Again, But Better

Your postcards are the talk of the town. What’d you
say in those things? The ’rents won’t stop whispering.
I don’t hear anything from my parents.

---

25. One Last Time
Our last full day abroad comes without warning. Yesterday, I
made a new Facebook chat thread for us to exchange
American numbers. I need these friendships to stick. Everyone
leaves their numbers, including Pilot. I stare at the digits next
to his name, anger sparking in my chest.
This morning there was a new message in our family
dinner group chat.
Babe
FRIENDLY REMINDER: Our flat 
family dinner blowout is tonight!! 
6:00 p.m. Be there!
I pull out two jars of sauce (my dinner contribution) and
leave them on the table before heading out to do the Tower of
London with Sahra and Atticus. Babe said she was too busy
packing to come. Pilot just didn’t come. Maybe he went to
hang out with the guys down the hall.
Tonight, I’m confronting him.
We head to the kitchen at 6:00 p.m., per Babe’s instructions.
Inside, the table’s all set, and the room is already brimming
with the sweet smell of melting cheese and tomato sauce.
Babe’s leaning against the counter with a glass of wine.
Atticus enters behind me, and we all chorus a round of 
heys
.

---

“Did you start early?” I exclaim.
“Yeah!” Babe lifts her glass. “I just set the table, and I
bought some wine yesterday. The ziti’s been in the oven for
around thirty minutes, so it’ll be ready in like, fifteen. I
finished packing early, and thought, why not get started!”
“Babe, we were going to help,” Atticus protests.
“Don’t worry about it. I love cooking!” She grins, picking
the wine bottle up from the table. “Who wants wine?”
Atticus and I each pour ourselves a glass. I pull Sawyer out
of my bag and put on a classic rock playlist. I place it on the
couch at a low volume for background ambiance. Bruce
Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” kicks things off.
“’Merica!” Babe yells in the self-aware ironic way we do
to make fun of ourselves.
“’Merica!” echoes a male voice. I turn around to find Pilot
standing in the doorway, wearing one of his classic plaid
button-ups. He holds up a plastic bag. “Got the ping-pong
balls! I had to go to three places, but I finally found them at
Primark so all is good!”
“I knew you’d come through.” Atticus grins.
I tense up and head over toward Babe and Atticus, taking a
spot against the counter. Pilot places the bag on the couch near
Sawyer and slings his backpack off.
“It looks like they don’t actually have solo cups here, but
they had these.” He pulls a sleeve of medium-sized white cups
from his bag. Babe and Atticus laugh.
Pilot hauls a pack of beer from his bag and puts it in the
fridge before cracking one open for himself. He leans up
against the counter near me. We’re all leaning against the nice
wrap-around counter near the window. “What have you all
been up to today?”
“Packing,” Babe drawls.

---

“We went to see the Tower of London. Remember, I
invited you this morning,” Atticus teases.
“Oh yeah.” Pilot blinks. “How was it?”
“Educational and great!” Atticus exclaims.
“Nice.” Pilot takes another sip of his beer.
Sahra bursts through the door. “Woo! Family dinner
night,” she yells with fifty times the enthusiasm of her usual
voice. “I’m so ready to drink and be American together.” She
throws her purse on the couch, strolls to the table, and falls
into a chair. “How long do we have till it’s ready to eat?” she
adds eagerly.
When the timer goes off, Babe grabs an oven mitt and
pulls a casserole dish of steaming ziti from the oven. We pick
up plates, and Babe takes charge, deeming herself the official
pasta distributer. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” starts
playing from my playlist. It makes me smile.
“Do any of you know all the words to this song?” I ask.
“It’s one of my life goals to know them all one day.” Babe
drops a scoop of ziti onto my plate.
“I want to too!” She laughs.
“Doot doot doot doot doot doot doot,” I sing along quietly.
“Wow, you already know so many of the lyrics,” Pilot says
from the table. I snort as I make my way to my seat.
We finish our baked ziti in merry chitchat, catching up on
all the things we’ve missed in each other’s lives. After dinner,
we clear the table for beer pong. We play three on two and
rock-paper-scissor for teams. I end up on Pilot’s. We play, and
Pilot and I are winning and laughing and high-fiving, and I
almost forget that he’s been avoiding me for ages and might
know all my most intimate thoughts.
It’s 9:00 p.m. when we finish up a game of Kings, gather
our jackets, and head out to a pub in Camden that Babe found
on Yelp.

---

The inside of the pub is littered with round, dark green, fancy-
looking booths. Music plays low in the background, so
speaking is still an option. We pick a booth, and Pilot slides in
first, followed by Sahra and Atticus.
As I lean to slide in, Babe loops her arm around mine and
pulls me in the opposite direction toward the bar. “We’re going
to go grab some drinks. Hold down the table and then we can
switch,” she tells them.
She leans into to my ear. “Is there something going on with
you and Pilot again? You haven’t talked about him in forever.”
“Nothing is going on with me and Pilot,” I mumble.
Babe shakes her head and meets my eyes, putting on a
serious face. “Do you like him still?” She tries to study my
expression. I never told her about Amy and Horcrux Nine. I
haven’t told anyone.
I blow out an exasperated breath. “I don’t want to talk
about it.”
She sighs as we reach the bar. Babe orders her drink. I
have to get Pilot alone. Maybe I should buy him a drink and
lure him to a different table?
“Can I get a glass of red wine?” I ask the bartender. I
hesitate for a second then add, “And a Guinness, please.”
“You’re getting a Guinness?” Babe asks beside me. I turn
to respond to her and startle. There’s a tall, curly-haired man
standing right behind her. The guy introduces himself, shakes
our hands, and quickly orders us all shots of whiskey. I
exchange a look with Babe, but she’s into it. They start up a
line of small talk.
I glance back over at our booth and see Pilot watching us.
He raises his eyebrows at me in amusement. I look away,
trying not to smile. He’s so stupidly charming.
Four shots come on a platter and the guy distributes them:
one to me, Babe, and his dark-haired, lanky friend who

---

appeared out of nowhere while I looked away, turning our
little triangle into a circle. I bring the tiny glass to my nose,
take a quick whiff, and pull away. It smells like a mixture of
wood and rubbing alcohol.
“To tonight!” says the curly-haired guy. The three of them
shoot the liquid down their throats. I take a sip.
“Oh my god.” My face squishes up, and I spasm like a dog
shaking the water from its fur. It burns.
“Shane!” Babe says, laughing. “You can’t sip it!” The
curly-haired guy laughs with her.
I hand the shot to Babe. “Here, you have mine,” I tell her. I
grab my wine and the Guinness from the bar and stroll back to
our booth.
I slide in next to Pilot, holding both drinks—and freeze up.
I can’t lure him to another table if I’m already inside the
booth.