Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Lucas
I’m not the kind of person you’d think of as a cheater. My mum was pretty strict with us growing up, and there was never any need to cheat at school. The thing that radicalised me was World Book Day, when everyone had to dress up as their favourite character. The first year, I must have been nine or ten, and I didn’t overthink it. My favourite book at the time was Charlie and the Chocolate Factory , so I just wore what he wore – jeans and a jumper. When I got into school that day, I couldn’t believe what I saw. This was a regular state primary school, but the kids from nice homes had never stood out more. There was a girl in elaborate face paint done by a professional, plenty who had purchased expensive-looking costumes for the occasion, and this one girl, Rachel Holden, who was dressed as the Gruffalo, complete with a giant papier-maché head. That afternoon, the teacher announced that Rachel Holden had won the prize for best costume – a ￡10 book voucher that she obviously didn’t need. I was furious. I never stood a chance.
The next year, I was determined to be competitive. From the moment they announced the date, I pestered my mum about my costume. I was convinced that papier-maché was the key to victory and begged her to help me dress as the peach from James and the Giant Peach . She said I was being overambitious. The stand-off continued until the morning of World Book Day, when a doomed clump of soggy cardboard led to my mum borrowing my grandpa’s glasses, scribbling a zigzag on my forehead with eyeliner and calling me Harry Potter. When I got to school, there were at least three other Potters, one of whom had purchased the official wand from the Harry Potter studio tour. I wasn’t even best in category. Then Rachel Holden came in dressed as Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web , with a web made from coat hangers that fanned out behind her like a peacock. She won by unanimous consent for the second year in a row.
If I disliked her before, I now openly despised her. It just didn’t seem fair that we were in competition when it was never going to be an even playing field. Then that summer, we were both invited to a mutual friend’s birthday party. There was a game where you had to put a pin on a map to find the buried treasure. I wasn’t interested until, towards the end of the game, I happened to spot two adults pointing out where the treasure was buried. I rushed up and asked to take my turn. I went deliberately off target, but only slightly. When they announced the winner, I acted shocked. Rachel Holden didn’t look as mad as I hoped, but then she hadn’t spent the past two years secretly resenting me. Scared as I was of being caught, I didn’t feel remotely guilty. Just like Rachel on World Book Day, I’d used all the tools available to me.
Once I got to Cambridge, I realised that Rachel Holden was nothing. Of course, I’d always known that things weren’t easy growing up, but I hadn’t fully appreciated how much easier some people had it. I hadn’t understood that going to private school meant tutors and after-school clubs, foreign exchange trips and teachers who gave you one-on-one attention. As we’ve approached graduation, I’ve found new things to be annoyed by. I hear people announcing that a family friend has lined them up with a job interview, or their parents have bought them a flat in London so they can avoid the horror of renting. It’s not an even playing field and it never has been. Which is why I don’t feel bad about suggesting that George cheats.
OK, maybe that’s not totally true. When I think about what we’re actually going to have to do, it does make my pulse race. That’s why I was in such a weird mood on the way to the University Library. In fact, when I went to get that Descartes book, I didn’t really need to get a book. I needed to go and hyperventilate because I was so nervous about picking up the cheat book. I didn’t believe it was real until I saw it. I heard about it from a grad student at St John’s, who claims it originated from a professor who had to cut a lot of corners with his teaching because he was too busy presenting a TV show. It would be funny if this all started not because students didn’t want to learn, but because a teacher didn’t want to teach.
George doesn’t know any of this. In fact, I think he sees me as a lot more hard-edged than I am on the inside. I can easily convince him that cheating is all in a day’s work for me. I don’t have a choice. I meant what I said to George – there’s no way he can learn three years’ worth of economics in one term.
That lecture with George was excruciating, but I was impressed by how honest he is about what he doesn’t know. George didn’t seem thrilled about the prospect of cheating, but he’s clearly aware that the way he’s been passing his exams up until now hasn’t exactly been above board. He can’t really argue with my strategy. And I’m determined to deliver on my end of our deal. As for me, I’m under no illusions that I can cheat my way to a boyfriend, but George has promised he’ll do whatever it takes to get me there. In fact, we’re starting tonight.
What the hell have I agreed to?
George has instructed me to meet him at his room dressed as a superhero. Is this some kind of confidence-building exercise? I hate fancy dress. I spent over an hour at the fancy dress shop in the Grafton Centre, trying on every superhero outfit imaginable. In the end, I went with one of the classics: Batman. This version sits in copyright purgatory halfway between Adam West’s comical black underpants and Christian Bale’s bulked up bat suit. The main thing is that it’s black. And that it has a mask which will stop anyone from recognising me. Still, I can’t believe I’m willingly submitting myself to this humiliation. Thank god George’s college is next door to mine. I jog over to Trinity, looking less like Batman on a mission than a man dressed as a rat on a charity fun run. I find George’s staircase and knock on his door. As the door swings open and George sees my outfit, his face lights up and he bursts into song.
‘Da-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na .?.?.’
He holds a fake microphone up to my mouth.
‘Batman,’ I say weakly.
‘Nice!’ says George. ‘I thought you might go for Spiderman. Because you look so much like—’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Tom Holland is cute!’
‘Exactly.’
George laughs and shrugs it off. ‘Can you guess who I am?’
I look George up and down. He’s paired a Viking helmet and hammer with the skimpiest pair of shorts I’ve ever seen, plus a harness which seems expressly designed to showcase his nipples. I would love to say he looks ridiculous. But George is the one man on earth who can pull this off.
‘No idea,’ I say.
‘I’ll give you a clue – it rhymes with score.’
‘Does it also rhyme with man whore?’
‘Hey! No sarcasm tonight.’
I look at him indignantly. ‘Sarcasm is my superpower.’
George invites me in and offers to fix me a vodka and Coke. Like many final year Cambridge students, George has what’s known as a set – a living room and a separate bedroom. The living room has a low ceiling with exposed wooden beams that are probably several hundred years old. I’m surprised to see that George has made the most of the space. The rest of the rowing team can barely bring themselves to put their dirty clothes in the laundry basket. But George has put plants on the windowsill, candles on the coffee table, and a framed photo by his bed of some people who I presume are his family. That must be the country club in Wisconsin. And that looks like an older brother. The parents each have an arm around the brother, and George is squeezing in at the side like they made him press the camera timer. That isn’t how I would have pictured George with his family, but then I realise I don’t really know anything about him. Unnerving to think that there’s a human being behind Sexy Thor.
‘We should make this quick,’ I say. ‘I’d love to be in bed by midnight.’
‘Are you kidding?’ says George. ‘The night won’t even start to get good until midnight.’
I look at him in disgust. ‘The night?’
‘Yeah, the club night. What did you think we were doing?’
‘Honestly, I hadn’t ruled anything out.’
‘That’s the spirit!’
I feel a tiredness that is almost existential. George drapes himself over his sofa, spreading his legs wide in that way that straight men love to do. Luckily, I’ve had plenty of practice out on the river at avoiding any unfortunate glances in the direction of his crotch. I perch tentatively in an armchair, my knees pressed together like a Victorian widow.
‘Why do we have to go to a club night?’ I ask.
George grins. ‘We’ll get to that part. First, I have a bunch of questions.’
I audibly groan.
‘I need to know what I’m working with,’ says George. ‘Can you give me a brief summary of your dating history?’
‘Sure.’
George looks expectant.
‘I just did,’ I say.
‘Huh?’
‘There’s your summary. Nada. Niente .’
‘Your ex was called Nada Niente? Was he Spanish?’
‘George, I don’t have an ex!’
‘So who’s Nada Niente?’
‘Allow me to translate. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve slept with three different guys. Hand jobs and blow jobs only. The first guy asked me to stop. I was giving him a blow job and he asked me to stop . I’m a flop, George. A flop like his dick flopped the minute he got into bed with me. This is what you’re working with.’
George considers this for a moment. ‘Maybe he was tired.’
‘Who?’
‘Nada Niente. Maybe he wanted to go to bed.’
‘Yes. Maybe.’
You have to pick your battles. It’s not like I remember the guy’s actual name.
‘So is it a choice not to sleep with more guys?’ asks George.
‘Oh absolutely. After Nada I thought, I’ve peaked. It doesn’t get better than this.’
George narrows his eyes at me. ‘Why do I feel like you’re being sarcastic?’
‘Because you’re a genius. Only explanation.’
‘Lucas, stop! I’m trying to help!’
‘Sorry. No, obviously I’d love to bang more guys. That’s why I’m here.’
‘And why haven’t you?’
‘Banged more guys? I don’t know, George. There isn’t a feedback form.’
‘So it’s mostly men rejecting you?’
‘No! There’s plenty of guys I could have got with. Just .?.?. not the ones I want.’
‘Yes!’ says George, his face lighting up. ‘The unattainable! So hot!’
‘Is it? ’Cos I find it incredibly frustrating.’
‘You just have to persevere. This one time in high school, I had a crush on a girl who had a boyfriend. But then me and her were paired on a science project, and her boyfriend was like, do you know what, I can see how this is going to end, I’m just going to cut my losses. And we had sex the same night he broke up with her.’
I shake my head at him. ‘You and I are not the same.’
George looks guilty. ‘Tell me what you like about Amir.’
At the mere mention of his name, I feel a rush. ‘Obviously he’s hot. Like seriously hot. But I think the thing that really does it for me is his intelligence.’
George looks surprised. ‘So is that what you look for in a guy?’
‘I mean, it’s not the only thing, but if they’re not seriously clever, it’s never going to work.’
‘Interesting. Anything else about Amir that does it for you?’
I stop to think.
‘He’s so .?.?. understated. Like he’s clearly very handsome, but he doesn’t show it off. He’s never even posted a selfie.’
George tightens up. ‘What’s wrong with selfies?’
‘Oh come on, every selfie is a cry for help.’
George frowns and glances at his phone.
‘And he’s rich, but he doesn’t show it off. He’s never posted a photo of his house, or his pool.’
‘Wait, so how do you know he has a pool?’
‘Google Earth.’
‘Hold up, dial back a minute. How do you know this guy?’
I blush and tell George about my weekly rendezvous with Amir and the fervent obsession it has inspired. I don’t go quite so far as explaining how a single Instagram post allowed me to track down the precise coordinates of Amir’s family home in Tunisia, because I’d rather not be reported to the police, but I give George the general idea.
‘This is incredible, Lucas! We can totally plan the perfect meet cute.’
‘Since when are you a romcom guy?’
‘I watched all the classics with my mom growing up.’
‘Right, well you know how romcom heroines have a misanthropic best friend who never gets a romantic arc of their own?’
‘Yeah! Love that character!’
‘OK, well that’s who you’re working with.’
George nods solemnly.
‘George, you’re not meant to agree with me!’
‘Oh. Right. I just can’t believe you see this guy every week and you thought it was a good idea to crash his dorm at night.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Let’s let it be a teachable moment.’
‘I’m too English for phrases like that.’
‘Then tell me why it was a bad idea.’
‘Because Amir thinks I’m an idiot loser?’
‘Wrong,’ says George, leaping up from the sofa in enthusiasm. ‘Because the circumstances weren’t right.’
I feel like I’m at some sort of self-help seminar. But George is on a roll.
‘Here’s my first piece of advice,’ he declares. ‘You can’t just make something happen because you want it to happen. You have to react to the situation. That’s what makes it all so exciting. Anything could happen tonight.’
That’s what I’m worried about. Cambridge doesn’t have its own gay club, but there have been various attempts to establish a weekly queer night, some more successful than others. This one claims to be bringing back cheesy music, which I wasn’t aware had ever gone away. I’ve never attended, but I’ve sneaked several peeks at their Instagram page. I always click on it with the aim of convincing myself I’m not missing anything, but it just reminds me there’s a world out there full of people having fun without me. Which is very rude of them. I haven’t told George this, but there’s a part of me that’s excited to finally cross the threshold. And when I say excited, I mean I’m totally shitting myself.
As George and I make the short walk to the club and join the end of the queue, I check out my fellow clubbers. There are a couple of Spidermans, several Iron Mans, and another Batman who has opted for the Christian Bale fake six-pack and looks reassuringly stupid. I catch someone smiling at me, then realise they’re looking at George. Of course. When you’re an underwear model dressed as Sexy Thor, you’re not going to go unnoticed. There can be few men able to stand next to George and not feel like an inferior physical specimen. I’m starting to doubt the wisdom of going clubbing together when George clocks my expression.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘What are we here for?’
‘Ritual humiliation.’
George laughs.
‘George!’
‘What?’
‘I thought you banned sarcasm!’
George looks astonished that I’m holding him to account. ‘But that was funny. I didn’t want to not laugh.’
‘OK, but you know the only thing I want to do right now is turn around and walk home. Do not let me. Even if I beg you.’
George looks at me in admiration. ‘I’m so impressed by your commitment.’
‘No no no. I’m a failure. A total failure. And you are not going to let me get away with it.’
As we descend into the basement, I feel a rush of excitement. It evaporates the moment we enter. One random glance from a guy at the bar is enough to convince me the whole room is staring at me and wishing I’d fuck off.
The club has an industrial look, all exposed air vents and stainless steel, which feels like it might have been stylish twenty years ago. It’s only half full, but there’s already a crowd of people on the dance floor, flawlessly reciting the lyrics to a song that may or may not be by Ariana Grande. As George goes to the bar to buy cocktails, I spot some space on a bench next to an Aquaman who has gone a bit overboard with his wig. Aquaman gives me a spaced-out nod, seemingly high and unaware of his resemblance to Dolly Parton.
‘Cheers!’ says George as he crosses over with our drinks.
I take mine and try to angle my straw through the gap in my mask.
‘OK, that’s the first rule,’ says George. ‘Mask off.’
‘I thought the first rule was no sarcasm.’
‘Then the second rule is mask off.’
‘The mask’s the best bit!’
‘But then we can’t see your handsome face.’
‘That’s the point of a mask.’
George pauses, as if he’s really struggling to triangulate.
‘You wanted me to be strict with you. So I’m only doing what you asked. Take off the mask, Lucas.’
‘Very good.’
I remove the mask and tuck it into my pocket sulkily.
‘How many more rules are there?’
‘Don’t think of it like that.’
‘I don’t even know what we’re doing here.’
George smiles. ‘Nor do I.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not ready to hit on Amir. I know that much. But the rest .?.?. you can’t teach it. Switch off your brain. Tell me what you feel. What you hear. What you smell.’
I sniff the air pretentiously. ‘Top notes of aftershave and sweat. Undertones of beer and tequila. The delicate hint of a fart that a boy did on the dance floor and is now trying to dissipate with some overenthusiastic breakdancing.’
‘Very observant!’ says George.
I look at him drily. ‘I was taking the piss.’
‘Well, joke’s on you, because there are no wrong answers.’
‘Oh, then please explain how smelling a fart is going to help me seduce the man of my dreams?’
‘Because it gets you out of your head. It puts you into your body. And honestly, whoever successfully hit on someone in a room which smelled like that? Your body would send you signals. This one time, I was at a barn dance and—’
‘Do I want to know where this story is heading?’
‘Totally. I was at Big Bertha’s Barn Dance.’
‘Of course you were.’
‘And for once I wasn’t really in the mood to meet girls.’
‘Shocking.’
‘I know, right? My parents were there, and we’d had a busy weekend at the country club.’
‘Gutting lots of salmon?’
‘Exactly. So I’m planning to just have some corn dogs and do some line dancing, when I smell this scent.’
‘Don’t tell me – Big Bertha let rip.’
‘Lucas! Ew! No, the scent was this incredible perfume. And I was transfixed. I followed the smell, and eventually I realised that it’s this divorced woman who runs the candy store in town. Never given her a second glance. But that night, she just smelled so amazing, I asked her for a dance. And well, we ended up making out in the hay bales.’
I give George a droll look.
‘Do you have any stories that don’t end with you successfully seducing a woman?’
George looks surprised. ‘I thought they might inspire you.’
‘Yes, I can’t wait to get sniffing.’
‘Lucas! It’s not about that. I just want you to go into the crowd and .?.?. be open to anything. Forget about smells. Just let it wash over you. And if you catch someone’s eye, talk to them.’
My mouth drops open.
‘You want me to hit on a stranger?’
‘No. Yes. It doesn’t matter. It literally doesn’t matter what you talk about.’
‘What if they reject me?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Watch.’
George leaps up to speak to a woman who’s standing on the edge of the dance floor dressed as Black Widow. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can see that he’s turning on the charm. I watch her face turn from surprise to fear to a desperate attempt at politeness. George shrugs and crosses back over to me.
‘What was that about?’ I ask.
‘I hit on her. She wasn’t interested.’
‘She’s probably gay.’
‘Maybe. The point is, I put myself out there, she said no, and it was fine.’
I look back at Black Widow. She’s pointing out George to her friend and laughing. He definitely said something outrageously cheesy. I’m sure it’s easy to handle rejection when you know that half the club would pay to sleep with you. But point taken.
‘I really don’t want to do this, George.’
George pauses to think. ‘But you’ll be mad at me if I don’t help you push past your desire not to do it, because, deep down, you actually do want to do it?’
‘That’s the one.’
George gives me a friendly shove and I stumble to my feet. Every part of me is longing to argue and sit back down, so I try to remember what George told me. Be in my body. Respond to my senses. But regardless of what they smell like, how can I get past the fact that these are real people? Am I really going to just walk up to one of them and start talking? What if the conversation goes well? Then I’ll have to go home with whoever I choose. It’s the law.
I eye people up one by one. For every committed Thor or Captain America, there’s an apologetic Wonder Woman or a half-hearted Hulk. I feel bad for all the Spidermen, because that costume is unforgiving, and there’s one guy who is blatantly hotter than the others. He’s got those triangular shoulders that really pop in Lycra, plus the kind of face card that would be wasted behind a mask. I can’t possibly approach him. I glance around and try to find someone more on my level, but I’m terrified of catching the wrong person’s eye and being co-opted into some sort of prenuptial agreement.
Then I freeze. Someone’s looking at me. Worse than that, he’s smiling. And he’s only metres away. I wouldn’t say he’s hot, but he’s all-right looking. For want of a better response, I smile back. At least, I intend it as a smile – god knows if my facial muscles are capable of cooperating. But it works – the guy is walking towards me. Shit. Shit. What do I say? It’s only as he reaches me that I realise who he’s dressed as.
‘Ant-Man?’
Ant-Man beams proudly. I glance back and see George watching intently from the bench, willing me on. This feels like the gay Olympics. I try to recall the three rules.
‘That’s cool,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I said THAT’S COOL.’
The music is so loud that I have to shout to be heard. I wonder how George would proceed. Probably by saying something extremely basic without a hint of embarrassment.
‘Are you having a good night?’
‘What?’
‘ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD NIGHT?’
‘Oh. Yeah! Tres bon! ’
Tres bon. I’m going to let that one slide.
‘What are you drinking?’ I ask.
‘Rum and Coke. You?’
‘G & T.’
Ant-Man frowns. ‘Green tea?’
‘Yes, I’m drinking green tea on ice with a straw in the club. Trend alert!’
Ant-Man stares at me.
‘It’s GIN and TONIC.’
‘Oh, right. I love gin.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it.’
‘So good.’
There’s an awkward pause.
‘And tonic,’ says Ant-Man.
‘What?’
‘Love a bit of tonic.’
‘Oh yeah, tonic’s the best. And when you put them together? Wow.’
Listen, it’s not a Socratic dialogue. But I’ve passed George’s test. More to the point, I’m realising it doesn’t matter that much what we talk about. We’ve connected. And now I can feel the music vibrating through me. I can taste the G & T on my lips. I picture myself kissing this guy, and I can’t say I hate the idea.
‘Hey, do you want to dance?’ I ask with what I hope is a suggestive smile. Ant-Man returns it with a pitying look.
‘Aww, I’m actually just waiting for my boyfriend to get back from the loo. But we can all go together when he gets here if you want?’
‘That’s OK, I’m going to go and poke my eyes out.’
But Ant-Man is no longer listening.
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘Enjoy!’
Back over at the bench, George raises his hand to high five me. I leave him hanging.
‘What’s the matter?’ asks George. ‘That was incredible.’
‘He has a boyfriend.’
‘Who cares?’ says George with a shrug.
‘I do! He must think I’m a loser.’
‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks.’
‘I should have walked away sooner.’
George reaches behind him and hands me a napkin.
‘Great,’ I say, ‘I knew I looked sweaty.’
George laughs. ‘That napkin is for you to crumble up your negative feelings and toss them over your shoulder. So you can forget all about them.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘No! My mom taught me this trick when I was working as a waiter in the restaurant and my brother got his friends to come in and prank me.’
‘OK .?.?. a lot to unpack there.’
‘Not really. The napkin trick helped me forgot all about it.’
George offers the napkin again. Purely to get him off my back, I screw it up and throw it over my shoulder.
‘There!’ says George. ‘Let’s go celebrate.’
Obviously the napkin thing was lame. But I will admit it was nice to have someone force me to get over it. I could have wallowed for hours.
George takes me up to the bar and racks up no less than six tequila shots. I was hoping my reward might be permission to leave, but as each shot goes down, Ant-Man fades into the distance and the club starts to feel a little more inviting.
A Dua Lipa song comes on the sound system. It gets a whoop from the crowd, and even I have to admit that I know it.
‘Let’s dance!’ says George.
‘Let’s not go wild.’
‘Pretend I’m Amir. It will be fun.’
I’m not a great dancer at the best of times, but I can’t deny the lubricating effects of tequila. George drags me onto the dance floor. It’s totally packed, but it’s fun to be part of the throng. George finds a little pocket of space, where we have no choice but to dance right up against each other. I close my eyes – because it’s awkward, not because I’m planning to do what George told me. Then I feel George’s hips grind against me.
I instinctively tighten.
‘Come on, Lucas, I’m the man of your dreams. Enjoy it.’
Easier said than done, but what the hell.
I close my eyes, put my hands around George and imagine that I’m dancing with Amir. I almost can’t bear it. If these hips were his. If we were this close to kissing. If we’d somehow succeeded in trading those clipped exchanges in the coffee shop for something this intimate and sensual. I open my eyes and George smiles at me. Now I’m unnerved. Because he’s not Amir, is he? He’s George. None of what I just imagined is real. And somehow, this is making it feel further from my grasp, not closer.
I’m relieved when the song ends and George goes to the bathroom. I wait for him at the bar and get another round of shots. I’m damp with sweat and my head is starting to spin. For some reason, these are pleasurable sensations. I spot a cute-looking Mr Incredible. I catch his eye, and he smiles back, then looks away. We repeat the cycle. My heart is beating fast. This is actually quite exciting. Before we can get any further, George gets back.
‘Feeling good?’ asks George.
‘I’m not hating it as much as I thought I would.’
‘Great, you should check out the bathroom. Everyone’s so friendly! I turned down a blow job, but then I felt bad, so I said you might be up for it.’
‘George!’
‘What?! He was hot.’
I laugh at him in incredulity.
‘I thought we were taking baby steps tonight.’
‘But you said you wanted me to push you.’
‘I didn’t mean lining up blow jobs in the toilet.’
‘That’s fine. I was just, you know, reacting to the situation.’
‘Cool,’ I say, ‘me too. I just caught someone’s eye.’
‘That’s amazing, Lucas. Where?’
I look around for Mr Incredible, but I can’t see him anywhere. Instead, my gaze falls on a boy who has just walked in dressed as Rorschach from Watchmen . That’s a pretty cool choice of costume. I do a double take and my heart almost stops.
‘Fuck,’ I say, yanking George behind a pillar.
‘What?’
‘It’s him .’
I peer back round and take in Amir. He’s with his friend Yasmin, a fact I only know through my extensive internet stalking. Amir is wearing Rorschach’s iconic Panama hat and trench coat. He hasn’t bothered with the mask, but that only makes his look cooler. It’s so simple and stylish, committed to the part yet effortless. Yasmin is dressed as Silk Spectre in a sixties-style yellow minidress, her hair in an elegant bob. I’m surprised to see Amir at a theme night, but of course he’s found a way to transcend it by dressing as one of the Watchmen, the anti-superheroes. If only I’d had that idea.
‘Don’t panic,’ says George.
Great advice. What else am I meant to do in this situation? Now Amir and his friend have spotted us.
‘Why don’t you go over?’ says George.
I stare at him in disbelief. ‘I can’t speak to him!’
‘Why not?’
‘You said I wasn’t ready.’
‘You’re not ready to hit on him. That doesn’t mean you can’t say hi.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘I’m dressed as fucking Batman.’
‘You look good.’
But good isn’t good enough. Not when Amir is over there looking like a film star.
‘No. No way. I’m not doing it.’
George sighs. ‘Fine.’
‘George! You can’t let me give up that easily.’
‘But .?.?. I can’t force you if you really don’t feel ready. What would you make you do if you were me?’
I pause to think.
‘I’d get me past this place of defeatism.’
George processes this. Which takes him a moment, but let’s not be mean.
‘OK. I’m not going to make you approach Amir if that doesn’t feel right in the moment. I think you can show him you’re not scared another way. By hitting on someone else. Where’s that guy whose eye you caught?’
‘I can’t go after him now.’
‘Yes you can. Now is the perfect time. Nothing will make you more attractive to Amir than seeing you show interest in other men.’
I look out and sure enough, there’s Mr Incredible. There’s no denying that he’s looking in my direction. But the whole thing now feels impossible.
‘He’s too hot for me.’
‘You didn’t think that a minute ago.’
‘What if he rejects me in front of Amir?’
‘He won’t. He’s blatantly into you!’
‘I’ve never even made out with someone in public before. I can’t do this.’
I glance over at Amir and Yasmin. This is all too much.
‘I’m leaving.’ I stand up.
‘No, Lucas. I don’t want us to end on this note.’
‘Tough.’
‘Lucas! Please! You’ll thank me!’
George yanks my arm so hard I fall into his lap. I look into his eyes in shock. What happens next defies all logic.
We start kissing. I’m so taken aback that I don’t stop to think. Is he doing this out of sympathy? Tactics? A teachable moment? I couldn’t say.
All I can tell you right now is how it feels.
George’s tongue is darting in and out of my mouth. I can taste the tequila on his lips. Smell his aftershave. Feel the stubble on his chin. We’re kissing .
I run my hand through George’s hair and down over his rock-hard abs. I’ve always wondered what those felt like.
Then, just for a split second, I open my eyes. George opens his eyes at the exact same time.
I catch his expression, and suddenly I’m not so sure he knows what he’s doing. He reacted in the moment, sure, but who’s to say he reacted correctly? I’m making out with George. George . In front of Amir. Am I insane? I leap to my feet, and this time George doesn’t try to stop me. I stumble towards the exit. Before I leave, something compels me to turn and look at Amir. He and his friend are staring at me in fascination.