Page 23 of Lassoed Love

David returns with a small sticky notepad and pen in hand, placing them on the bench. “Thanks,” Claire says for me, proceeding to write my number on the sticky note and sliding it back over to him.I hate her.

“Don’t mind her, David. She’s just shy, is all. Has been since school.” I roll my eyes.

“Haha, all good! The shy ones are usually the most fun,” he says to me and winks. I avert his gaze, feeling a surge of embarrassment.

“Here, have a round on me, girls.”

“Oh no, please, you don’t have to—” he cuts me off.

“Trust me, I insist. On the house,” he says, pushing over a round of shots that look to be vodka.

The girls and I say thank you in unison and down the shots on a count of three, simultaneously feeling the familiar burn that doesn’t sit well, and I almost gag.I hate vodka!

“Congrats again on the promotion, Claire bear!” I say, hugging her close to my side.

“Yes, congrats, boo. It is very well deserved,” Imogen joins in.

“Thanks, girls. Love you both soo much.”

We share another embrace, but the moment is broken as Claire announces, “Alright, grab your drinks ladies, let’s go find us a table,” and saunters off. Imogen and I follow closely behind, but before I get too far, I decide to turn back around and thank David for the drinks again. I’m responded back with a wink and nod.

The girls and I have now had one too many drinks and are sitting in a rounded booth in the far corner of the pub, singing along outloud to Carrie Underwood’s ‘Before He Cheats’.

The volume of the music had been amped up, probably sometime a while ago, now drawing out most of the conversations of the locals all gathered around, both on the dancefloor and the booths.

Have I mentioned that intoxicated Claire can be very touchy?She’s an affectionate drunk, and currently snuggling up against me, telling me she loves me again and again, whereas Imogen just loves to stir up shit.She’s an aggressive drunk.

Just moments ago, a group of three middle-aged men, probably in their 40s, walked past our table cat-calling at us, so, Imogen had just casually stood up and yelled, “Oi, you fucknuts, do that again and I’ll cut your dicks off,” and they’d just scurried off. Claire and I burst out laughing, almost pissing ourselves in the process.

Me, on the other hand, I don’t drink—well, let myself get drunk—enough to know what my other persona is. Well, other than the other night at the Loose Lasso, but apart from that, I’d never drink much, same goes for when I was living in Sydney.

The idea of letting loose and having a few too many drinks is both thrilling and nerve-wracking. I’ve always been the responsible one, the one who keeps it together. Maybe a few drinks will help me forget about everything that’s been weighing on my mind lately. Tonight, I want to be someone else, someone who isn’t afraid to take risks and have a little fun. I sip the rest of my drink quickly, placing it back down on the table.

The room spins gently as laughter echoes around me, warmth running up and down my body. Feeling the urge to pee, I turn toClaire. “I need to pee, come with me?”

“No! You can’t break the seal yet. We’re only just getting started,” Imogen exclaims from across the booth.

“Break the seal? What?”

“Oh, I forgot, you’re a recluse. If you go now, you’ll have to get up to pee every five minutes.”

“That’s not even a real thing.. That’s just called being hydrated because you’re consuming liquids, you idiot.”

“Oh, Isla, you naïve girl. Whatever you say.”

Imogen was right. I’d gotten up to pee twice in the span of about twenty minutes.No wonder they say to hold out for as long as you can. Going to the loo every few minutes is so fucking inconvenient.

The pub is starting to blur around me, but the laughter and chatter of the crowd remain clear. Imogen, not long ago, ordered us another round of drinks. Despite my usual routine, I accepted the third drink with a smile, because tonight, I just want to forget about everything for a while.

The girls are well and truly tipsy now, each word flowing from them with a carefree abandon. I join in with a smile, letting myself relax and forget, if only for a moment.

Amid the clinking glasses and muffled music, my senses sharpen suddenly, hyper-awareness settling in. A conversation in a nearby booth catches my attention, and as I strain to listen, the words make my spine crawl. I crane my head to the left, and spot a group of men, perhaps locals, who are indeed speaking loudly enough for anyone, or more importantly,me,to overhear.

My senses are now heightened. The voices belong to a group of men—local townies perhaps—their drawl thick with accents that carry a distinct small-town flavour.

“... ol’ Callum Thompson, poor fella. Word is his noggin’s all twisted, seeing ghosts and drowning his sorrows since his little girl took off.”

My heart skips a beat, and I try to focus on my drink, suddenly feeling exposed in the midst of this clandestine revelation. Claire and Imogen, in their boozy bliss, seem oblivious to the shift in the conversation.

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