The energy is raucous and wild, and we have to squeeze our way through the crowd to reach the bar. It smells of beer and sweat, but with the music and conversation so loud, it overloads my senses.
If I’m going to last in here tonight, I need to get drunk, and fast.
Declan uses his dimples and flirty smile to score us each a pint of beer and a shot of whisky from the bartender. Then, we find a place near the edge of the bar to stand and get our bearings. Immediately, he spots two beautiful women who look around our age at a tall pub table. Even I notice the way they glance at us in the midst of their conversation.
The liquor burns its way down my throat as I take the shot. Then, Declan tugs me toward the women in a rush, as if they’re about to be claimed by two other horny, drunk blokes.
“Hey!” he shouts over the music as we reach the pub table. “Can we buy you a drink?”
The woman on the left has long brown hair in perfectly placed waves. Her face is caked with makeup, and her eyelashes are unnaturally long and thick. The other woman has short strawberry blond coils that reach her shoulders. She doesn’t have as much makeup on, but still, nothing particularly excites me about either of them.
They’re both pretty—beautiful even, but there isn’t even a spark of arousal or excitement in my body at the sight.
Of course, I knew this. I’ve always known this about myself. It might not be something I outwardly express or own up to, but it’s plain as day in my own mind. I’m not attracted to women—not at all. I don’t need to fondle their breasts or explore the space between their legs to know it.
As I stand behind Declan, who is charismatically flirting with the one with the makeup, I glance around at the other men filling the crowded space. They all seem so fiendish and feral for the opposite sex. With their puffed-up chests and lascivious mannerisms, they remind me of those exotic birds who prance and preen for a mate. And all I’d really like to do is take this beer home with my roommate and do literally anything other than this.
When Declan goes back to the bar to fetch two more beers for the ladies, I’m left to converse with them alone, and it’s mind-numbingly painful. I try to make small talk about school,but it turns out both of them are American tourists backpacking around the UK during their gap year, whatever that is.
Thankfully, Declan doesn’t take long with their drinks, and I rely on him to lead the rest of the social interaction. To my surprise, he’s even more captivating when he’s trying to get sex. His stories are funnier, and the way he talks with his hands is more mesmerizing. The women are totally falling for him—as am I. The three of us just watch him talk, laughing at all the right moments.
The beer keeps flowing, and the longer we stand there, the more comfortable I feel. I’m suddenly not so worried about the fact that I’m supposed to be flirting with one of these women and have no desire to. I’m out with Declan, and he keeps giving me that smile, and everything is great.
The details start to grow fuzzy. A song I love blares from the speakers, and I even start tapping my foot to the music, feeling light and carefree. I look away from Declan for one moment to scan the crowd with a sense of pride. This is what I came to uni for—arealexperience. This noisy, smelly pub is a far cry from my sheltered life in London, and I’m ecstatic about it.
Declan is still talking, his flirtatious laugh piercing the din of voices around me. But when his laughter fades, I turn back to the group to find his lips tangled with the brunette’s. Suddenly, the alcohol hits my system differently, making the room spin. I can’t tear my eyes away from them, watching the way he strokes her jaw as his tongue presses into her mouth. She smiles against his lips, and my stomach drops like lead to the floor.
I’m abruptly aware of the curly-haired girl staring at me, but I can’t bring myself to turn my drunk gaze to her face. I’m just watching Declan make out with that stranger, wishing I was sober enough to force myself to look away. The longer he kisses her, the more my stomach turns. It’s no longer a lead heap on the floor. Now it’s a roiling, rebellious thing, threatening to heave all over this table. Like a bolt of lightning, I stumble away from the group and rush through the crowd toward the loo.
I barely make it to the toilet before my stomach empties itself. Kneeling on the floor of a disgusting pub’s bathroom stall, I continue to retch. This is definitelynotthe dream I had about coming to uni.
The vision of Declan kissing that woman replays over and over in my head. Jealousy and anger swirl in my now empty gut. He’d rather be with them than me. He’d rather kiss them, talk to them, fuck them.
What am I even saying? It’s not like he would ever want that with me. Is that even what I want with him?
I’m too drunk.
The door opens and someone barrels in, bouncing off the stall doors clumsily. “Shakespeare!” a loud, slurring voice echoes in the cramped chamber of this lavatory. “Oh, mate,” he says behind me, but the way his voice ricochets back and forth against the linoleum stalls, it sounds like he’s everywhere.
Strong hands curl under my arms and hoist me off of the floor. I’m flooded with embarrassment as I try to hide my revolting, sweat-soaked, vomit-covered face from his perfect, handsome one.
He’s drunk too, but he’sfundrunk. I’mregretful, sick, wretcheddrunk.
With a laugh, he hauls me to the sink. When I see my reflection, I let out a groan. But Declan doesn’t hesitate to clean my face with frigid water and his bare hand. It’s humiliating and maybe a little comforting.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble in shame.
“Ach, don’t be sorry. She was a shite kisser anyway.”
“I’ll get a cab home alone. You go have fun,” I stammer as I force my eyes to focus on one reflection in the mirror when it keeps trying to create two.
Declan laughs again. “I think not, Shelby. We’ll be taking that cab together right after we have a little coffee to sober you up. I can’t have you retching all over England. You’re going to be famous someday, and famous guys don’t puke.”
As he slings an arm over my shoulder and leads me out the door, I lean into the comfort of his embrace. He smells familiar. Even his voice grounds me. After only three months, this stranger has somehow infiltrated my sense of home.
When we reach the crisp air of the night outside the pub, I suck it in and feel my head spin with how fresh and clean it is. Nothing like the stale, clammy air inside the building.
We stumble together like that, his arm around my shoulder and my face nearly pressed to his chest. I briefly wonder if this is normal. Would straight guys act this way? Who knows. I clearly have no frame of reference.
