Page 1 of Constantine: Britain's Story: Part 2
THEN
ONE
Britain
18 years old
You’ve got two choices, Britain; you can stand under that pavilion with all those strangers and mingle.Ugh. Or, you can stand alone, in the sun, and bake to death. I’m having a hard time deciding which is worse.
It’s 105 degrees today, making it, quite possibly, the worst day for a picnic. Worse even still, is thatI’m here. Well, technically, I’m in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my rosy red cheeks and chest in an attempt to cool down after helping my mom get this whole thing set up. But also, I can probably squander away ten minutes without anyone noticing my absence. Not that Georgia would even realize I’m missing either way. She doesn’t pay much attention to me.
My jaw practically hung open with disbelief when she told me Ihadto come to her company's picnic. Never, in my 18 years, has she invited me to one of these, let alonemandatedmy attendance at an MS Group company function. Aubrey and I had plans today, none of which included me sweating my ass off atsome dusty lake in the hills, setting up picnic tables, and filling ketchup bottles for the last hour.
It’s not that I don’t like being social per se…wellsometimes. It’s not that I even dislikethosepeople specifically. It’s just that I don’t know anyone here besides my mom. Everybody else here is tight. They’re one big, happy family — one that I’mnota part of. And even though Georgia has worked at the MS Group since I’ve been alive, I’ve only ever met her boss, Connie, on three separate occasions. Everyone else is a mystery to me. Well, mostly. I know about them, but I don’tknowthem. And they don’t know me.
Georgia will occasionally let slip comments about people from the office, and while it’s certainly not for my benefit when she does talk about work, she gets…lighter. Her mouth extends into a smile, and her color rises. Like when she told me how Liam fumbled his first big pitch, calling Mr. PrattleMr. Pittlefor the entire meeting.
She came home practically bursting with laughter. But then, it’s like she remembered who she was talking to and she dimmed herself back down. I wanted to ask more, hear more, even see her smile more, but she just walked back to her bedroom and shut the door. Her anecdotes aren’t invitations. They never lead to something more, no matter how many times I’ve hoped they would.
I also tend to soak up whatever information she shares with me, like the attention and love-deprived sponge that I am. It doesn’t help that I’m also cursed with a wicked memory. So even though I’ve never met Connie’s kids, I could tell you all their names, from oldest to youngest, and their approximate ages based on details Georgia’s dropped throughout the years about birthday gifts or their grades in school.
I’ve always been that weirdo, though. The one who remembers other people, but never the one remembered.Yup, that’s me.
I still cringe when I think about my computer science teacher asking me mid-year what country I was from. He thoughtIwas the new foreign exchange student. Not me, Britain, who was in his class the previous year and again that year. But that’s pretty typical crap for me. I mean, when your own father pretends you don’t exist, and your mom barely acknowledges your existence, you get used to it. Sometimes, it even works to my advantage, and I can fade into the background. For some reason, I get the feeling fading won’t be an option today.
I don’t really know why — it’s just a gut instinct. I mean, it makes sense, though. I’m the outlier, the odd one out. They’ll look at me and know. Or, more likely they’ll look at me and think,she doesn’t belong. They wouldn’t be wrong. I don’t belong, not here,maybe not anywhere.
I drag my vision up to the cloudy mirror mounted on the cinder block wall in this glorified outhouse California State Parks has deemed a bathroom, and thankfully, my cheeks are starting to look less beet red now. Just more sunkissed, and I no longer feel the sweat rolling like a river down my spine. Unfortunately, the evidence of my heat exhaustion is still visible. Thanks to the sweat beading along my hairline, the baby hairs framing my face look light brown instead of their typical golden hue.Christ, it’s hot.
I’ve just got to last— I look down at my phone perched on the sink ledge —two hours and 53 minutes. I whimper quietly, dreadfully, letting my shoulders droop and fall.
Looking back at my reflection, I thank the heavens I at least had the forethought to put on a sundress before I was forced into spending my day at this outdoor oven. I shimmy and twirl my hips slightly, willing the fabric to stop sticking to my damp skin, and send out a prayer of thanks that my little black dress with dainty white flowers is hiding my sweat spots surprisingly well. I guess miraclesdohappen every day.
You can do this, I think to myself in an attempt to combat the overwhelming social anxiety coursing through me.
Grabbing my phone and inhaling deeply, I place my hand on the cool, metal door handle before letting loose an exaggerated exhale. I push hard on the heavy door but am immediately stopped from opening it fully by a wall…of man. Well, I don’t so much as stop it, as his forehead stops it.
“Owww, FUCK!” The man-wall drops his phone and brings his hands immediately to his forehead, applying pressure where there will surely be a huge, swollen knot any minute.
“Shit!Shit, I’m so sorry! I had no idea someone was standing right outside the door!” The metal door swings back towards me, the impact causing me to falter.Yeah, that’s a heavy fucking door.
“Fucking hell,” the man groans, clenching his eyes shut while pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.
Way to fade into the background, Britain.I look around briefly to see if anyone has noticed, but not many people have arrived yet and Georgia is nowhere in sight, thank God.
“Just wait here, just a second. I’ll be right back!” I take off, running over to the picnic pavilion, grabbing my purse, a bottle of water, and a half bag of ice that wouldn’t fit into one of the coolers. When I get back, the man is still standing where I left him, palm to his forehead, groaning.
I snatch his phone off the ground where he’s dropped it and lead him into the bathroom, taking extra care to guide him, safely, out of the door’s path. I drop the bag of ice in the sink, perching his phone and the bottle of water on the ledge while letting my purse land somewhere on the grimy floor. I'm too concerned about the head trauma I’ve just perpetrated to care, though.
Emptying a portion of ice into the sink, I use what’s remaining to make an ice pack. Winding the excess plastic tight,I move the man’s hand, gently, from his forehead and replace it with the bag of ice. His eyes stay clenched, but at least he’s no longer groaning.
“Again, I’m so, so sorry; I didn’t know you were right outside the door.”I’m absolutely killing it at first impressions.
The man takes a deep breath. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t know anyone was in here and my stupid, fucking phone distracted me.” I let loose a little breath of relief. Hopefully, this means he won’t blame me for the concussion he might have — or the hospital bills that might be coming his way.
The man starts to sink back, looking for something to lean against, but his hands are just groping blindly behind him, so I step forward to guide him. My one hand is still holding the bag of ice to his head, while my other presses his left hip back and to the left until his hands find home and he rests against the sink’s edge. When I let go of his hip, I feel a tingle. My body responds before my mind can, causing my cheeks to heat rapidly. That touch felt…intimate…not platonic. Huh.
I’m in a bathroom. Alone. With a man I don’t know.Cool.
