Again, But Better

lamppost
unprovoked in a real-life conversation?”
“I think I did.”
I bring my face within centimeters of his. “You know
cutesy, romantic callbacks to our shenanigans are my
kryptonite.”
He’s silent for a beat before he says it again: “Lamppost.”
I suck in a breath. “God, that’s so hot.”
He chuckles and tucks a batch of hair behind my ear. “You
look gorgeous. We should go out.”
I laugh. “Okay.”
Paris was freezing but it’s beautiful in London. The sun’s out
and the temperature’s in the low sixties: it’s 
mild
, as I’ve heard

---

the British call it. Pilot and I walk through the city hand in
hand. I ride the London Eye at sunset with Pilot standing
behind me, his arms draped around my waist, my head against
his shoulder. We kiss on benches and on bridges. We get
dinner and stop in at a pub for a drink. We walk through to
Hyde Park. We find a perfect spot, not far from the Karlston,
lie in the grass, and talk.
I learn more about his little sisters. He tells me about the
day he taught the younger one, Holly, to ride a bike when his
parents were on vacation. He seems really protective over
them.
“Can I ask you something?” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the deal with you and your family?”
I’m quiet for a moment. I don’t know how to 
really
talk to
people about my family. Where do I start? You share surface
details, and they don’t understand why I needed to get away.
But you dig too deep, and they only see the bad.
“It’s hard to explain. I guess they always end up making
me feel like I’m not welcome to be myself. That sounds
dramatic.” I sigh. “But they have this preconceived idea of
what I should be, and if I don’t lean in to it, I feel like I’m not
up to par.”
Pilot’s thumb skates around on the back of my hand.
“I’ve been trying to lean in my entire life. I love them. I
know they love me. I know they think they’re helping me by
setting these invisible rules. But I can’t fit that mold, no matter
how hard I lean, and it makes being around them”—I stare up
into the cloudy night sky—“exhausting.”
Pilot squeezes my hand. “Have you ever told them that?”
I shake my head against the hood of my jacket and heave
in an uneven breath. “Topic change?”
Pilot releases my hand and rolls onto his stomach, leaning
over me. He traces a finger down my jawline. Across my

---

collarbone. “What’s your favorite song, Primaveri?” His eyes
sparkle.
“Like, what’s my favorite to hear, or my favorite that
makes me feel all the feelings?”
He settles on his side next to me, head propped up on his
arm. “Both.”
“Favorite to hear is ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ When it came
on in the car, my dad always used to crank it, and the three of
us would fall into the different parts as if we’d discussed it
beforehand, belting out the lyrics.” I grin, thinking of my mom
headbanging to the guitar in the passenger seat.
He nods. “Solid.”
“I feel like I’m going to be judged for my other favorite.”
“Is it your BFF T-swizzle?”
I grin. “Yes.” I gaze into the darkness. “It’s called ‘All Too
Well.’ And it’s beautiful. I love the words and the pictures they
paint and the way it always tears at my heart. Do you know
it?”
“I do.”
I whip my gaze back to his. “You do?”
“I do. I have 
Red
in my iTunes library.”
“Since when?” I demand.
“Since it came out in 2012,” he says.
“You know the year? What, you like Taylor now too?” I
ask incredulously. “But you’re like that guy who thinks his
indie record is so much cooler than hers!”
He laughs outright at that. “I am not.” He drops back onto
the ground.
I watch him suspiciously. “Sing something from ‘All Too
Well.’”
He raises his eyebrows, and sing-speaks, “
Time won’t fly,
it’s like I’m paralyzed by it.
”

---

“I can’t believe this.”
“
I’d like to be my old self again.”
I fall next to him on my back. “I can’t believe you’ve been
holding out on me for, like, two weeks as a closet Taylor Swift
fan!”
He laughs.
“What’s your favorite song?”
“It’s from one of my obscure artists.”
“To be expected,” I say, propping my arm up under my
head again to look down at him. “What’s it called?”
“‘Holy Branches.’”
My forehead crinkles with unexpected recognition. “I
know that song,” I divulge happily. He smiles skeptically at
me now. “No, I really do! The Radical Face?”
“What?” he yells, amused.
“What are the chances?” I say, feeling cocky.
He’s giving me suspicious side-eye now. “How do you
know them?”
“They’re on my work playlist.”
“How did you find them?”
“An author I love recommended one of their songs once. I
have, like, six of their songs on my playlist.”
“This is weird.” He grins and pulls his hands up behind his
head.
“Holy crap, it’s two a.m.” I drop my phone back in my purse
and roll on top of Pilot, hovering on my forearms. “We should
probably head back.” I smile down at him. I’ve been smiling
for hours. I lift a hand and trace his eyebrows.

---

“Then the night will end,” he says. “And I don’t think I’m
ready for that.” He watches me for a few moments. I feel like a
googly-eyed teenager. We’ve been talking for hours.
“Remember that notebook you had, back in the day?” Pilot
says softly.
My finger stops tracing. “Yeah.”
He studies me thoughtfully. “I used to watch you
scribbling in that all the time. You don’t do that anymore.”
My lips part. I scoot onto the ground again. Pilot shifts to
catch my eyes.
“Your mouth would move like you were talking to the
page. I imagined the sound of your voice being drawn out—
going straight from your mind to the paper, like your arm was
an audio cord.”
I swallow, tamping down a sudden urge to cry. “Yeah, I
guess I don’t trust notebooks with my thoughts anymore.”
Pilot frowns, dragging a finger delicately from my temple
to my chin. “When did that happen?”
I watch the sky. “Sometime that year, someone got ahold
of one of my notebooks and read it.”
He squeezes my hand. “Shit, that’s horrible. I’m sorry.”
Pilot’s wrapped around me, still asleep. Slowly, I extricate
myself enough to look over the edge of my bunk. We got back
so late, and snuck up here in the dark. I blow out a breath
when I see the girls are both already gone. The blinds to the
kitchen are open, but I don’t see anyone in there. It must be
late, usually someone’s—
“Oh my god!” I bolt up in bed and hit my head on the
ceiling with a bang. “Ah!” I fall forward and clamber over
Pilot’s legs to get to my phone sitting atop the closet against
the bunk.

---

Pilot stirs as I snatch up the phone. “What? Are you okay?
What’s going on?” His voice is groggy.
Panic courses through me. Eleven o’clock. It’s 11:00 a.m.!
I turn to see Pilot propping himself on his elbows, hair poking
every which way.
“Pilot, it’s eleven and our internships started today!”
His eyelids fly back. 
“Shit.”

---