Page 107 of Chaos

Too much of a coward to lift my gaze, I fix a tight smile on the notch of his throat. “Go out with her. Have some fun.”

Finn swallows hard. “Okay.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he sounded disappointed.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was pretty damn disappointed too.

26

He sits in a restaurant, but he isn’t truly there.

His date is lovely, but she’ll never be her.

“Bechdel,”I screech at Yasmin when that familiar dreamy adoration clouds her gaze.

Lips abruptly snapping shut, my friend sighs and drowns whatever disgustingly sweet nothing she was about to spew with a slug of Heineken. “Oh God,” she moans, head dropping forward, but stopping short of colliding with a weathered, sticky coffee table. She rises with a grimace. “I’m pathetic.”

In lieu of agreeing, I take a sip of my drink too.

My non-alcoholic drink. A mocktail. A goddamn Shirley Temple because apparently, when Finn learned that I don’t drink, he not only remembered, but he spread the information around. Just like when I told Yasmin I don’t do bars, she remembered. She made sure not to take us to a bar tonight, but a… I’m not sure. A pub, I guess. It looks more like someone’s grandmother’s living room. Cozy and carpeted with low, deep armchairs and a fire crackling in the corner.

I won’t pretend I waltzed in here, turned my nose up at the wall of liquor behind the bar, and started preaching about the magic of sobriety. I was the opposite. I was practically salivating. The moment the bartender’s eyes landed on me, I was ready to suck him off for a fucking thimble of wine.

But Yasmin jumped in. Sweet, lovely Yasmin who would probably die of shame if she found out thatI don’t do barsbecause I can’t. Because I shouldn’t. Because if she hadn’t beat me to ordering, I would probably be drunk already.

I don’t know if I’m grateful or fuming that I’m not. That Yas keeps insisting on buying another round instead of letting me get one—she claims I’mconvalescing. Which I think she thinks is a synonym forlicking my wounds. Which Iknowshe thinks I’m doing because that’s why we’re here. Out. Just the two of us, away from the guys, not thinking about them or talking about them or acknowledging their existences.

Because Yasmin was there when Finn strode out of the A-frame earlier, wearing his finest fucking jeans and a clean pair of boots. She took one look at my face, at whatever it was doing, and dragged me upstairs, forced me into a fresh, tight outfit, and dragged me out the door.

She hasn’t made me talk about it though. Hasn’t needled me with the same questions she asked earlier this week, about myinterests. Like I said, we’re strictly forbidden from discussing all things male; hence Bechdel.

A test that Yasmin has only failed, oh, I don’t know,a dozen times. Because as we cycle through every subject under the sun, Theo’s name inevitably crops up.

“I can’t help it,” she whines as she slumps in her armchair, feet nudging mine beneath the low table separating us. “He’s my best friend. I like talking about him. I love him, y’know?”

I don't know, but I nod anyway. And I take pity on my friend, throwing her a bone. “How did you guys meet?”

That dreamy look returns. “We grew up next-door to each other.”

“Childhood sweethearts?”

“God, no.” Yas snorts. “I was way too good for him back then.”

“I’d argue you’re way too good for him now.”

Red-painted lips quirk. “He’d agree with you.”

We both laugh, and she spends thirty minutes, maybe more, reliving their romance until I feel like I lived it too. Like I was there when he finally had enough of just being friends, of watching her date other people, and professed his undying fucking love.

“Sounds…” Like a fairytale. Unfathomable. Idealistic. “Nice.”

“It is nice.” Yasmin smiles against the rim of her beer bottle. “You want that?”

“A couple decades worth of pining?”

One long leg risks the livelihood of the empty glassware littering the table by stretching out and kicking my shin.

Sighing, I pluck the cherry from my drink and nibble on the sugar-sweet flesh, pondering the question. “I dunno,” I mumble, slumping to frown at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

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