“How do you know?” Ewan asks.
“A hunch.”
“No problem, love.” Bonnie set the drinks down, leaning over Angus as she does, and delivering him a faceful of her impressive cleavage.
A shudder of jealousy runs through me, shocking in its strength. I fight to keep my hands in my lap.
What is wrong with me?I admonish myself. I have no claim to this man. We’ve barely even touched.
“Need anything else?” Bonnie asks, resting a hand on Angus’ shoulder.
I stare at it. Hard.
“Just my shoulder back,” Angus says, edging away – and closer to me – and sipping his pint, his face beetroot red.
Ewan barks a laugh, dribbling Red Bull down his front. “Fucking hell,” he sputters, as Bonnie spins on her heel and storms away with a face like thunder. “That is impressive.”
“Fuck off.”
“No, seriously. Teach me your ways, oh master. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman go from interested to repulsed that quickly. Incredible.”
Luckily for Angus, a bald man with a pinched face and wild unruly eyebrows jumps on the stage, interrupting Ewan’s glee. He croons into the microphone, eyes closed, holding a single note for longer than I thought the human body capable.
When he opens his eyes again, the entire room is silent, staring at him in awe.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! To open mic night!”
Chapter Thirteen
Angus
Open mic night?
Christ.
If there’s one thing I loathe, it is a fucking open mic. A roomful of shit performers longing for attention who aren’t good enough to get paid? I can’t imagine anything worse. This isn’t why I’m here.
Although, if I’m honest, I don’t know why I’m here. I only know that after the others left, I didn’t feel the rush of joy I was expecting. The slowly setting sun, the sound of the water, the hot food, the solitude, none of it. And instead of looking forward to settling down in my sleeping bag with my book, I felt… empty.
I hated it.
I like being alone. I like the silence. The peace. I like that no one is relying on me, and I’m not relying on them.
I thrive in solitude. Always have.
So why am I suddenly craving company? Why am I thinking about a certain someone’s smile, and what it would be like to put my hand in hers? Why am I picturing the four of them laughing by the fire, clinking their glasses in a toast?
I found myself standing by the bar door, drawn like a moth to the heat and the light.
And now I’m trapped. Rowan is clapping, her blue eyes shining. Of course she loves a bloody open mic night. She’s replaced her cap with a purple knitted beanie. Bananas dance around the rim. Her cheeks are rosy from the fire, and her hair curls wildly out of its braid.
My fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it back.
Ewan excuses himself to go to the bathroom. If I jump ship now, I’ll be leaving her alone. I remember how she looked on the first night. The shadow of sadness in her eyes, her full lips compressed in a frown.
I don’t want to be the cause of that. Again.
Bonnie slams three steaming pies in front of us, right as the idiots with their gigantic instruments struck up, the first notes drifting gently into the quiet room. Her stare sweeps past me, and I sigh: I’ve not made a friend there. The pies, on the other hand, are perfect. Crisp, golden outside, buttery flakes drifting onto the white plate, a few drips of filling spilling from the base. And the smell: rich and savoury. Delicious. Each has come with a mound of chips, and I’m hard pressed to keep from stuffing a handful straight in my mouth.
