‘Oh my God,’ says Dolly, her eyes wide, and I know she’s faking it because she’s not going to sleep with Warren. That must be in their little fake dating agreement rules. ‘Why are you guys planning on shagging when we’re all in one room?’
It’s a fair question.
‘There’s probably other rooms,’ says Jackson as though this is obvious.
I concentrate on taking a sip of my drink, and suddenly the conversation has moved on and the Nguyens have left, and now a waiter is handing me a menu that I have to try to read. I say, ‘Two of those,’ to whatever Patrick ordered and hope it’s something I’ll like.
The cameras are still on us when the food arrives. Luckily, Patrick had ordered souvlaki with some dips and veggies and chips, things I already like and can probably force myself to eat. My hands are shaking so much I worry I’m going to fling it everywhere, so I concentrate incredibly hard on eating ‘right’, which means I’m too quiet.
Patrick notices. ‘Are you okay?’
I put down my cutlery and give him a mega-watt smile. ‘Yes,’ I say too emphatically.
His smile falters a little, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
Maybe I don’t need to lie so hard? After all, he was so understanding when I knocked the drinks everywhere. ‘I’m justsotired,’ I add as a qualifier. Neurotypical people findI’m tiredeasier to understand thanthe audio landscape of scraping cutlery against plates and mouths chewing around me makes me want to die. It’s the kind of white lie that conveys how I feel… ish, in a way they can understand.
It seems to work. His shoulders soften, and so do his eyes. ‘Me too. That nap on the plane was a good start.’
‘It was. But I could do with like twelve more hours.’
He reaches forward but doesn’t take my hand, just rests his palm up, waiting for me to take it. I do, because I don’t want him to feel rejected, and because choosing to do it gives my brain time to process the movement. It’s nice. His hands are warm and a little scratchy.
‘We’ll have a good sleep tonight,’ he promises.
I want to laugh, but that would be strange and a tad cruel when Patrick doesn’t understand my brain in full yet. I don’t want him to misconstrue it as me pressuring him into sex, or rejecting him. I just smile and nod.
I know I won’t sleep tonight. When I was a teenager, school used to take us to this lakeside camp where everything smelled mouldy-wet, and we built the same failing canoe out of big plastic tubs every year. We stayed in big dormitory rooms of, at minimum, eight of us, and I never slept.
It wasn’t just the lack of sleep, though. I’m not great in group activity situations. At the same camp, I’d regularly get in trouble for wandering off when I was supposed to be doing something, and I also got used to accusations of not being a team player. No one knew I was autistic then either, so they just thought I was rude and mean and uncooperative.
That’s what I’ve spent years filing away. Now I know what’s wrong with me, I can hide it. Make myself palatable. Likeable.
Unfortunately, I worry that Patrick is about to meet that version of me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, with a smile. ‘I hope so.’
I pick up the cup with the wine and take a long drink, as though it was water. As far as Patrick knows, it is. The ice cubes clink against the bottom of the cup as I drain it.
Alcohol dulls my senses. Being slightly drunk will make tonight easier.
Or at least, I can only hope.
Chapter EighteenDolly
Cobey Worthing, 28, Newquay
Yeah, obviously I’m quite gutted. I really thought that we had something in the warehouse. I just… I hope that Zack will grow to be the man Lina deserves. She must see something in him that we can’t, which is somehow how it is! But… I just hope he’s good to her.
For a man as proportionally massive as Warren, he’s quite a considerate bedmate. Gave me a chaste kiss goodnight, keeps to his side, showers before bed, doesn’t snore – a dream man. I almost feel bad about hogging him.
Unfortunately, the rest of my roommates are less dreamy. All I can hear is snoring and… well, less wholesome sounds. I must have fallen asleep for a bit, but I’m awoken by Bridget and Jackson giggling in the bed next to ours.
There’s no ignoring that. And not just because of the threat of slashes to our wedding budget, because I’m positive they’re literally fucking under there.
Instead of lying here listening to coitus in action, I get up to fetch a drink of water, grabbing my phone as I go.
I make sure to whack Bridget and Jacksons’ entwined feet as I squeeze past them. ‘Keep it PG, campers,’ I hiss.
