Page 65 of Something Like Fate

“Oh! I have an irrational hatred of butterflies.”

“That’s not irrational. Butterflies are terrifying. An irrational hatred is something like ... how I hate this song.” “Happy” by Pharrell Williams is piping through the speakers.

“You hate ‘Happy’? That’s just dark. This song is literally joy personified.” I clap the surface of the sticky bar to the beat, just to get a rise out of him.

Teller buries his head in his hands. “I hate it with a passion.”

“What else do you hate irrationally?” I shift closer, like a reporter waiting for their subject to reveal something juicy.

“Claymation. It makes my blood boil.”

“Claymation? Oh my god. What did poor little Claymation Rudolph ever do to you?”

“It’s so creepy, with the wide mouths, bug eyes, and weird expressions. The movement. It’s awful.”

I can’t stop giggling—and neither can he. Hanging with Teller like this feels like second nature. Like old times. It’s so natural, there’s no way we won’t be doing this in ten, twenty, thirty years’ time.

It’s even more fun to witness Tipsy Teller in action. There are a few telltale signs Tipsy Teller is here. First, he starts exhibiting unusual behavior. He doesn’t second-guess everything he does or use his sleeve to open door handles. And tonight, Tipsy Teller is weirdly giddy, swaying on his stool and humming to the music while clumsily sipping his drink through a rainbow-striped straw. He’s also social, chatting it up with the bartender, asking about his family and children, waving at customers as they walk in. He even buys a beefy dude covered in tattoos (including his face) a fruity drink with an umbrella because he “looked lonely.”

Beefy Tattooed Guy’s name is Kai. He takes the free drink as an invitation to sidle up next to us, umbrella tucked fashionably behind his ear. Helovesthe umbrella.

Over the next half hour, he twirls his umbrella, orders us each another drink (with umbrella, please), and tells us all about his baby back in Scotland (a pit bull named Norman). We bond immediately over our pets, taking turns showing each other photos. This evolves intohim trying to entice me to buy a fake Louis Vuitton tote that apparently matches my eyes. When he’s not being a devoted dog dad or hawking fake luxury handbags, he works in the paint department at Homebase, the Scottish equivalent of Home Depot.

Teller asks Kai all about his tattoos, the explanations for which vary considerably. Some mean absolutely nothing, like the dragon emblazoned on his chest when he was fourteen and feeling himself, while he gets a little teary talking about others (the deflated balloon with a party hat on his calf). By the time he’s ready to leave, he wants to get the umbrella tattooed on his left index finger.

“Kai. What a stand-up guy. I want to be him when I grow up,” Teller says before he’s even out of earshot.

“Aside from being a criminal, yes.”

“Eh, it’s what’s inside that counts.” He waves his hand in the air, swooping it around to fold me into his side.

That’s another thing about Tipsy Teller. He’s, dare I say, affectionate. And carefree. And silly. He wouldn’t stop poking me and laughing in the Uber back to the hostel.

I watch as the silver glow of the moon dances off his face, giving his skin an almost iridescent effect.

“Excuse me!” he shouts suddenly to the driver. “Can you let us out here?”

“We’re not even close to the hostel,” I say as he practically flings himself out of the car. Jeez, he must be really wasted. It isn’t until I look out the window that I see the neon-pink sign.

A tattoo shop.

I swing him a wild look. “Are you kidding?”

By the time I get out of the car, he’s already walked in. It’s like he’s been taken over by Kai’s essence.

An hour later, we emerge with new ink.

I got a dime-size outline of a crescent moon to symbolize him, and he got a sun to symbolize me. All Teller’s idea.

“The sun to my moon,” he’d said, which would have been more adorable if he hadn’t slurred it, hand over his eyes so he didn’t have to see the needle.

Neither of us thought it hurt that badly, probably because the tattoos are tiny, barely noticeable on the inner part of our index fingers. He’ll regret this tomorrow morning. I’m sure of it. But right now, I couldn’t be happier.

“We’re in the most magical place on Earth, and I still have the most fun with you in a dingy tattoo parlor,” I gush.

“Let’s just hope we don’t have hep C,” he slurs into the shell of my ear, nestling his head on my shoulder.

As we look out the window and count the number of fountains we pass, I can’t help but smile down at my tattoo. It feels like a middle finger to the vision. Proof our friendship is too strong to crumble.

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