The Friendship Fling

15 looking for someone who does, actually, take themselves too seriously

15

looking for someone who does, actually, take themselves too seriously

Ava

Sam-from-Hinge is, apparently, an ultimate quizzer. I’m usually attracted to intelligence, so figured he was as good a person as any to go on a date with. Unfortunately, he is extremely intense, and, impossibly , appears to have even worse interpersonal skills than I do. He’s acting like this pub quiz is an Olympic trial.

I excuse myself from the table, weaving around the other teams to the bathroom. Leaning against the tiled wall, my fingers hover over my screen. I think about texting Josie, but she’s working late as usual, and probably far too busy to care about any of this. I open up a fresh text thread.

ava: I am STRUGGLING on this date

finn: Who is this? Please delete my number

I roll my eyes and send a response.

ava: do you have plans tonight?

finn: You can’t expect me to hang out with you any time a date goes sour

finn: I won’t be your little bitch boy

Within seconds, two more texts come through.

finn: But no, I don’t – little bitch boy at your service

finn: What are you thinking?

ava: you wanted to go on a boat right?

finn: Is this gonna be another thing like the bus tour where you completely ignore my wishes and change the plan to something you want to do instead?

ava: if the little bitch boy is scared just say so

A few moments pass.

finn: Where do you wanna meet?

Round four has already begun by the time I return to the table and whisper a hurried goodbye to Sam, who barely notices I’m leaving.

‘In what year did rock band Blink-182 release their self-titled album?’ The voice rumbles through the room and Sam furiously scribbles a number on our answer sheet.

‘I’m pretty sure it’s 2003,’ I tell him.

He looks up at me, pupils dilated, drunk on the power of being a know-it-all, I assume. ‘It’s 2004,’ he says with a roll of his eyes, turning away from me so he can pay better attention to the next question.

The answer was definitely 2003.

Finn leans against the wall outside Vauxhall station with the same nonchalance of the early-evening shadows sprawling across the ground between us. Under the golden-hour sun, the blue stripes of his shirt pop against his skin. As soon as he spots me, he pushes off against the wall, a Cheshire Cat grin on his face.

‘Nice of you to show up.’ He saunters forward and for a split second I feel like he’s about to give me a hug, but then he shoves his hands in his pockets, a picture of ease. His brown eyes have turned amber in the light, even warmer than usual.

‘Sorry,’ I reply, ‘the bus took longer than I expected.’

While the sun’s been blazing all day, there’s a static lifting the hairs on my arms, a heaviness in the air that hopefully means the heat is going to break soon.

‘It’s fine.’ He shrugs, following my lead as I take us across the street, once again trusting I’m taking him to a bucket list activity and not anything sinister. ‘I was enjoying people-watching.’

‘Did I pull you away from anything when I texted?’

‘Nothing interesting.’ He waves a hand flippantly. ‘Do you want to talk about your date?’

‘Not particularly. He was a smartass, and not in a cute way.’

He pushes his sleeves up his arms and asks, ‘What’s the cute way?’

‘My way, obviously.’ We hit the riverside pathway. ‘I’m extremely cute and sweet, as you are well aware.’

He raises his eyebrows but has the sense to keep quiet.

As the days get longer and the sky gets bluer, the city smoulders with pure magic. The unparalleled joy on the first day you don’t have to wear a jacket. How the atmosphere when England wins a match could set the world on fire. The way people spill out of pubs after work like liquid, chatting and laughing and pooling in puddles along the pavements.

‘London in the summer is something else,’ Finn says at last. ‘I feel like I was sold a lie. I was expecting grey sky and rain, and instead we get this?’

I clear my throat to say, ‘If Paris is the City of Love, London is the City of Unreliable Weather.’

Finn purses his lips as he thinks. ‘I prefer City of Pigeons with Mangled Feet.’

‘City of Declaring Your Allegiance to North, South, East or West and Sticking to It Forevermore.’

‘City of Temperatures That Get So High on the Central Line, They Border on a Human Rights Violation.’

‘The City of Standing on the Right of all Escalators and Never Ever on the Left, or So Help Me God.’

Just as our laughter merges into one homogenous sound, I notice we’re walking perfectly in sync too, so I intentionally slow my steps to get out of it.

‘Paris isn’t the City of Love, though,’ he says quietly. He chuckles at my raised eyebrows and adds, ‘I realise this makes me sound bitter because of what happened there with my last relationship. But even before that I felt this way.’

We step out of the way for someone to rollerblade past, and I say, ‘Okay. Make your case.’

‘I will die on this hill, just so we’re clear,’ he says. ‘It’s an incredible place, obviously, don’t get me wrong. And it has a ton of positive attributes. The history, the food, the art—’

‘Finn, Paris can’t hear you. You can talk shit about it if you want. I won’t tell.’

He barks out a laugh that brings a smile to my own face, and for once I let it sit there.

‘Okay, okay. Basically, if Paris is really the City of Love, it’s like, the Hallmark movie version. Does that make sense?’

‘I’ve never been,’ I admit, aware that the train takes less than three hours from London, and flying takes half that. ‘But I don’t think it’d be on my list even if I were someone who liked to travel. Its couple-y reputation would probably deter me.’

‘Well, exactly. But other French cities are more romantic anyway. Friendlier, more beautiful, just as much culture. I liked Paris well enough, but the whole world seems to pretend it’s this perfect picturesque city when it’s actually kind of dirty.’

‘So do you think London should be the real bearer of the nickname?’

He’s quiet for a few seconds as he mulls it over. ‘You can’t just dub somewhere the City of Love. It has to earn it. So yeah, maybe London could be, in time.’ Those liquid gold eyes settle on me. ‘It doesn’t rely on appearances. It’s romantic in a way that’s not so obvious.’

‘It’s fast-paced and loud,’ I say. Right on cue, a police car passes, siren blaring.

‘Don’t people want a love like that? Something exciting and unapologetic?’

‘Some people do.’ I think harder, wondering how he’ll spin the next thing I say. ‘But people here can be guarded. They aren’t always warm.’

‘Sure, but it’s not a bad thing to guard yourself. I think this place is accepting. You can be who you want here. To me, that’s extremely romantic.’

London’s the one place I’ve ever felt a connection to, so I’m not sure why I’m trying to fight against Finn’s romantic notions on this. ‘Everyone knows London can chew you up and spit you out before you’ve even realised it was hungry.’

‘But before it does, it’ll make you feel special. I think I’d take a few moments on top of the world, even if I knew it was only temporary, just to be able to say that I’d done it.’

We pass an elderly couple on a bench looking out at the river, their heads and hands together; two souls intertwined on the bank of the Thames.

‘And it’s old as fuck,’ I say eventually. ‘Steadfast.’

‘Loyal. Keeps all your secrets.’ Finn looks across at me, that ever-present smile lighting up his face. ‘Do you see what I mean now?’ Before I get the chance to answer, his eyes widen and, haloed by the sun, I know I’ve struck gold. ‘What is that ?’

‘That, Finn, is the boat you wanted.’

Go on a boat. Number four on Finn’s list.

Even in the dying daylight, the floating bar of Tamesis Dock is a vibrant pop of colour nestled on the riverbank. Permanently moored in its home between Lambeth and Vauxhall Bridge, the boat is painted blue and yellow, adorned by eclectic décor and fairy lights across its open upper deck. At low tide, it sits on a bed of stones and river debris, but this evening, it bobs slightly on the water.

‘Okay,’ Finn says, ducking his head as he steps inside and raising his voice over the buzz of activity, ‘this is way better than the bus tour. No offence.’

When we approach a gap in the small crowd at the bar festooned with rope and fishing nets, Finn gestures at me to go first as a lanky bartender waits expectantly for our order.

‘Could I have an Aperol Spritz?’ I ask.

He smiles and nods before looking at Finn, who fixes his eyes on him as he says, ‘A gin martini, please.’

‘Dirty?’

‘Filthy,’ Finn replies in a deep rumble, shadows from the hanging lights overhead dancing over his face. The bartender’s eyes widen, and he scurries off to the other end of the bar, no doubt intending to replay that single word in his mind for eternity.

I lean towards Finn so that he can hear me over the noise. ‘You shouldn’t do that.’

‘Do what?’ he asks, his body inching even closer to mine in response, a smile tugging at his mouth even though neither of us has said anything funny.

‘That poor, unsuspecting man just wanted to take your order and you practically seduced him.’

‘Everyone likes to be seduced, don’t they?’ He quirks an eyebrow and waits for me to respond.

I narrow my eyes and take a step backwards.

‘For the record,’ he says easily, ‘Aperol tastes like cough medicine and cheap perfume.’

‘That should be its new slogan.’

‘I think perhaps it’s an acquired taste,’ he suggests.

‘Acquire some taste, then.’

‘Ouch.’ His eyes catch mine in the low light from the bar and I take a long inhale in an attempt to compose myself. I’m increasingly aware that most of the brown of his eyes has been taken over by pupil, heat radiating off him even from this distance.

‘You can talk; a martini?’ I try to ignore whatever is going on in my brain. My rapidly thumping heart has other ideas, however. ‘Like someone shoved hand sanitiser in a cocktail shaker and thought, “Hmm, you know what would make this better? An olive!”’

The bartender comes over with our drinks, placing them delicately on the bar and stealing a quick glance at Finn and his permanent half-grin before handing us the card reader. Finn taps his phone before I get the chance to protest, a few missed calls showing on his home screen.

‘How’d you find this place?’ he asks as he follows me back outside to the deck, floorboards creaking beneath our feet. I inhale the fresh air and it refocuses my brain somewhat as I move up to the bow of the boat in search of a free table.

‘One of my dates,’ I reply, sipping my Aperol. ‘Thank you, Chris the quantity surveyor. Not a great lover in the end, but he had wonderful taste in bars.’

As we near the front of the boat, we come to an incredible vantage point of London’s skyline. From here, the London Eye, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament are silhouetted against a dusty pink and purple sky as the sun says its final goodbye.

By some miracle, a couple is packing up their stuff, and in an uncharacteristic bout of speed, I claim their spot within seconds of them vacating it. One seat faces the skyline while the other faces the back of the boat, and I reluctantly take the one facing backwards so Finn can have the better view.

Once we’ve sat down and Finn’s investigated the sun-bleached life preserver attached to the railing next to us, he slides his martini towards me.

I take a sip and pull a face. ‘Foul, as expected.’

I push it back across the table from me to him.

‘That’s perfectly fine, you’re entitled to your wrong opinion,’ he says breezily, noticing at the same moment I do that his phone has lit up with a call, before flipping it over on the table. He looks over my shoulder at the sunset. ‘This is my favourite bar, I’ve decided.’

‘It might be mine too.’ I gulp my radioactive-looking drink and wash away the taste of the martini. A few drops slide down the outside of the glass and I lick them without thinking, catching Finn’s eye as I do. ‘What’s your favourite place you’ve lived?’

He leans back in his chair with a stretch. ‘It changes. But you know what? London’s making a case for itself right now.’

‘Because of this bar,’ I offer, meeting his gaze over my glass.

He nods slowly, eyes boring into me. ‘Sure. Because of this bar.’

His phone buzzes again, and the light peeks out even though it’s flipped over.

‘You should get that,’ I suggest.

‘It’s fine.’ His dark eyebrows furrow into a frown. It doesn’t look right on his face.

‘Could be urgent.’

‘It’s not.’

‘How do you know?’

He grimaces. ‘It’s my mum, who’s clearly up extremely early. Or late. She’s congratulating me on getting a job interview. I’ve been applying for a bunch of them recently and heard back from one today.’

A smile hits my cheeks, though there’s something else under the surface. ‘Anything exciting?’

‘It could be.’ His voice is clipped, and I get a glimpse into how people must feel when they ask me questions and my replies are cagey. But I always appreciate when people respect when I’m reluctant to give answers, so I try to do the same for him. He sighs and says, ‘I was waiting for my dad to get back to me about it before I told anyone else. He’s read the message; he must’ve just forgotten to reply.’

‘Well, congratulations,’ I say, touching my glass to his. ‘To new opportunities.’

I can’t help it; the bitter lick of envy paints my insides. I wish I had even an inkling of a plan of what to do with my life, that I could find a way to move forward without disrupting the balance I’ve so carefully constructed.

‘Wait, that reminds me. I picked this up for you the other day.’ He reaches into his wallet and hands me a business card. ‘It’s for the design agency in my building. They’re taking interns. I remember you saying you did graphic design at uni and thought you might be interested.’

I stare at the card for a few moments, and then, under the fairy-light glow of the deck, a truth I’ve been avoiding is illuminated. At school, I chose design subjects because I was good at them, minimal effort required. Then at uni, it was the same; I hoped skill could take the place of passion. Now, I design our menus at work as a way to pass the time, but that’s all it is. I don’t want to be an intern, or take a course, or finish a degree, but I don’t know what I do want to do either, and the realisation makes me feel like I’ve been dropped into a dunk tank, and I scramble to get out, to determine how to answer the deluge of questions crashing over me.

At my silence, Finn backtracks, words spilling over each other in his rush to get them out. ‘Seriously, no pressure, I just know you’re not always the biggest fan of your job and found out these guys were hiring and thought of you. I didn’t make them any promises or anything. Sorry if I overstepped.’

‘No, that was really nice of you. Thank you. I might look into it.’ Perhaps it’s because I know he’s only a temporary feature in my life that I don’t feel the same pressure as I would telling Josie or Max, but I decide to grant him a fraction of the truth. ‘Actually, maybe I won’t. I don’t know if it’s for me, anymore. I’m not sure it ever was.’

He appraises me for a moment, and if nothing else, I’m grateful he at least saw something in me, some version of me that doesn’t have coffee grounds under her nails or wear an apron every day. ‘You know Belinda from the coffee shop? She started an English degree last year and she’s eighty-two. Take as long as you need to figure things out. You’re allowed to.’

His phone buzzes once more and he mutters, ‘Sorry, let me ask my mum to call me back tomorrow.’ Once he’s put his phone in his pocket, he visibly relaxes, and I do too. He leans forward, bracing his elbows against the table and resting his chin on one hand, his usual grin returning to his face.

‘What do you think she’s thinking about?’ he asks, nodding his head at a table to my left.

One of the women is practically inhaling her partner, and I ignore the PDA to reply tonelessly, ‘The particle accelerator at CERN.’ I shift to the edge of my seat and look for someone else to analyse. ‘That guy?’

‘The fact sharks are just dolphins with bad PR.’

‘What about those two?’

He follows my line of sight to another table and thinks for a moment before replying, ‘How much pressure you feel when you’re filling up a bottle at a water fountain while someone’s behind you.’

‘And you only fill it up halfway because you can’t handle the tension?’ I mirror his position, pressing my cheek into my fist.

‘Exactly. What nightmares are made of.’ He sips his martini and I look at him with a tilt of my head.

‘I can’t imagine you being someone who reacts to stuff like that.’

His shoulders lift. ‘Sometimes. Filling up a water bottle, bringing food to a party, any situation where someone’s relying on me, I guess. I don’t like feeling like I haven’t done enough.’

I turn this over in my mind for a few moments. ‘It’s not quite the same for me. I just get embarrassed by it. It feels like people are watching me and willing me to mess up. And I’ll probably deserve it, because I’ve already used the water fountain and had a perfectly good drink today and it’s greedy to want more.’

‘A therapist would love this conversation,’ Finn says. He eyes me carefully. ‘My mum sent me to one when I lived with her, but I haven’t found one that’s been a good fit since then. It’s been a while.’

‘What’s the verdict? What do they say about you?’ If this is too personal a question, he doesn’t flinch.

He tips more of his drink into his mouth before replying. ‘Chronic abandonment issues from various people and parts of my life that have led to a desire to control my situation by running away before I can get properly close to anyone and risk them abandoning me first.’

He takes a breath at the end of his impossibly long sentence and, entirely unhelpfully, I offer, ‘It’s character-building.’

A surprised laugh spills out of him, and its effervescence pops up and down my bare skin. ‘It is. It’s also led me to develop some more favourable traits, so it’s not all bad. I’m all right.’

‘If you’re hoping for me to open up too, you’ll have to wait a lot longer.’

I expect him to laugh again but he looks at me shrewdly and says, ‘I’ll be here when you want to.’

Despite everything, I want to believe him.

Aware he finished his drink a little while ago, I knock back the last of my Aperol before grabbing his empty glass to bring back to the bar. ‘Round two?’

We take it in turns to get a round, no longer sticking to our martinis and Aperol Spritzes, and, as usual, the alcohol’s dissolved my filter. Finn’s loosened up too, so we go through question after question like we’re in the quick-fire round of a quiz show.

‘Fuck, marry, kill: Mario, Bowser, Toad,’ I ask as he arrives at the table with two pints of cider, one of which I immediately lay claim to. ‘There is a correct answer, by the way.’

Without a moment’s hesitation, he replies, ‘Fuck Bowser, marry Mario, kill Toad.’

When he drops into his chair, our knees touch under the table. I don’t pull away, and neither does he. ‘You’re killing Toad?’

He looks at me like I’m being dense and leans closer to say, ‘Sorry, you think he’d be good in bed?’

Even in the dim light, I still catch the way his eyes flash. I ponder his response while I dig around the slush in a long-since-finished jug of Pimm’s, spearing a piece of cucumber with a straw. ‘Fine. What’s your favourite chore?’

Still close, his voice is low when he says, ‘Vacuuming. Is there any other option?’ I’m not sure why him talking about hoovering has slowed my heartbeat to a sluggish thump, but I assume it’s something to do with the alcohol and the air that’s so muggy I can almost hold it in my hand.

Finn twists his body away and attempts to take a photo of the skyline, so I take the moment of distraction to look at him. He’s so . . . kinetic. Always moving. That lone curl dropping distractedly across his forehead, a hand pushing his glasses up his nose or tapping the table, the way the corners of his mouth constantly twitch like there’s always a smile on the verge of escape. His unsteady hands mess up the shot, so he grunts in frustration and gives up, eyes snagging mine for a beat.

When he moves back into position, his legs end up bracketing mine. Which is helpful, actually, because for an entirely unrelated reason, I’m feeling the urge to squeeze my thighs together anyway.

He licks his lips before asking, ‘ Least favourite chore?’

I clear my throat and drag my eyes away from his face. ‘Putting the duvet back in the cover after I’ve washed it.’

He nods sagely, like he’s logging the information for future use, and for a while longer we continue this silent competition where he pretends he’s not sending sparks up the length of my body any time his thighs press against mine, and I pretend I’m unaware he’s doing so.

In a bid to bring us back to normality, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. ‘The more I get to know you, the more you seem like the kind of man who should be blonde.’

He studies me, eyebrows hitching higher. ‘Thank you?’

‘I don’t know if it’s a compliment.’

‘Right.’ He draws his cider to his mouth and the glass hovers there as he says, ‘We wouldn’t want anyone overhearing you saying something nice.’

‘It’d destroy my reputation.’ I’m finding his gaze exceptionally unnerving, so I decide to scrutinise the design on my glass instead. It’s nothing special, but my inebriated brain thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. ‘Do you think I could buy this? It’d be the perfect glass for when I go through my biannual phase of trying to drink more water.’

‘Take it,’ he says with a grin and a gentle slur, hand stilling on his own glass. ‘I dare you.’

I look at him, affronted. ‘I’m not a thief, Finlay.’

‘KitKat Chunkies?’

‘They don’t count. I’m not going to steal this.’

He hunches forward, and I notice a dark freckle on his cheekbone that I hadn’t seen before. ‘Then you’ll be forever wondering what your life would’ve been like with a floral Rekorderlig pint glass in your possession.’

‘I think that’s a risk I’m willing to take.’ Through the stuffy air come the chimes of Big Ben as it strikes the hour; eleven loud clangs that jerk me out of my own head. I can’t help but swivel in my seat to look at the skyline in all its illuminated brilliance. ‘Fuck, this view .’

When I turn back around, I assume I’ll catch Finn analysing the skyline too. A jolt runs through me when I realise he’s looking directly at me, the slightest groove between his eyebrows like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Holding my gaze, he says simply, ‘It’s a great view.’

Goosebumps prick along my arms despite the balmy air. A foggy part of my brain knows it could make a decision that could make a mess of everything, but before I get the chance to either listen to it or tell it to shut up, my bladder informs me with utmost urgency that it requires imminent emptying.

‘I need to pee,’ I announce, snapping the tension like a rubber band and pushing back my chair to walk gingerly to the bathroom. It’s marked by two signs reading buoys and gulls, which take me far longer to decipher than I’d care to admit. By some miracle there’s an empty stall and I lumber in, a fumbling hand sliding the lock as I try to reacquaint myself with gravity.

It’s not until I sit on the toilet that I have the epiphany. I am extraordinarily drunk. I put my head in my hands as I sit there and feel the world move around me, half convinced the boat has detached from its mooring and we’re currently hurtling along the Thames.

It’s the best pee of my life. Or like, at least top ten. I’m not super confident my arms are attached to my torso anymore, so I let them flop down on either side of my knees, resting my chin on my legs.

I take a few deep breaths and contemplate my evening. It feels like three years ago that I was sat in a pub quiz with that guy. Fuck, what was his name? I wonder if he won by himself in the end. And then Finn showed up and didn’t bat an eyelid when I asked ridiculous questions like which of the Super Mario characters he’d sleep with. I mean, he doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid at anything .

My mind flashes back to the way he looked at me just before my bladder almost exploded. Surely I have no business dissecting a single look when I know we both agreed to our very specific rules of friendship. He flirts with everyone he meets. And it’s not like I’m not used to men looking at me. So why did the way he looked at me feel like he was crawling into my brain and making his own pathways between the neurones?

‘Ava?’ a voice I don’t recognise calls from somewhere on the other side of the door. What a coincidence there are two Avas here at the same time. Maybe I’m peeing next to her. The disembodied voice speaks again. ‘Is there an Ava in here?’

There’s a knock on my door and it occurs to me that she may be talking to me. Through a tiny hole in the wooden door, I see someone walk past, so I flush the toilet and collect myself before sliding the lock. There’s a woman standing at the sink, and I pull myself together enough to reply to her. ‘Hey, that’s me. What’s up?’

‘There’s a guy outside asking for you. If you don’t want to be found, I’ll tell him you’re not here.’

Bless women and their camaraderie. ‘What does he look like?’ I assume I know who she’s referring to, but considering an old hook-up recently stumbled upon my place of work and dedicated poetry to me, it’s worth double-checking.

‘Glasses, blue shirt, curly brown hair. Fit, to be honest.’

‘Simultaneously looks like he could spout Star Trek trivia but also would’ve been the lifeguard you fancied at the hotel pool when you went to Spain with your family in Year Nine?’

The woman’s mouth opens and closes in bewilderment before she answers. ‘I mean, yeah. Just like that.’

Water splashes all over my top when I wash my hands. ‘Yeah, I know him, thank you. He’s just impatient. I’ll get to him in a sec.’

I wipe my hands on my skirt and pull my phone from my bra, looking past the holographic boob sweat on the screen to see a string of texts from Finn asking if I’m okay. I look up at the woman one more time. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

She heads into a stall and I glance at my reflection in the mirror, fixing my skirt, which has drifted halfway in the wrong direction around my waist.

When I yank open the main door, I’m surprised to find Finn sprawled across the sofa nearby, chatting to the two women at the table next to him. Something flickers over his face the moment he spots me. Relief? Then his mouth curves into a smile.

‘Is this Ava?’ one of the women asks, looking between us.

‘Have you been talking about me?’ I accuse, mustering every ounce of energy I have to separate my slurring words.

‘I would never do that,’ he replies smoothly, winking at the women, who laugh and turn away. I don’t have the brain capacity to analyse that. He moves up, giving me space to sit next to him on the cracked leather sofa.

‘I don’t want to think about what has taken place on this couch,’ I say, lip curling in disgust.

‘Thanks for that image.’ And then, ‘Are you good?’

‘I’m dandy,’ I reply.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He looks me up and down, seemingly satisfied with my state. ‘I was concerned after you drunkenly stumbled away and disappeared for almost half an hour.’ He’s trying to be flippant, but it’s ruined somewhat by the slur to his words. At least we’re matching.

‘Almos— what?’ I look at my phone, taking a moment to focus my eyes, and check the times of all of Finn’s texts, which seem to be clustered to the final ten minutes of my bathroom visit and prove his point. ‘What if I was taking a particularly hearty shit and didn’t want to be disturbed?’

‘Wait, women shit?’

‘Absolutely not, don’t be vulgar.’

‘Ava.’ I look at him and his expression is earnest. ‘Sorry if that felt overbearing. I was just worried.’

I lean my head against the back of the sofa and avert my eyes, unwilling to look at him while I say what I’m about to say. ‘It’s fine. It wasn’t overbearing. It’s kind of nice knowing you care.’

‘I do care.’ He leans back too, arms folded behind his head as he stretches his legs out beneath the low table. ‘I thought you might’ve drowned in the toilet, and I still have a bucket list to complete, so that would’ve been a shame.’ He clears his throat. ‘The other option was that you’d run away.’

‘If I’d wanted to run away, I probably would’ve taken my bag with me.’ Oh shit. Where is my bag? Before I get the chance to fully panic about its whereabouts, he wordlessly hands it to me. ‘Thanks,’ I say sheepishly.

I bite down a yawn and think I’ve done a great job of hiding it until Finn sends me a sideways glance and says, ‘Are you ready to go? I am fucked. ’