“The self-pity,” he says. “You have absolutely no idea what was going on with El. You’ve seen a twenty-second clip of him making one massive mistake—”
“And that makes him cheating on me okay?”
“No, of course not. And if I’d been there, I would’ve kicked his arse for you. But you knew El better than anyone. He was a decent guy.”
I snort.
“And he was lucky to have you.”
My gaze flicks along the bar and I spot this adorable kid propped sideways, a beer at his elbow, listening.
“What’s your problem?” I grunt at him.
He shakes his head and turns away.
“Mate, I want you to come home with me right now,” Mike says. “I have something important to show you. Something you missed on the video.”
“Is it some big reveal that explains why my boyfriend was snogging some other dude’s face off?”
“No, but, Dylan, we need to talk.”
“We’re talking now. And I’m getting free drinks. Are you going to pour me flaming sambucas at Casa Berrington? Because I’m not sure Mumzilla and Big M would be cool with that. Look, Mike, it’s okay.” I waft my hand towards the door. “You go if you want.”
He can tell it’s pointless, and I almost give in when I see his faith in me drain away.
“All right then,” he mutters. “If you insist. I’ll talk to you when you’re Dylan again.”
I almost call him back. Almost.
A smoke machine rolls mist around my feet. Red and orange lights dance on the fog and make me queasy. I think of Gemma’s party, of kids gurning in front of your picture. I think of mist on a lake and the headlights of a car flickering in the depths.
A cool hand runs down my arm and slips over my drink. The kid takes it from me and downs it in one.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
At first I think he might be the boy from along the bar, but this kid has bright red hair and sea-green eyes. He asks me if he could have another drink and I call the barman over. My new friend grins. He’s all teeth, but sort of cute.
“I’m George.”
“Dylan.”
“This place is so lame.”
“Why are you here then?”
“All right, Oscar the Grouch.” He bats my chest. “It’s okay, I guess. Especially if handsome young men are buying me drinks. I’m not going to ask you if you come here often, because that’s so—”
“Lame?”
“Wow. Youaremoody. Okay, so here’s a plan: buy me five more of these and I promise to put a smile back on your face.”
Time seems to shift, running through my fingers like sand. One minute we’re at the bar, George telling me about his bitch mum and his bitch sister and their bitch cat and the bitch manager at his bitch work, and then we’re in this toilet cubicle and I’m standing with my back to the wall. I guess it’s okay as nightclub cubicles go, my experience is limited. Anyway, George reliably informs me there’s no wee on the floor, so that’s fine. My brain is whirling now, turning everything over and over like one of those rolling barrels they have in funhouses. I’m not sure I want to go through with this, but George assures me I do, and I don’t have the words to argue.
It’s like an out-of-body experience. I’m watching him but all I can think of is you. How you showed me this stuff and did it patiently and gently, talking me through what you liked, asking me what I liked. You were kind, El. You made all this scary sex stuff safe and wonderful. And I don’t believe you were that person in the video. Not really.
I love you.
