Page 34 of Muddy Messy Love

You choose. I’m happy with music and vodka.

Jen:

There’s a band playing the Bellcat at eight. Meet you out front?

Me:

Sounds like a plan. See you then.

Jen:

Can I at least grab your name?

Me:

Fuck off.

Jen:

Oh, it is you. My bad.

“Look at you.” Jen whistles as I approach, walking down the quaint cobblestone lane in my short grey sweater dress and trusty faux-leather jacket. Cast-iron lantern lights dot the way, and their warm yellow glow shines Jen’s cheeks like a pair of leather shoes.

She drops her gaze to my new pewter eight-hole boots and gasps. “Are they real?”

With a lopsided grin, I nod. “And crazy expensive.” Thirty-five bucks a hole, but Beth insisted I treat myself.

“Worth every cent,” Jen says, but I’m not so sure. Had I waited twelve months, they might have shown up at a thrift shop for twenty bucks. Bruised perhaps—maybe a size too big—but with ample miles left in them.

I pull Jen in for a hug and then twirl her around with one hand like we’re dancing. “You look beautiful.” Her tweed pinny dress has love hearts on each pocket and pearlescent buttons down the front.

She shrugs. “Half-price at Myer.”

“Worth every cent.” I wink before smiling at Liam. “Hey, Liam. Nice glasses.”

Jen groans. “He looks like a clown.”

“I do not,” Liam says, pushing the giant yellow frames further up his nose.

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. Jen has a point.

“You do,” Jen says. “Even your nose is red.”

Liam narrows his eyes on her. “It’s cold, if you haven’t noticed.”

She pokes out her tongue, then flashes him a sparkling, sassy grin, and Liam pounces. He locks his long arms around herwaist and rubs his icy nose all over her neck. Jen squeals and giggles, batting at his arms, begging him to let go. He concedes eventually, plonking her back to her feet before turning to me. “I hear tonight’s on you, Aves. In that case, I’ll have doubles of their finest scotch.”

I shake my head with a smirk. Liam wouldn’t know fine scotch if it smacked him in the face. He’ll stomach four, maybe five, beers at most, by which time he’ll be jumping around the dance floor like a lunatic. “Anything you wish, sir.” I offer him a small bow, and he puffs out his chest like a pigeon.

Jen chuckles and hooks her arm through his. “C’mon, let’s get this clown inside before people drop coins at his feet and expect him to perform.”

My laugh echoes down the lane as I follow them inside the Victorian building, seeking comfort in their shadow. Nerves flare, but I swallow them down. This is what people my age do. They go out, get drunk, and have fun amongst other real-life humans more than twice a year.

Speaking of people my age…what if Zoe is here? My sparkly boots halt in their tracks, and I inhale through my nose, pacifying the paranoid little voice that now accompanies me everywhere. If she’s here, I’ll hide or run. Simple. It won’t be the brave thing to do nor dignified, but it’s resolution enough to keep my feet moving across the dinged-up wooden floors.

The Bellcat is clean and trendy with low-hanging pendant lights and walls of abstract art dangling from picture rails like sumptuous fruit on a tree. The scent of alcohol taints the air, and people linger with drinks in hand, chatting and laughing at the bar, where colourful spirits line a mirrored wall and wine glasses hang upside down, glistening like raindrops in the sun. Tall, scattered tables lead to a dance floor, and a carpet block stage sits stacked at the end. Zoe is notably absent, and my shoulders relax. Our early arrival affords us a candy-striped booth seatwith a clear stage view, and Liam slides in to rest against the end wall, encouraging Jen to sit between his legs.

Slipping my debit card from my pocket, I halt next to the table. “What do you guys want to drink?”

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