I was more than capable of finding my own way back to the flat. I gathered my things and started out of the classroom, finding myself unwilling to go home directly. I had no desire to sit in my office for any length of time, but the longer I took getting home, the less likely I was to run into Lucas.
I wandered across the campus, thinking about the next day’s lesson—we were still on layout and gutterlines but preparing to move onto foreground. I was less concerned now with my students being tempted into all-consuming detail work; we’d established a strong baseline, and they were unlikely to lose sight of the bigger picture.
At this point, I looked up to find I’d wandered so far from the arts building and was quite lost. Chagrin burned in my chest. Also heartburn. I hated the idea that without Finch’s gentle guidance I was not quite capable of getting myself home.
I got handled. I knew this, but nowhere in my soon-to-be-dropped contract did it say I had tolikeit.
I channeled enough brain power into analyzing my surroundings to realize I was nearly off campus, faced with a row of pubs and shops that were doing a lively evening trade. A small world of soft lamps and the clink of glasses and dull roar of conversation. This allowed me to discover something new about myself.
It turned out, I was now a codger who hated university pubs.
They were full of light and laughter and youth. These aspects had not always been repulsive to me, but I supposed we grew and changed as people. I had not previously known that I had grown and changed tothisextent, and I wasn’t particularly grateful for the opportunity to find out. But I wasn’t ready to head back to the flat, and it couldn’t hurt to have a few drinks at a shitty pub before a rideshare took me home and I’d have to ink more pages.
I’d been having miniature heart attacks whenever the pages I’d left out to dry in the living room suddenly vanished, but I always found them again in a neat pile, accompanied by a snarky note. Though I hadn’t heard from Lucas since yesterday.
It was possible that Martha was not pleased with me. Perhaps I’d done something especially heinous, though as certainly had become quite evident, I was a veritable joy to live with. One mirror drawing too many, perchance.
Even Gaston and LeFou had begun giving me reproachful looks lately. All the more reason to do my drinking out of the house.
I chose a little place called Valhalla,the outward appearance of which was deceptive in regards to the amount of noise one encountered upon entering. Noxious pop music filled the air, large screens displayed the physical achievements of various athletes, and the population was largely juvenile, drunk, and sloppy.
They all looked so happy it made my gorge rise.
Codger.
Still, I found a spot at the bar and squinted up at the drink prices scribbled in chalk. I couldn’t help softly whistling through my teeth.
The bartender headed over, looking not quite as happy as the clientele. She apparently took her job seriously, however, as she leaned past the beer tap and shot me a white, perfectly symmetrical, American smile. “What can I get you, stranger?”
I sighed. “I don’t suppose you have discounts for faculty?”
She laughed, which was not a good sign.
“The prices here are aimed at the trust-fund crowd.” Someone chuckled over my shoulder, and I turned to see a young man seated next to me, smiling and cleaning his glasses with an honest-to-gods handkerchief.
Perhapsyoungwas a bit generous, especially considering the average age in the room was barely out of its teens; he had to be in his midforties, going very distinguished at the temples and sporting the kind of laugh lines and crow’s feet that made me think of strong Western men in blue jeans and plaid.
I swallowed heavily. “E-excuse me?”
He replaced his glasses and immediately went from roguish to sophisticated, smiling at the pretty bartender with only half his mouth.
“Two gin and tonics, honey.” He glanced over at me as an apparent afterthought. “You a gin man?”
“W-whiskey,” I managed.
“All right then, one gin and tonic, one whiskey sour for my young English friend here.” He slapped a card on the bar, then glanced over at me, still smiling. “Discount for faculty, huh? You giving a class on how to perfect an East London accent?”
A smile pulled at the edges of my mouth. “How long?”
“Three years.” He grinned. “Got my MA at Oxford.” He paused for a moment as our drinks arrived, and took an appreciative sip of his gin and tonic, while I downed about half of mine out of sheer nerves. He chuckled at me again for no apparent reason and leaned in a little closer. “So what brings you to our shores?”
I cleared my throat. Surely it hadn’t beenthatmany decades since I’d flirted with anyone ... Except it had. I was learning how to person again, I really was, but this felt like a sudden jump in difficulty level. A surprise exam. “I’m teaching a comics workshop,” I said finally. “Extremely prestigious.”
“Dr. Ken Lazlo.” He presented me with a hand to shake, which I did. “I’m a postdoc in the English Lit department. Visiting Scholar, technically.”
“Of course you are.” I couldn’t help myself.
Luckily for me, he chuckled and raised an elbow to show me the leather patch. “I keep my pipe in my other tweed. So what’s your name,lad? Don’t force me to start calling you Laughing Boy.”
