I’m back in my room. I don’t remember how I got here. Shoved by my brother, maybe? Dragged by Christian? One of the two.
I’m standing in the bathroom. The reflection I find is weird. Me but not me.
Me but fucked.
I hate fighting with her. We do it too well, better than anyone I’ve ever seen. We weren’t like that when we were together, barely ever fought when we were together.
Marsaili used to say something about how love can go sour like milk and then it turns to hate. Maybe we left our love out.
My eyes feel damp. My hand’s trembling—I raise my fist to my mouth, press it into my mouth hard enough I split the inside of my lip on my front teeth. One. Just one. That’s all I’ll give myself.
It comes out mangled and choked. Quick.
Feels stuck in my chest. I press my palms into my eye sockets, breathe big and deep ’til my chest slows down.
It does a bit but not enough—not enough for my shoulders to not still be dragging behind my breathing.
I reach into my toiletry bag, pull out a different kind of bag. Cut a line with my Centurion card because the titanium crushes it better. Roll a €100 and snort it.
Pinch my nose after, rub it twice and sniff. I do another for good measure. Splash some water on my face, wipe under my nose just to be safe. And then I go find the boys.
They’re sitting at the bar and I fall into the seat next to them. Henry and Christian—they’re their own version of me and Jonah and I gotta say, I don’t love being here without him.
Kind of in the lurch, no one has got my back the way Jo does. He’d have decked England on the step tonight. Maybe not. Fuck.
Maybe I was out of line?
Christian puts his hand in the air, makes eye contact with the bartender. She’s pretty. Olive skin. Hazel eyes I can see from here. Big eyebrows but in that hot girl way—he points down at me, signalling for her to bring me a drink.
Henry looks over at me, grimacing. “You doing okay?”
I snort a laugh. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
Both their faces falter. They exchange looks. “I don’t know”—Henry shrugs, playing dumb—“I mean, you just had the gnarliest fight of your life with the girl you’ve loved since you were six—but sure, yeah. Be fine.”
“We fight all the time.”
Christian blinks. “Like that?”
I scoff a laugh. “You’re being dramatic—”
Henry looks at me funny. “Beej, she fucking palmed you in the face. I mean, it was sublime—embarrassing for you, but like—truly spectacular for the rest of us.”
I scoff again.
The hot Greek bartender brings over a round of drinks for the three of us and when she hands me the glass our hands brush. I look up at her and she gives me an inch of a smile.
Walks away.
I watch her go—blow air out of my mouth as I watch her arse in that flouncy black skirt she’s in.
Parks would know the brand, the make, the fucking SKU—don’t think of her—actually, she probably wouldn’t because Magnolia only knows about brands that are stocked in Harrods. Nothing Showpo or polyester in her vocabulary.
Still—a lot to work with with a skirt like that…
I throw back my drink in one gulp. Pinch Henry’s.
Christian’s eyes pinch as they watch me. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.” I give him a dismissive look.
He watches me a few seconds longer, then leans in close to me and grabs my chin with his hand. I smack it off but Christian wins every fight he wants to, so he knocks me back and grabs me again, tilting my eyes up into the light. He breathes out of his nose, sounds annoyed. Shakes his head, still holding my chin. “Oy, fuck it—” Shoves my head away. “I’m out, boys—”
“What?” Henry blinks. “Why?”
Christian gnaws down on his bottom lip—points to me, the fucking snitch. “He’s on some shit.”
Henry huffs a laugh. Just one. “No, he’s not.” He clocks me. Blinks. “Are you?” Blinks again. “Are you?”
I make a weird sound. It’s dismissive and incriminating all at once.
Christian pushes back from the table, stands, raises his hands, washing himself clean from it.
“Are we just going to pretend that you walking away has fuck all to do with Magnolia?” I yell after him.
He doesn’t turn around or back, but raises his hand in the air, flips me off, keeps walking.
Henry eyes me. “I forgot that you talk shit when you’re on coke.”
“Do not.”
He nods his chin after Christian. “What’s that then?”
I give him a look. “Did I lie?”
And I’ve got him there—I know I do. He knows I do too. Hangs his head, breathes it out. I try not to put him in the middle of whatever shit Christian and I have. He hates all this, and I get it because I hate that shit too. Hate that it happened, hate that he went there, hate that I fought him in an alley for her and no one that night left a winner. I hate all of it.
“What are you doing, Beej?” Henry asks, voice softer. I shrug. I don’t care right now. “She’ll kill you.”
I try to put a lid on how ragged I feel inside my chest when I answer him. “She already is.”
Henry stands—he looks angry. Or sad, maybe? Stares at me for a few seconds and feel like I’m failing him as his big brother. I don’t feel like his big brother very often. He’s more responsible. He doesn’t fuck around so much. He’s at uni. He never feels like my little brother, just feels like Brother. But right now, the way he’s looking at me, I can feel it that I’m letting him down.
He knocks over the mostly full drink in front of me. It spills all over the table.
I push back, annoyed, looking at him like he’s gone mad. “What the fu—”
“—You need to tighten the fuck up, Beej.” My brother points at me.
Then he turns to the bartender, points to me and slides a finger over his throat. “Cut him off,” he calls to the girl, then he walks away too.
I sit there, staring at nothing. Takes me a couple of minutes to catch that the bartender’s just standing there, watching me.
I point to her, wag her over to me with my finger. She walks over slowly. There’s no one around.
Bartender stands in front of me, staring down for a few seconds—and actually Bartender is insanely hot. She blinks a few times, then reaches down, takes my hand, pulls me up and leads me towards the bathroom.
As soon as we’re in the corridor, Bartender has me pinned up against the wall; she wants this more than I do. Which is hard to articulate exactly because it’s somewhere between needing it more than anything and not wanting it at all. Maybe she fucked up today too.
Bartender gets down to business pretty quick. Her busy hands unbuttoning my jeans and we’re not even in the bathroom yet.
Her mouth is hungry for all of me, doesn’t commit to one location. She undoes my shirt. The one I bought for Parks—don’t think of Parks—kisses my chest. Same chest Parks spent the day against.—Fuck, she’s my worst habit.
My hands are up her skirt, both of them slipped under the cheeks of her knickers.
Good arse. Squeezable.
She cocks her leg up around me—and I wonder whether we’ll even make it to the stall?
Bartender’s lips drag over me and my mind starts to wander to Parks the way it always does. That same memory, that boat, her on the lake, the lilac bikini—god, I love her in lilac—and then I think, fuck it—no.
I’m not going to think about her.
I’m going to think about Bartender, who’s hot as shit, with her hands down my pants.
So I open my eyes, make myself look at the girl I’m about to shag and then—
I spot her.
End of the corridor.
Eyes glassy. Bottom lip quivering. Heart on her sleeve, mine in her pocket.
Holding her own hands in front of her, looking about five years old like she’s watching her nightmare unfold in front of her.
Our eyes lock.
She turns—
I shove Bartender off me. “No! No, no, no, no, no—”
Parks runs. I run after her but she’s fast and I lose her as she rounds a corner.
