What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam. That’s always been the motto. I don’t really give a fuck anymore if that sticks. All cats are out of the bag, I don’t have shit to lose.
Amsterdam is where me and the boys always seem to go when shit goes sideways. And I cannot express this enough: all the shit is sideways.
Me and Christian have sworn off loving girls ever again. Henry and Jonah may or may not be in love with the same girl.
It’s a mess.
And we can’t talk about it. Can’t talk to Christian about losing Parks. Henry is shitty at me because he’s default on her team. And Jonah’s Jonah, he’s not telling me shit right now—he’s just watching, making sure I don’t unravel completely.
Talking is obsolete for us all at the minute. There’s a lag between what happens and how long it takes for us to process.
I can never really tell how I feel about something ’til I get a bit fucked up over it.
How many drinks, how many lines, how many girls does it take for me not to feel it in my chest anymore?
So off to the Netherlands we go for a lads trip.
Usually when we do these trips I come back wracked with regret, worried a picture will leak, someone will talk, that it’ll get back to Parks and she’ll see me for what I am—which is, regrettably—substantially less of a man than she thought I was, but not this trip.
I’m a fuck up and she knows it. I’m the fuck up she’s done with, so I hope to god that whatever it is I do tonight it’s enough to be plastered all over the internet and she sees in the morning when she wakes up and she feels like shit.
Because I feel like shit.
I hook up with the hotel concierge within an hour of being here.
Been drinking since we got on the plane. I’m shitfaced by the early afternoon and we end up in one of those underground 24/7 clubs this city is famous for. Stay there ’til sunup the next morning—fuelled by cocaine alone because all the boys are mother hens now apparently and keep sniping the drinks out of my hands.
Had sex that night too. Or at least I think it was night? Hard to tell. You lose time there. Which is the point, I guess. Trying to bleed time ’til she takes me back.
Which, by the way, Henry says she won’t. Says that a few times
I’d explain more if I could, but I can’t. Can’t remember the first four days.
Telling.
How fucked am I over this?
11/10.
Christian’s as bad as I am. Worse maybe. I’ve lost Magnolia before… The Daisy shit’s hitting him pretty hard.
Loved her more than he knew.
On the plane ride back to England, Christian looks up from his phone. “Round two in a fortnight?”
Henry squints over tiredly. “When’s a fortnight?”
Christian shrugs. “First week of December?”
I look up, purse my mouth.
Jonah nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
Henry toddles his head side to side. “I’ve got some uni shit, but I’ll try to make it work—where are you thinking? Prague?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Or Funchal?”
“Can’t,” I tell them, looking at my phone because I don’t feel like meeting eyes.
“Why?” Christian asks.
I shrug. “Got something on.”
“What?” Henry asks.
I look up at him. “Something.”
“Yeah, but what?” he asks again. I give him a long look and then stare out the window. “Do you know?” Henry asks Jo.
Jonah shakes his head, shrugs.
“For work?” Henry presses, the nosey shite.
“Yep,” I lie. “For work.”
