supposed to know what couple or moment they’re referring to in their
meaningful tattoo, you know?” I drop my flailing hands back to my sides.
Pies pulls a goofy
eh
expression. “I guess,” he concedes.
“And then there was
Okay, Okay
in
TFIOS
, where they finally broke
the mold, and it was beautiful,” I say, continuing my lecture as we circle
around another landing and onto another flight of steps.
“What’s
TFIOS
?”
“A great book.”
“Okay,” he agrees automatically.
“Okay, so the point is: Since we’re in our own rom-com right now, we
should have our own stupid, unique
always
, so people can make tattoos
about us!”
He laughs. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. We don’t want to mess this up. We have to think it
through, so we go down in history the right way.”
Pilot snorts.
“What was that laugh?”
I accuse, trying not to laugh myself.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“This is deep, meaningful stuff, Pies.”
He smiles, hands still stuffed in his pockets. We climb in silence for a
few moments, the metal reverberating under our feet.
“Any ideas?” I ask curiously.
He juts out his bottom lip. “
Leather?
”
“
Leather?
That sounds a little dirty.”
Another snort.
“What about
lamppost
?” I propose. “It’s innocent, catchy.”
“Lamppost?”
“Yeah, as in,
lamppost
will be our
always
.”
Pilot treats me to a deadpan glare.
“It’s gonna be great. Here, let’s test it out. Ask me a question.”
Pilot’s smiling at the air in front of us now. “What kind of question?”
“Anything! Just a tester question.”
He stops on the landing between staircases for a moment, so I come to
a halt in front of him.
He clears his throat and puts on a funny romantic voice. “Shane.” He
gazes into my eyes like a cartoon prince. “Are you Santa?”
I step up close to his face. “Lamppost.”
He turns away with an eye-roll-smile combo.
“That sounded nice, right?” I goad. He pulls his hand from his pocket
and takes mine as we continue up.
When we reach the second tier, I hurry over to the edge, pushing my
hand up against the metal cage around us. Pilot shuffles up next to me.
“Still
incredible,” he says.
“Pies?” I ask, cheerily turning away from the view.
He turns to me abruptly. “Lamppost.”
“No!” I whack him in the arm, compressed laughter buzzing out of
me. “That’s not how it works! I have to ask a question where the answer
is—”
“Oh, that’s not how it works?” he interrupts, smirking. “This isn’t how
it goes?” He closes the gap between us and catches my lips. I get lost in
the glitter for a second.
I’m smiling and shaking my head as we break from the kiss. “I was
setting up for the perfect lamppost question!” I protest.
“Ah, but it was time for me to clock in another move.”
“Time for you ‘to clock in another move’?” I mock him, crossing my
arms. “Do you have a quota to hit or something?”
“Yeah,” he responds matter-of-factly. “Gotta keep on top of things if I
want to maintain my Trip Advisor rating, Shane.”
I scoff.
We catch up with Babe and Chad back at the bottom. Pilot and I break
physical contact as we come up behind them. The four of us walk along
the Seine. As the sun’s setting Babe stops short and spins to look back at
the Eiffel Tower.
“Wait! What time is it?”
“Bro, you pumped?” Chad wheels around to Pilot as we stroll toward the
sounds of music in the Bastille.
“Toe, I’m so pumped,” Pilot replies enthusiastically.
“Bro, I bet it’s hype up in that one down there.” He points down the
street to the bar we went to last time.
“So hype, Toe.”
Next to me Babe’s brow crinkles. “Are you saying
Toe
?”
she asks
loudly. I cackle.
Chad strides forward without comment. Pilot falls into step on my
other side.
“You excited to hit this place again?” he asks quietly as the four of us
come up to the black awning.
“Lamppost.”
He smiles.
I raise my eyebrows. “How doth one top a live oldies-classic-rock-
punk-rock-from-the-early-2000s cover band, Pilot? It doesn’t get better
than that.”
The band is in full swing as we mosh our way to the bar. It’s
not long
before our foursome is torn into pairs by the mass of people chomping at
the bit for alcohol. Pilot and I both order a gin and tonic before heading
out onto the floor.
We situate ourselves side by side, swaying and playfully singing along
with the set. When they play “What’s My Age Again,” I jump around,
baptizing everyone in the vicinity with my drink. We’re mazing our way
to the back of the room to set down our empty glasses when “Basket
Case” starts to play.
“Oh shit!” I exclaim, lightly whacking Pilot in the arm. I hold his
eyes,
bobbing my head with the beat, and he laughs at me.
“Let’s dance!” I talk-yell.
He holds his lips in a small smile. “I thought we were getting new
drinks!”
“
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