“Yeah?”
“Have a great time away. Don’t study too hard.” I wish I could go with him.
“I will.”
“Yeah, you will.” I push my bestie away. He deserves to go and have fun.
He leaves, but not to join our friends. Instead, he goes to Flynn. I get it. Angus must feel responsible for the guy. He brought him here, after all. Angus has a bleeding-heart personality. He hates seeing people upset, as demonstrated a few weeks ago, when he tried to be emotionally supportive of one of the university lecturers, who turned up at the bar we were all at, distraught. I admired Angus for his kind-hearted nature, now I low-key want to throttle him for talking to the guy I need to hate.
I drink my wine and glower at them. What are they saying? I motion to the bartender and order another vodka. I’ll regret it tomorrow, but right now I don’t care. I’m starting to get tingly, and the room is swaying back and forth. A few more drinks and I’ll be well and truly drunk. Drunk enough to forget I ever ran into Flynn.
I am so drunk.
The bar keeps going in and out of focus. When it’s not doing that, it’s spinning . My whole body is tingling, and I can’t feel the glass I’m holding. I take a gulp and spit the water out. Water? I don’t want water. I wave to the bartender, who takes his sweet time coming over to me.
“You gave me water,” I whine.
“Yes.”
“Vodka. Please.”
He shakes his head.
I almost cry. “No?”
“You’re cut off. It’s time to go home.”
“You cut me off?” I’ve never been cut off before. I’ve never been this drunk before. Have I? I giggle because I can’t remember. “My ride’s around here somewhere.”
I twist on the barstool and scan the dance floor. Whoa. Why do so many people have big heads? Oo, it’s like being in a fun house full of crazy mirrors. Round and round we go. Wiggle wiggle.
I turn around again, mouth dry. “I can’t see my friends.” Oh, that’s right, Angus came and told me he was going. He offered me a lift home, but I told him I was fine. I hiccup. I’m fine. I point at the bartender. “I’ll get a taxi.”
I stand up, using the bar for support. My legs are wobbly one second and not there the next. I wandertowards the exit, weaving this way and that. People keep getting in my way. Why would they do that?
I stumble onto the street. Why is there a queue for taxis? Where do I live again? I stand in the wibbly-wobbly queue, which takes forever to move. Eventually, I get to the front.
The driver stares at me. “Not you, mate.” He points at a sign, but it’s too fuzzy and tiny to read. “No drunks.”
“I’m not?—”
He puts the window up.Clunk. Did he lock the doors? Bastard. I stumble backwards as a couple stealsmytaxi.
“Bastards.”
“I couldn’t get one either.”
I spin around and almost fall over. I stick my hand out and brace myself against a lamppost. Oh, no, that’s not a lamppost. That’s Flynn, leaning against a lamppost, with his hands on his knees and my hand in his face.
“Fuck. Sorry.”
He grunts.
“You look awful.” But still kinda hot. At least, he would if he would stand still. Why are there two Flynns? I laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” His words slur together.
I’m pretty sure the only reason I can understand him is that I speak drunk, too. It’s a secret language. Or, or, like Klingon! I make the ‘live long and prosper’ sign and then snort-laugh.
