‘Through the kitchen, on the left.’ He looks past me. ‘Jimmy, put that down, you headcase!’
I don’t feel compelled to see what the great comedian Jimmy is holding up. My socialisation experiment has failed and I’ve no intention of coming back. I move past people and head into the kitchen. A girl with black hair and glasses making a cup of tea gives me the tiniest of nods as I set my beer on the table. I actually do need the bathroom before I go, so I head to the door and push it open.
‘Eh, what the fuck!’
I spring back and close the door. The heat that surges up my chest muffles most of my hurried apology.
‘Someone’s in there,’ says the girl, stirring her tea and grinning.
The chain flushes behind the door and my mouth drops as I turn to her. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
She shrugs. ‘Thought they’d’ve locked the door. Tea?’
The bathroom door opens and Paul is standing there. ‘All right, you trying to join me?’
‘What? No. Sorry, I—’
Get me out of here.
He grins, that charming wolfish grin, and, yes, his stupid bloody dimples are back. ‘Chill, I’m only sleggin’. You need another beer.’
‘Oh, right. No, I’m good. I should probably go actually. Long day.’
Paul shakes his head. ‘You need to relax, mate. Grab a drink. Get to know your neighbours.’ He laughs and I blush again.
‘Yeah, sure. OK. Thank you.’
‘No worries.’ As he moves past me, I catch his cedarwood aftershave. ‘Lock the door when you’re in there.’ He grins again and I head into the relative safety of the bathroom, checking three times that the door is locked.
I perch on the end of the bath and exhale.
Today has been a lot. If I was being sensible, I would go home. Except, home isn’t really home any more. It’s an air mattress in a house full of whispering relatives. If I go home now, I’ll be greeted by one of Mum’s sympathetic looks that she saves for whenever I present the evidence of my horribly poor social skills.
I can’t bear another ‘It will get easier’ conversation. Mostly because I don’t believe her. I find it so difficult to connect with people. Especially groups of people. Especially groups of lads. Especially groups of lads that find the way I talk hilarious.
The truth is that I’m not sure I want to connect. That’s the thing I’ve never really been able to say to Mum. I like the idea of having lots of friends. I can see the appeal and I can also recognise that, objectively, it’s the normal way to be. But I find people hard. Or maybe they find me hard.
Paul’s cute though.
And straight. He is clearly straight. Stop.
I stand up and look at myself in the mirror, one of my top-five least-favourite activities in the known universe. Red hair, freckles and scrawny arms. Not a bicep in sight. I roll my shoulders back and attempt a smile. I don’t like my smile; the corners of my mouth turn up too much. A kid in primary school once said I looked like the Grinch.
Screw you, Becky Parker.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘One minute.’
I stare at my reflection, trying to summon a smidgen of confidence. This is a fresh start, I remind myself. People here don’t know me. I don’t have to be weird. I will stay and have another beer. BecauseIwant to. Not because Paul suggested it.
My reflection rolls his eyes at this poorly structured self-deception.
I avoid any interaction with Jimmy, who’s waiting outside the bathroom, and make my way to the garden. There’s a song playing that I recognise and I’m only getting a few looks now. Perhaps I’m not that interesting and can just blend in. The dream!
‘Michael!’
Cormac is sitting at a patio table with the girl from the kitchen. She sips at her tea, smirking.
