I scowled at her. “I mean, come on, the way they ran into each other’s arms. The way he stumbled over his words when he told her she was breathtaking. And his clothes, ugh, he’s so cool.” I threw up my arms in indignation. “Why don’t guys like that actually exist?” I asked myself the question as if that was the kind of guy I wanted. But since the moment he’d walked into the kitchen yesterday, demon-costume boy was the only thing I could fucking think about.
“I think we have answered the age-old question of why Quincey Sterling never dates.”
She descended into a fit of giggles as I grabbed a pillow and hit her with it. Despite her hangover, she put up a decent fight, and by the end, we both looked like we’d stuck metal knives into live sockets.
“Your type is ‘dresses like a grandpa’and fictional.”
“Exactly.”
And was that really so much to ask for? Why should I have to settle? I wanted the love I saw in my favourite films. I wanteda love that was easy. One that pulled the butterflies from my belly in fits of laughter. I wanted a love that made my cheeks hurt and my heart warm. I wanted someone to stand outside my bedroom with a boom box. I wanted to ride off into the sunset on the back of a lawnmower. I wanted to be the best friend likeWattsin ‘Some Kind of Wonderful.’ I only wanted love if it was worth it. But I just wasn’t sure if it existed in real life. Not for people like me anyway.
“Don’t you want to be in love, Quincey?” Esme said seriously, once she’d managed to stop laughing. Her voice was gentle and soft, and I knew it came from that kind place deep inside her.
And as the mature adult that I was, I made an exaggerated gagging sound in response before looking up at her. “Love?Love?The number one cause of divorce. The thing that killed Jack inThe Titanic.The leading indicator that someone may one day suffer a broken heart?”
Esme rolled her eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself. “If love could be mass produced like alcohol, it would come with a warning label.” I held my hands up, facing her, and slowly pulled them apart as if unveiling something important. “WARNING: May cause sudden death.”
“God, you’re so weird,” she said, hitting me with a pillow before pulling me into a hug. I tried to resist and squirm away, but she held firm.
“Jesus, have you been going to the gym? Why are you so strong?”
“If you won’t let anyone else love you, at least let me.”
“Fine,” I said, acquiescing and leaning into her embrace. For the most part, I was okay. Sure, school was hard, and I had a professor who hated me. My grandmother was ill and deteriorating at a rapid rate. But I was fine… At least I thought I was. I suppose I’d gotten so used to the stress, it was difficult to know how I truly felt. But one thing was for certain:lovewasn’t going to solve my issues.
I have a better chance of getting three wishes from a hypothetical demon.
I stumbledback into my apartment in the early afternoon, letting my duffel drop to the floor. After pulling off my shoes, I ambled over to the sink to fill up two pint-sized glasses of water. Calling my minuscule home an apartment was probably a stretch. For all intents and purposes, itwasan apartment; it was just fucking tiny. Two rooms and an ensuite bathroom to be precise.
My bedroom was hardly bigger than the bed that currently occupied it. I could only blame myself, though, opting to go for a bigger king-size bed simply because a bigger bed sounded more comfortable. There was an old wooden desk in the corner of the room, but unlike Esme’s (which looked more like a beauty store counter), mine was more closely aligned with that of a witch’s apothecary table.
It overflowed with half-burnt candles and mismatched jars holding flowers that had since withered away into something crispier and browner than decorative. In an ode to Hugh and hisOddity Vault,every surface of my apartment was scattered with junk and trinkets I probably didn’t need. I had old vintage paintings and photographs dotted along my walls, mostly to hide the peeling paint, but they made my room feel homier, nonetheless.
On top of my bed, this round of washing, leaving me with beautiful, quilted terracotta bedsheets, was an array of mismatched pillows. Some floral, some patchwork, and one larger-than-average-sized sock monkey I’d had since I was little. At the foot of my bed sat a dark green knitted blanket, whichwas folded neatly in stark contrast to the rest of my space that felt more than a little chaotic. The blanket had been obscenely expensive but necessary given Darling’s terribly cold winters and my broken heating, which my landlord would get around to fixingany day now.
A tiny bathroom jutted off from my bedroom. There wasn’t much decorating I could do in there, given how small it was, but I’d placed a number of hanging plants that enjoyed more humid temperatures in there as a requisite for making the room feel less depressing.
I slowly made my way around my apartment, watering the endless array of plants I had that littered every corner of my home. Some hung from woven macramé hangers, whilst others sat in pots. Ivy drew across the walls, and I had a large monstera that was verging on legendary proportions, positioned in the corner of my living room in front of a large window. I was limited on space, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it, themonster of a plantthat it was.
“Mortimer?” I called out, stalking around the apartment. “Are you here?” Mortimer was a stray cat that liked to come and go from my apartment, especially in the wintertime when the weather was colder and all he wanted to do was curl up under a blanket. I’d found him meowing on the fire escape that doubled as a balcony and instantly fallen in love. And like all my other expectations of love, my feelings in this relationship had been unrequited until I’d started offering up food.
But as much as I loved him, he was and always would be an outdoor cat. And I wasn’t looking to change him. He was perfect just the way he was.
I slipped on my trusty fluffy Birkenstocks and walked over to the fridge in my kitchen. Similar to my bathroom, I hadn’t had much space to decorate in here, but given the open plan setup, my living room more than made up for the lack of décor.
I stared into my fridge, and the only thing that stared back at me was a mouldy lemon and a half carton of oat milk.Ugh.“No wonder you won’t visit, Mort, there’s simply no food in here to bribe you with.”
Some adulting came easily to me, and some adulting, namely having to feed myself on a daily basis, came unbelievably hard. I dropped onto a stool at my wooden breakfast bar, pulling out my phone and scrolling through the rest of the photos from last night, trying not to overanalyse any of the social interactions I’d had. Especially not where red-headed assholes were concerned.
Above the bar was a poster-sized black and white photograph of my grandparents from when they were younger. It was the first thing I saw every time I walked into my apartment. It made me happy, especially on the bad days when I felt despondent about life. It was like my eyes were drawn to it, and even in the shittiest moods, it seemed to bring a smile to my face. Maybe it was because I loved my grandparents, or maybe it was because the happiness, so clear in the photograph, was infectious, but either way it made me feel like bad days were justbad days,and on the good ones? Well, it just helped me feel a little more grateful that I had people I got to share thegoodwith in my life.
Several hoursand a depressing bowl of Froot Loops later, I was making my way towardThe Bootmaker,a bar in Darling old town that was a twenty-five-minute walk from my apartment. It was situated away from the main campuses and the more gentrified bars and restaurants. I’d originally taken the job to avoidrunning into people I knew. I wasn’t all that interested in feeling obligated to socialise with people I half-knew or had met in passing, andThe Bootmakerhad seemed like the perfect place to avoid all that. It had taken me thirty minutes into my first shift to understand that there was a reason that people, well,normalpeople seldom came to a place like this.
I had pulled on whatever I could find draped over the back of my desk chair, which today was a black miniskirt, a white cable knit sweater, and a clean pair of stockings (that desperately needed throwing away because of the ladder coursing down the side). I’d paired the look with messy hair, donning the classic half-up, half-down look, and the bags under my eyes from the general lack of sleep.
My manager, Nick, laughed as I recounted the story of the previous evening between drink orders, which wasn’t too hard to do given thatThe Bootmakerwas uncharacteristically quiet for a Saturday night. Something about one of the bars down the street doing some buffet and drink discount combo had meant that we were completely cleared out. Not that I was complaining, the lack of sleep from the previous night had me flagging early, meaning that I didn’t have to awkwardly bumble my way through social interactions with our regulars was a godsend.
I poured a pint of theBlack Hedgehog HazyIPA, one of seven pale ales we had on tap, all with ridiculous names. I had to cringe every time someone asked for a suggestion. Although that was never quite as bad as the internal mortification I went through any time our regulars got a little bit rowdy. That often resulted in someone stalking up to the bar and confidently ordering aBlowjobor aSlippery Nipple.Both shots consisted of Irish cream and some kind of spirit, usually Amaretto or Sambuca. Each and every time it happened, I rolled my eyes so far back in my head I thought I might topple backward into the countertop behind me and knockmyself out.At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with our charming customers.
