Page 146 of Falling for You
I’ll get a taxi home and just pretend this whole evening never happened. I’ll spend the rest of the night looking on Instagram at the pictures of people wearing the costumes I’ve made and live vicariously through their smiles.
‘Leave?’ He looks down at the drinks. ‘Why? You can’t leave.’
I look up at him. Of course, he’s just bought me a drink.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ll pay you for the drink– how much was it?’
He shakes his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just … Why would you leave? Have you ripped someone else’s shirt open?’
Despite myself, I laugh. ‘No. Just yours.’
‘Then what is it?’
I glance back up at him. His eyes are kind. I’m about to tell him how it doesn’t matter and that I just need to go and make a break for it. But seeing his worried face, I feel like I can tell him. I mean, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
‘I just feel like a dick.’ I sigh.
‘A dick?’
‘Like, a bit of an idiot.’
He smiles. ‘I know what “dick” means.’
I laugh again. ‘Look at me,’ I gesture down to my costume. ‘What was I thinking?’
‘I think you look great,’ he says, his face serious.
That warm feeling in my chest glows a bit brighter.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s have this drink. If anyone is looking at you, it’s only because they’re jealous.’
I take the glass, feeling myself relax. We both sit backdown on the sofa. ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I reply, gesturing to his suit with my glass.
He looks down at himself. ‘Me?’
‘What’s scary about your costume?’ I continue. ‘Who are you meant to be?’
He takes a better look at his suit. His shirt is a crisp white and unbuttoned at the top and his blazer is now draped over the back of the sofa. I can see the outline of his muscular arms under his shirt.
‘Ah, well, I am dressed as “man who won’t go to therapy and blames his issues on other people”. If anything, I’m much scarier than you.’
I laugh into my drink. ‘Okay, that’s scary. Is it based on true experiences?’
He shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer. ‘God, no.’
I smile and lean forward, my wings jutting out against the sofa.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really,’ I huff. ‘These wings are a pain in the arse. I didn’t think about what would happen when I tried to sit down.’
‘You should complain to the person who made them.’
‘Well, I do love to complain about myself,’ I say, pushing a wing under my arm and clamping it down the best I can. ‘There, that will do for now.’
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Yourself? Did you make your costume?’
I smile, the pride that was fuelled by vodka returning. ‘I did. I make my own costume every year. I made it beforeI realised we were coming here,’ I add, nodding towards a group of girls who glide past us in ballgowns.
