Page 2 of The Quirky Vet

Fitz scrubs a hand through his beard, which he's been growing out these past few months. It's weird seeing it without its usual array of glitter or little beard ornaments, like something's missing.

He silently observes the Friday nightlife scene parading in front of us. Revved up blokes with footy scarves wrapped around their necks, celebrating their teams' wins. Giggling chicks in high heels and short skirts. College-aged kids hitting the town, ready for a piss-up. Frazzled tourists with fanny packs and sensible walking shoes taking in the sights and sounds of Australia's equivalent to Las Vegas.

And then there's Fitz and me, two small-town vets a million miles from Scuttlebutt, half-cut, broken-hearted, and, well, exhausted—or is that just me?—even though it's still early. For most of these people, the night has only just begun.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

He grabs my leg again, giving it a squeeze just above the knee. "Like we're way too fucking sober. Come on."

We take off, and I've got no doubt we'll end up in another way too hot, way too loud bar or club surrounded by way too many people.

That's just how it is with Fitzgerald Eastridge. He's the life of the party. The guy who pulls people in like a magnet. A glitterball of quirky charm and charisma with his impossible-to-miss fashion choices, booming laugh, and infectious energy you can't help but want to be around.

This is the most subdued he's been in ages. In Scuttlebutt, he parades around in onesies, paints his nails, and colours his hair every shade of the rainbow.

For this trip to the Gold Coast, he got rid of all that. No shimmering nail polish. No shock of neon hair. He's even wearing normal clothes—a tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt, polished leather shoes, and a rich burgundy silk pocket square with a subtle paisley pattern. This was Fitz in true-blue serious mode.

He's putting on a brave face, but he's crushed that Erin said no to his proposal.

The question I'm grappling with is why am I not as devastated?

Don't get me wrong, I'm sad, and I'm in shock. But I'm also quite drunk so maybe the full realisation hasn't hit me yet?

Or maybe I'm still tripping balls over the reason Maisey gave for saying no before she up and ran.

"I'm not the one you want to spend the rest of your life with."

What the fuck does that mean? I'm not dating anyone else,and I don't have some secret family in Tasmania or anything. Who says something like that then literally bolts?

Fitz turns around and grins. "Watch your head, mate."

We're descending down a dark set of narrow stairs. I hunch over to prevent me from hitting my head every few steps where the ceiling dips in.

"Where the fuck are we?"

My question gets lost to the bass of the same freakingPadam Padamremix I swear we've heard at least four times tonight already.

We make our way to the bar through a sea of topless bodies.

Toplessmalebodies.

I squint as I scan the crowd, and yep, all dudes.

That's fine with me. After the night we've had, I'm down for hanging with the fellas.

In no time at all, we're surrounded by half a dozen shirtless muscular dudes, having shots.

The track changes, and I don't recognise the song. "Who's this?" I ask Fitz over the intense drumbeat.

"Charlie XCX."

I lean in closer to him. "What's Cherry Eggs Eggs?"

He throws his head back and laughs. "Oh, come on, mate.Brat. Hello?"

"Did you just call me fat?"

He laughs again, his light-brown eyes glimmering, and even though I don't understand what's going on, my best mate in the whole fucking world is laughing his deep, booming laugh. After everything that's happened tonight, the sound is music to my ears.

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