Page 70 of In For a Penny
He can’t leave!
“We need to strategize before tonight! What if he doesn’t like me? You need to help me plan my outfit and what I need to say.” So much for ‘no pressure’.
Oliver laughs at me as I kneel on my bed and pull on his hand. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “But if you’d like, I can start talking you up now, tell him I’m bringing someone and that she’s fantastic.”
“Yes, you do that. Please. Tell him how amazing I am. How I’m a goddess!”
He barks a laugh, nods, and pats me on the head before exiting my room on his way out. “Bye, Crazy! See you tonight! And try to keep the desperation down, yeah?” I hear him yell from the doorway.
Ugh.
I look back to Tom’s profile picture. He really does look like a good rebound candidate. I just need a nice, sweet guy to flirt with. Maybe take me on a date. Maybe just have random sex with. I want to go out with a decent human being. I just want an easy night, charged withfunsexual tension—uncomplicated, stress-free. The kind of tension that causes adrenaline to course through your veins in a good way.
I need tonight to go well, and I need to pick an outfit that reflects just how naturally vibrant and vivacious and uncomplicated I am.
I need to find an outfit that lies.
I link my arm throughOliver’s as we walk to The Red Lion, a classic pub a few blocks away from his apartment. It’s cold and wet out, and my hair is blowing wildly in every direction. I snuggle more into his side, seeking cover from the cold and biting wind. I’m also seeking emotional support, if I’m being honest. This doesn’t technically break myno cuddling/spooning policy(even though we broke that last night), but it provides some comfort.
“As much as I enjoy you pushing yourself up against me and using me as a human shield against the cold,” Oliver says through gritted teeth, “probably not the best idea for us to walk into the pub arm in arm when you’re trying to get with another guy.”
I immediately slide my arm out of his as we reach the front door of the pub. “Good point.”
I run my hand through my hair and fidget with my coat. Oliver rolls his eyes at me. “Jesus Christ, you’re not meeting the fucking Pope. Will you just relax? You’re acting completely mental.”
“God, I know,” I groan, embarrassed. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I? I’m just nervous. I haven’t done this in a while. I just suddenly have a bad feeling about this whole night. I’m not great at first impressions. I’m not even sure how I made any friends the first night at orientation.”
Oliver opens the door to the pub and lets me in first. “Well, I liked you initially because I wanted to sleep with you,” he says matter-of-factly, following close behind. “Not sure why everyone else did, to be honest.”
Those are not comforting words.
“I don’t think I’m gonna sleep with him,” I say. “I might hook up, but I thought about it, and I think I need to take things slow—for my sake.”
I gave it some thought over the course of the afternoon, and I came to the realization that I had acted rashly. Sleeping with someone in reaction to Austin’s new relationship would be stupid and immature—not to mention, it would prove he had more power over me than I am willing to admit. So, I decided earlier today that I was down to flirt a little and have a little fun, but I won’t be going home with anyone.
“Good. You would’ve wasted your time on him anyway. I told you I’ve heard that he’s not great in bed. Just make out a little, if you want. It’s not a big deal.”
I nod, but this is all starting to sound ridiculous to me.
The warmth of the pub is welcoming against the winter cold. The recognizable smell of hops and oak soothe my soul and calm me. There’s no music playing in the background, just the familiar buzz of a crowd and the occasional laughter rising above the usual noise coming from different tables. The lights are dimmed to set the mood.
The clientele at The Red Lion ranges from blue-haired men reliving their glory days to barely legal teens enjoying their first beers. Places like these are the ones that give me hope that maybe wecanall get along, that maybe differences can be set aside and truces can be made and friendships solidified all over a delicious, bubbly, cold pint of beer.
God, I love pubs.
The real kind, though—not that hybrid mess Jane took us to. This kind. The kind where the tables are ancient, and everything smells like hops. The kind where all you can order by way of food is fish and chips or nuts, andmaybea burger. The kind where fruity cocktails aren’t allowed—only beer and hard liquors.
I take a deep breath and smile while Oliver takes me by the hand and yells, “Mate!” to a man by a corner table with five other people.
As we approach the table, I realize that they look like the British version of frat boys.
Oh, God.
“Ollie!” they say in unison.
“Ollie?” I whisper and laugh in his ear as I slip off my coat. “Oh my God, yes. Thank you, Jesus.” I’m gonna give him so much shit for this. I had heard him use it a couple of times when referring to himself, but I thought he was being sarcastic.
Oliver glares at me as we make our way through. “It’s my very macho, rugby team nickname. Don’t fucking ruin it for me.”
