overload. Like:
This guy I’ve liked for ages, is making out with
me, and we’re dancing, and it’s freaking great.
“It was this whole weird, fake rush, and then we got off the
dance floor and … he wasn’t you.”
New breath. “If it were you,
afterward we would have
laughed and talked about random shit. But when we walked
back to Matt’s place, this guy kept talking over me and my
friend, and making a point to only talk to Matt. And then he
barely said goodbye before
disappearing back into his
apartment, and we never spoke again.
“And that high I was riding, that trick my brain was trying
to pull, just crashed. ’Cause study abroad was over. You hadn’t
been responding to any of our silly group messages over the
summer, and … I … I went abroad to make bold decisions and
be brave and do things I was always scared to do, but in the
end, I didn’t even tell you how I felt. And it hit me as the high
crashed, that this fake version of you was probably the closest
I was ever going to get.
“I don’t typically tell people I like them. I actually have a
track record of complete and total secrecy.” I huff a sad
chuckle. “So that whole café ordeal was kind of a big thing for
me.”
My eyes are now trained on a spot near Pilot’s feet. I think
I’ve ceased being Shane and become pure embarrassment. I
shouldn’t have shared that. Instant regret.
I slowly raise my head to face his reaction.
His mouth is
slightly agape. His eyes are round and conflicted, a dark forest
green in the night. I swallow, unsure of what to say or do.
Babble into another subject, Shane.
I open my mouth. I
can’t think clearly with him looking at me like that. “Um,
well, anywa—” I’m cut off as his lips catch mine.
Startled
chills run up my calves.
The kiss is slow and careful. After a second, I kiss him
back. My lips part. Head tilts. His hand glides over my waist.
My skin … burns? In a good-fire way. I didn’t know there was
a good way to be on fire.
I thought people were making shit up when they described
kisses like this. This is some Eiffel-Tower-at-6:00-p.m. shit.
I’m glittery fire. And I like it. I break away and scoot back.
Swallow. Pilot looks like he’s been
hit over the head with a
rock.
My heart’s playing hopscotch. “What was that?” I breathe.
“I … I didn’t like that story with doppelgänger jerk version
of me.”
It takes a few seconds to spit it out, but I do. “Pilot, you’re
with Amy, in our time and in this one.”
His breathing picks up. “I am with Amy.” He drops his
head in his hands. “Shit. Shit.” He gets up and starts pacing
back and forth. I watch him for
a minute before I remember
Melvin.
Did that count as cheating on Melvin? In 2011, we haven’t
even met yet. Maybe I should send a preemptive breakup
message? I could mail it to his parents’ house.
Pilot’s been pacing for four minutes when I decide to
stand. It’s gotta be almost 4:00 a.m.
“We
should go back,” I suggest.
He looks up with a pained expression and nods. We walk
back in silence. My entire being feels alight and aware, awake.
I keep looking over at Pilot, but he’s lost in thought.
The sun’s rising when we slip silently into our respective
beds (Pilot grabbed the key from Babe earlier). My brain has
that kiss on a loop. It takes a long time to fall asleep.