Again, But Better

You have nothing to lose.
“That’s not what I asked,” I reply softly.
The barista returns with our hot drinks and sets them down in front of us. I keep my eyes on
Pilot. He pulls his elbows up onto the table in a frame around his drink and rests his head in his
hands.

---

I watch the steam rising from my tea.
“I’m still with Amy, Shane,” he mumbles from behind his hands. He lifts his head, fear in his
eyes now. “I don’t know what you’re expecting from me.”
“I just want to talk.”
“Shane, I’ve been with Amy for six years,” he says the words slowly, like he’s proving a point.
His forehead scrunches in discomfort.
“Okay, are you two engaged?” I ask quietly.
He looks into his cappuccino. “No.”
“Is she the one? Are you happy?”
“I don’t know!” He runs a hand through his hair in panic. “Why are you asking me this? You
can’t just waltz into my office and drop all this on me, Shane! What are you doing? Why aren’t you
talking to your boyfriend about this? It sounds like he’s the guy you should be talking to!” He’s
almost yelling.
“
I don’t know, Pies! I don’t know. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to talk to you!
” I stop
abruptly, my hand whipping up to my mouth. I can’t believe I just shouted in this little coffee shop.
A flush flashes up my neck, and I join Pilot in staring at the table.
I speak these next words in my best, calm, collected voice. “I’m just here for closure, and
research, to put this to rest. Did I make this all up? Am I making this more than it was? Please. Just
answer the question.”
Pilot’s silent for the longest minute known to man. Finally, he runs his hands down his face and
mumbles: “You’renotmakingitup.”
My head tilts, processing that jumble.
I’m sorry. I was prepared for: 
Yes, you’re ridiculous
. 
Yes, you’re making this all so much more
dramatic than it actually was. Yes, please leave and let’s never discuss this again.
The emotion that comes out of the woodwork in response to that mumble is debilitating. It
scares me. I can’t speak for a full thirty seconds because I didn’t know I cared this much. Christ, I’m
harboring a full-blown Gatsby complex. I need to find a therapist.
I blink at him, struggling to maintain a calm front. “What?” I demand.
“You didn’t make it up,” he repeats, frustrated now.
“What?” Tears are pricking behind my eyes. “So—why didn’t something happen?”
Because of me. Because I let fear make decisions for me. Because I’ve chosen to let the world
push me around instead of pushing my way through the world. Why am I even with Melvin if I don’t
feel this weird magic with him? Because he asked me out? Because he was cute? Because he was
convenient? Because he was there?
The thoughts fissure through me. My shoulders roll forward
with shame. 
I have to break up with Melvin.
“I was with Amy!” Pilot exclaims, breaking me from my reverie.
The force behind his voice unleashes a wave of anger in my gut. “Jesus, Pilot, you said in front
of all of us that you asked her if she would put a pin in your relationship during the time you were
abroad! You bought a one-way ticket to England!”
“It was hard! I was already with her, and you were there, and then she was coming, and it was
complicated. Things were complicated!”
“Yeah, I get it.” A tear slips out. Shit. I swipe it away, nauseated by my own complacency.
Shakily, I bring the tea to my lips and attempt to take a sip. Pilot hasn’t touched his cappuccino.
He opens his mouth again, eyes unfocused now. “There was something there. I was afraid of it
because I was in a relationship. It was bad timing.” He tries to take a sip of his cappuccino, but
instead ends up setting the mug back down onto the table. “I think about it sometimes.”
“About what?” Another demand.
“About what would have happened if, you know, things were different.”

---

I can’t stop blinking. This is 
not
how I was expecting this to go. I knew he was still with his
girlfriend. I knew I was walking into a dead end. I was expecting hard confirmation. I was expecting
to be thoroughly humiliated—to kill the 
what-ifs
once and for all, and move on. Melvin numbed
them for a while, but before him, they were there, just as present as they are now.
He’s not sure about the dead end?
What do I even say now?
“Shane, anyone would think about it.” His face is all squished up like I’m torturing him. “But I
have a whole life with Amy.”
I suck in a hard breath. “No, they wouldn’t, Pilot,” I say with finality.
We stare at each other for an eternity.
“Maybe we should go,” I finally say.
“Okay,” he says solemnly.
I push out my chair and stand. I hardly made a dent in my tea.
“I’ll get the coffee.” Pilot puts some cash on the table.
“Thanks.” It comes out as a whisper. I’m devastated. Outraged. Annoyed. Ashamed. Frustrated.
A small part of me is jumping up and down. You could make an 
Inside Out
sequel out of these past
forty-five minutes.
We head to the elevator, and I stab at the button. I don’t know why I thought this was a good
idea. Now that I know, how do I stop thinking about it? I’m supposed to just let this go? I forcefully
cross my arms as we wait for the elevator.
“Bye!” the woman behind the barista counter coos. “Thanks for coming! Have fun!”
I snap my gaze to her.
“
Stop following me!
” I belt, pointing at her angrily. Pilot shoots me a horrified look.
There’s a ding, and the doors in front of us slide open.
“I’m so sorry. Great place you’ve got here,” Pilot tells the woman as we step into the elevator.
We take our spots against the two opposite walls. The doors close.
“What the heck was that?” he demands.
I study the floor. “I’ve seen her around before and it’s getting…” I don’t know how to talk about
this without sounding bat-shit. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m having a day. I’m sorry.”
I look up. Pilot appears to be in physical pain. I turn my attention to the button on the wall. It’s
in front of Pilot again.
“You didn’t hit the button,” I grumble.
“Shit.” He jabs the lone button, and we descend in silence—until the elevator jolts violently and
we shudder to a stop.
We’re stopped.
Oh dear god.
My eyes drop to the lone button on the wall. “Are we stuck?” I spin around.
“I don’t know.” Pilot gazes about, contemplating as he turns in a slow circle. “There’s got to be a
fire button or a phone or something.”
I’ve already spun around in maybe seven circles in search of a fire button or a phone. I see
nothing. We’re stuck. 
We’re stuck!
Pilot catches sight of my expression and digs his phone out of his
pocket.
“It’s fine. We’ll call the fire department or whoever it is you call when you have these
problems,” he reasons calmly.
“Okay, yeah, um.” I lean against the wall and reach to into my purse, fumbling for my phone.
“Are you dialing nine-one-one or should I?” I bite my lip.
Pilot is frowning down at his iPhone.
“What?” I ask.

---

“Um, I don’t have service,” he shares with a look of bewilderment.
“How can you not have service? We’re in New York City, that’s ridiculous!” I vigorously dial 9-
1-1. Push the call button, whip it up to my ear.
Nothing happens.
“What the hell?” I stare at the phone in disbelief.
A new thought hits me like a clean, sliding glass door to the face. “Oh my god, my interview’s
in, like, an hour.” A sickening sense of helplessness joins the emotional tidal wave I’m riding.
“They should be able to reschedule, right?” Pilot asks.
I exhale. “I don’t even know. It’s a really tough program.” My voice comes out slow and
defeated.
“Someone’s going to get us out soon. That had to have caused some noise. Don’t worry, we’re
gonna be fine,” he says.
I heave a giant sigh, straighten my dress, and slide down to the floor.

---