Chapter Eight - 8. The Date
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Date
Just imagine if my high school self saw me now: voluntarily watching Taylor play soccer on a team I wasn’t a part of, happily babysitting his sister. That version of Archie would have an aneurysm.
Before Taylor left the dorm to join his team, he gave me a list of things to remember: don’t lose her, don’t buy her sweets, don’t buy her soft-drink, don’t leave her alone for a second, and, oh yeah, don’t lose her.
Now, I held Hazel’s hand as we made our way up the bleachers.
She was wearing her pink backpack, which contained a container of cut fruit Taylor had prepared, and in her hands she clutched a handmade sign featuring an illustration of a soccer ball and the words GO TAYLOR! !! with the R facing the wrong way.
Once we settled into a pair of cold plastic seats, I spotted Taylor immediately, his hair the blackest amongst his teammates. The coach spoke to them, while their opponents, a team from another university, were doing lunges on the other side of the field.
The umpire spoke to both teams and players spread out amongst the green, Taylor on the wing. The umpire blew his whistle, and off the players went.
I knew Taylor was a good player. He was part of the reason I’d trained so hard, back in high school, trying to keep up with him.
But I’d never watched him play, not like this, just a member in the audience.
He seemed to run like a blur, his passes whirling the ball through the air in a neat arc.
Every time he received or stole the ball, Hazel would stand up and say “yeah!” as she waved her sign.
Fifteen minutes before half-time, Taylor was subbed off, and he stood by the bench, looking up at the crowd.
I asked Hazel if she wanted me to pick her up, and she said yes, and once she was in the air, she waved ecstatically.
The moment Taylor saw us, his serious expression melted and he waved back, a low-key flutter of his fingers.
Halverton won, of course. It wasn’t much of a competition.
The home crowd roared. It took forever for everyone to leave the bleachers, but it meant that by the time Hazel and I rocked up to the gym building, Taylor was already there, waiting for us.
He was freshly showered and out of his soccer kit, now wearing a cotton t-shirt and sweat pants. Hazel ran forward and hugged his legs.
“You won!” she said. “Again!”
He scooped her up. “Damn right,” he said, ruffling her hair. His eyes met mine. “Did you have fun?”
“It wasn’t bad,” I said, and he grinned, because we both knew I was bullshitting.
Ben and Lucy arrived two hours later than they said they would.
“You’re wearing yesterday’s dirty clothes,” Lucy said, crouching down to inspect her daughter. “This is why you should’ve come to the hotel with us.”
“What did you get up to last night?” Ben asked, ostensibly to Hazel, but his eyes were on his son.
Hazel told them about drawing, dinner, watching a movie, and then the soccer match this morning. “And Taylor’s team won!”
“Is that right?” Lucy stood up. “Have you got all your things?”
Taylor handed Hazel’s backpack to Lucy.
“Walk with us to the carpark,” Ben said to Taylor. It wasn’t a suggestion. To me he said, “I hope she didn’t inconvenience you.”
“No,” I said quickly, “not at all.”
But he had already turned away, beckoning for his family to leave. Taylor gave me a look and I waved him off.
While he was gone, I picked at some of the leftover watermelon in the fridge. Just as I was throwing out the rinds, my phone buzzed. It was an email from the official CSS account.
Dear Archibald Hayes, it began, thank you for your application for assistant treasury on the ball committee. We’re pleased to reveal that —
I scanned the whole email, then read it again, worried I’d misread something. Phrases seemed to float above the screen. Compelling written application. Impressive number of votes. Excited to have you join the team.
I was practically bouncing by the time Taylor returned. “Thank fuck that’s over,” he said, shutting the door behind him and slumping against it. His eyes caught on mine. I couldn’t suppress my smile.
“What is it?” he asked.
I rushed over to him and shoved my phone in his face. He took it from me, fingers brushing over mine.
“I mean, it’s a big deal to me,” I said in response to his muted reaction.
“No, no, it’s great. I’m just not surprised. Of course you were going to get it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I sat through all the speeches. Yours was the best. Especially when you alluded to a bottomless bar at the ball.”
I cringed. “Let’s hope I didn’t make any promises I can’t keep.”
“That’s politics for you,” Taylor said, patting my arm. “You know what? Let’s celebrate.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” I said. Was it lame to care this much about a committee position? “We don’t — what the heck?”
Taylor had pulled out a handful of hundred dollar bills from his back pocket.
“Were you just walking around with that?” I asked.
“Ben gave it to me as ‘compensation’ for babysitting.”
“That’s a lot of money.” When I was thirteen, I’d babysat a neighbour’s kid for $7.50 an hour.
“I won’t blow all of it,” Taylor said. “Just this.” He wiggled a single bill between his hands.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I’m taking you out, Archie. Don’t even try to argue.”
The Laureate was the fanciest restaurant on campus, which I thought was like being the tallest dwarf, except that The Laureate was actually really nice.
It was dimly lit and wood-panelled, and most of the patrons seemed to be middle-aged academics in suits, or wealthy donors wearing pearl necklaces and designer watches.
I set down the menu, which was written in cursive on thick card, and featured a lot of French.
“You know what?” I whispered across the table to Taylor, who looked remarkably calm for someone wearing sweats in a place that looked like the set of an English period drama. “Maybe we should just get takeaway.”
“We’re already here. We can’t leave now.” He scanned the drinks menu. “All they have is wine. Do you want some?”
“I think,” I said, glancing down at the prices, “we should split an appetiser and drink tap water.”
“Choose a meal. An actual meal. Otherwise I’ll order for you.”
When the waiter came over, Taylor chose a wine at random, ordered the seafood pasta, and, still feeling guilty, I ordered the steak and pear salad.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” I said, after the waiter had left. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he said steadily. “I wanted to.”
I straightened the napkin provided. I couldn’t tell whether it was made of cloth or paper.
“Besides,” Taylor continued, “you deserve a reward for winning. Well done.”
The tips of my ears went hot. I felt the same rush of embarrassed pleasure I used to get when teachers or soccer coaches praised me.
“Thank you,” I mumbled. “I’ll bring you to the ball, if you want.”
“Not a commerce student, remember?”
“We’re allowed to bring a date. A plus one,” I corrected, stumbling over my words.
“You’d really bring me?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’m a guy, for starters.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m aware of that, thanks.”
The waiter appeared with the wine, announcing its name like it was supposed to be significant and filling up our glasses with it, the liquid deep red and viscous.
After the waiter left, I continued, “I told Matty that Talia was the prettiest girl on campus.”
Taylor raised a brow, but it looked forced, a bit studied. “So you want to use me to flex on others.”
“Not use you,” I argued. “Flex on others, maybe.”
He didn’t say anything, and I wished I could backtrack, but I couldn’t. I did the next best thing and gulped down a mouthful of wine, and only managed at the last second not to spit it out.
I’d had wine before, but had forgotten just how strong it could taste. Or maybe there was something wrong with this specific bottle.
Taylor swallowed, looking far more dignified about it. “Well,” he said.
“That’s actually awful. How much was it?”
“I didn’t look at the price.”
Of course he didn’t.
“I don’t think I like wine,” I announced.
Taylor peered at his glass like it had personally insulted him. “So many grown ups drink it, though. Maybe it’s like coffee. Or beer. You just have to get used to it.” He took a tiny sip and scrunched up his face.
I bit back a smile. He was so cute.
“Maybe,” I said, “you just have to get drunk enough to appreciate the flavour.” I tried another sip and forced it down. Then another.
Taylor drank some, then swirled the liquid around in his glass. “That was slightly less bad than the first taste.”
I readied myself to scull some down. We’d have to drink it eventually. There was no way we could leave the bottle on the table. “How strong is wine anyway?” I asked.
Taylor shrugged. “Probably weaker than beer, right?”
“Thank you,” I slurred into Taylor’s ear, “for taking me out. That steak was so yummy.” I linked my arm with his, stumbling as we crossed the campus lawn. “It was like our first date.”
“Not our first,” Taylor pointed out. “You took me to the city, remember?”
“Yeah, as a punishment.”
“Good thing I’m a masochist,” he said, deadpan. Even when sloshed, he sounded as aloof as ever. The only indication he was intoxicated was the flush high on his cheekbones, and the fact he was leaning heavily to the left, meaning it took all my strength to keep him upright.
“We should get dessert,” I announced. “It’ll be good for us.” Food was good for drunk people, right? Not that we were that drunk. Just a little bit tipsy.
Taylor nodded seriously, and jerked my arm, so we turned a sharp ninety degrees, heading for the strip of cafes and restaurants in the centre of campus.
When we came across a frozen yogurt place, mostly empty because it was late on a Sunday night, we looked at each other, came to a silent agreement, and marched in.
We poured in every flavour until the cup was overflowing, then scooped on toppings after toppings, giggling like little kids as we added chocolates and lollies and chocolate sauces.
When the cup was placed on the scale, the staff member, whose nametag read Katie, said, “forty-six dollars, thirty two cents.”
Taylor and I stared at the cup.
“Erm,” I said. “Are you sure?”
“Because,” Taylor said, sounding just as authoritative as he did when sober, “that would make it over a kilogram heavy.”
Katie blinked slowly at us. “The numbers don’t lie.”
“I think the machine is broken,” Taylor said imperiously.
“Look at how much froyo is in there,” Katie said. “You put in two brownie pieces, two blondie pieces, and every single type of chocolate sauce. That’s the heavy stuff.”
“Can we put it back?” I asked.
“No.”
Taylor gave me a look, then reached for his back pocket. A few twenty cent coins tumbled out.
“No, let me get it,” I said, pushing his hand aside, and tapping my card. “I’m generous like that. Thank you, Katie.”
Taylor picked up the froyo, stabbed it with two wooden spoons, and took it over to a table in the corner with the seriousness of a royal messenger carrying the elixir of life.
I sat down beside him, pressing the side of my thigh against his, and had my first spoonful. I immediately burst into laughter. “Mm, yum,” I said.
“Yeah, so delicious,” Taylor said, a lot less convincingly.
I turned to him. “Are you saying that this eight flavoured goop isn’t the best thing you’ve ever had?”
He shrugged, and I kicked his feet under the table, giggles escaping me.
He kicked me back.
“Here,” Katie said, appearing by our table with a glass bottle of water and two paper cups. “Make sure your boyfriend hydrates,” she said to Taylor. “He seems kind of wasted.” She mouthed the last word.
Taylor nodded seriously. “Yes, I will, thank you.”
I glared at Katie’s back as she walked away. “I can’t believe she thinks you’re the sober one!” I hissed.
Taylor poured me a cup of water.
I downed it, then moved closer, resting my chin on his shoulder. “I can’t believe she thinks you’re my boyfriend,” I continued.
“Probably because you’re all over me,” Taylor said, but he didn’t push me off.
“Because you’re warm,” I said, wrapping my hands around his middle. “You’re warm and the froyo’s cold.”
He scooped up the dessert with my spoon and offered it. I gave it a look, but opened my mouth.
Once my teeth closed against it, Taylor let go, leaving the spoon sticking out of my mouth. “We have to finish it,” he said.
“You’re so serious when you’re drunk,” I said, smiling at him.
“I’m not drunk.”
“Yeah you are.” I took hold of my spoon and pointed at him with it. “You like me, don’t you?”
“Obviously I like you, Archie,” Taylor said, looking faintly confused.
“Ah ha! You’d never say that if you were sober.”
“Yeah I would,” he protested. “You’ve just never asked.”
I took a long time to think of a response. Taylor pushed the froyo cup across the table to me. “Eat up,” he said. “We have a kilo of dessert to finish.”