the ground to gaze up at the wispy clouds overhead.
A gust of wind tickles my nose as I fish my phone and the
silver locket from my purse. I flip the locket over, running the
pads of my fingers over the inscription. Angst sidles around
inside me. 
What’s the right decision?
I applied to so many jobs. I stepped up my blog game. I
got my piece published. I had the people I work with looking
out for me … and nothing has panned out. If my parents throw
me out, what will I do? What if they won’t pay for me to go
back to school? What am I going to do? Maybe I won’t get a
degree or I’ll go to community college?
I don’t know what happens now. I don’t want to live in this
world where I’ve proved them right: 
I’m not good enough
. I
do know I can be a successful gastroenterologist. I’ve got eight

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more interviews lined up for residency. My grades kicked ass.
And with Pilot—maybe Babe’s right. She doesn’t know the
whole story, but maybe the healthy thing to do is 
move on
. It’ll
be easier to move on if I don’t remember this.
Disappointment swells in my chest. I blow out breath after
breath trying to dispel it.
Palming the locket, I type up a draft to Pilot: 
I miss you.
I
stare at the words for a minute before backspacing them into
oblivion. I type: 
Depends how you use it, could be creepy.
I press send and wait.
My brain counts the seconds as they pass. Two minutes.
Three minutes.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
My fingers twitch. I drop the phone into my purse and
stare at the sky.
I played everything out. I tried with Pilot. I finished the
internship. I blink at the emotion gathering in my eyes as my
fingers find the locket’s edge. The silver top flips back like a
pocket watch. Inside, the image of a clock is etched delicately
into the silver. I didn’t notice that before. On the opposite side
sits the obsidian heart. I close my eyes and let my thumb graze
back and forth across the cold surface, trying to feel out a
decision. 
Do I hear music?
I listen harder.
There’s music in the wind. I think I know the song; my
heart warms with the familiarity of it. Is someone listening to
music up here? 
Don’t they know I’m trying to enjoy nature and
make maybe the most important decision of my life?
It’s getting louder. My brain clicks the song into place. I
snap the locket shut in surprise and open my eyes to the bright

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afternoon sky, ears perked. It sounds like it’s just a guitar—
and then Pilot’s face swings into view, hovering over me.
“Ahhh!” I scream, flipping onto my stomach and
scrambling into a sitting position. “
What the fudge?
”

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