. . . a house party #2
She keeps smiling, eyes kind as she tries to coax whatever was due next out of my mouth. I gulp and drop my head. Eventually it’s she who has to take one for the team.
‘Well . . . I’ll see you in a bit,’ she says, sauntering off and putting an end to our painful conversation.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I snap at Noah. ‘Not until I’ve had a drink.’
We carry on towards the kitchen, Noah quickly emptying an entire wine bottle between the two large plastic cups.
By the time he goes to cheers me it’s too late – I’m already halfway done and insisting we crack open bottle two.
The more the wine hits my system, the more I feel the weight of that last interaction fly off me.
The music feels louder, hits harder. I take another sip, letting the sharp, fruity taste settle on my tongue before gulping it down.
‘So, you really can’t flirt, huh?’ Noah asks as we settle into the sofa, squeezed arm to arm.
We jumped the second we found a spot. One would argue it wasn’t big enough for two people, but I was desperate to take the weight off my heels and I wasn’t doing so without my Emotional Support Noah.
‘With guys? Sort of. With girls? Absolutely not. They scare me. They’re so pretty,’ I say.
He chuckles. ‘I hear you.’
We clink our plastic glasses. They make no sound.
‘Surely it’s easier, though, because you can relate,’ he says.
‘That’s what makes it so scary. I know what they could be thinking,’ I say gravely.
He laughs even louder at my admission. ‘I want to ask, but maybe it’s best I don’t know.’
I shake my head in warning. ‘Trust me, it is.’
He nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink and prompting me to do the same.
‘So, why don’t you just pretend she’s a guy?’ he asks.
I can’t help but laugh at his naivety.
‘It’s absolutely not the same.’ He stares back blankly, so I sigh and settle in further on the sofa.
‘If a guy has a big enough ego – which, if we’re being honest, most do – they really don’t require that much effort in terms of flirting.
You can be nice, smile a bit and have a regular conversation with them, and they’ll assume you’re head over heels in love.
Girls aren’t like that. They take more time, and attention and wit, and I tend to fail under pressure with it. ’
‘Hey . . .’ he starts to argue.
‘How long into our first conversation did it take before you assumed that I wanted to shag you?’ I ask bluntly.
‘I never . . .’ he splutters.
‘Be honest,’ I say, straight-faced.
He looks down guiltily, heat rushing to his cheeks.
‘Okay, fair point,’ he concedes as I giggle in triumph. ‘But, from my experience, you are witty and can put in time and attention. This shouldn’t be that hard for you.’
He turns to face me head on, knocking his elbow against mine as he does.
‘Let’s practise. Pretend I’m Amelie,’ he says.
I protest. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Come on, it will be fun!’ he says in the world’s worst accent (one I’m pretty sure is French, yet again).
‘I can’t! Especially not while we’re here! And keep your voice down.’
He rolls his eyes and looks around. Everyone’s so engrossed in their own conversations that there’s no way they’re listening to ours. But even so, I can’t run the risk of Amelie overhearing and concluding that I’m some socially inept weirdo who has to pre-rehearse conversations with her.
His eyes drift past my shoulder, focusing on something in the distance behind me.
I twist to follow them and see her, by a wall, clutching a plastic cup of her own and laughing animatedly with some friends.
Even now in this dimly lit house party, the light still manages to catch her, spotlighting her in the middle of the crowd.
‘I could do it for you – wingman it,’ Noah says.
‘What, so then she knows I’m not capable of talking to her myself? I’m too old for that,’ I sigh.
She glances over to the side, double-taking when she catches me staring. Our eyes meet again, locked together from across the room as she starts to make her way over to me.
‘Noah, help.’
‘Just breathe,’ he says, before shutting up as she reaches us to stand at our feet.
‘Having fun?’ she asks, smile as bright as ever.
‘Yeah, a great time!’ Noah replies, swooping in to save my wordless mouth.
She breaks our eye contact to look over to him, seeing him for the first time. Though she doesn’t look displeased, I can’t help but notice that her smile burns slightly less bright.
‘We’re just friends, by the way. Just in case you were curious. Where’s your toilet?’ he asks brashly. She gives some directions, amused. ‘Cool, I’m gonna head there. Want my seat?’
She nods as the pair start to awkwardly trade places.
Our thighs brush against each other, the cloud of her perfume shrouding the two of us and making my stomach flip on itself.
While she is certainly smaller than Noah, it doesn’t seem to make a difference to the space as she presses as tightly to me as possible.
Part of me wonders if it is on purpose, but then the thought of that sparks my heart rate higher than I knew it could go.
I have to shut it down immediately, downing my glass and focusing on what I can see, hear and feel in the moment at hand.
‘I’m so glad you came!’ she says. ‘You had to experience a Rotterdam house party while you were here.’
‘Are they a cultural staple?’ I ask.
‘As much as they are anywhere else.’ She shrugs. ‘I guess, what I really mean, is that you had to experience one with me.’
Her stare grows deeper, arm effortlessly swooping over so she can place her hand on my knee. She squeezes it slightly, lightly smoothing over the area. It sends a tingle up my spine that I try my best to hide, but judging by the smirk on her face I can tell that she sees it.
‘I’m glad I came.’ I swallow down the saliva pooling in my mouth.
She can see that I’m nervous – anyone could, I am not good at hiding it – but somehow it is only making her stronger. Her hand on my knee grows more confident as it traces patterns in its spot.
‘What are you drinking?’ she asks.
‘It was once wine,’ I say, showing her the now empty glass.
She shakes her head. ‘That won’t do. Do a shot with me.’
‘I shouldn’t.’
I learnt the hard way that shots and I are not, and will never be, friends.
And that’s on a good night, let alone a night where I’ve already ‘shared’ three bottles of wine.
And I use the term ‘shared’ loosely . . .
Noah barely stood a chance with the way I was nervous-drinking.
But then she pouts and tosses her hair, and I worry that I may have just let all our momentum slip away.
So, I garner some bravado and throw on my best mischievous smile.
‘I will, for you,’ I say.
She practically squeals with excitement as she shoots out of her seat, grabs my hand and drags me towards the kitchen.
I watch, mesmerised, as she shouts some things at her friends in Dutch and three of them rummage around the collection of liquor bottles before settling on one scary-looking clear one.
Five shot glasses appear out of nowhere, lined up on the counter as she sloppily fills them up.
She slams the bottle down and hands me a glass, a devilish glint in her eye.
‘Proost!’ she says.
Her friends join in what I assume was meant to be unison, and they all throw back their shots without blinking.
She looks to me, my glass still full, and raises an eyebrow.
I hold it in salute and repeat after her before backing it in one.
It tastes foul. Worse than foul. Gin-like in nature, but stronger and sharper and such a stark contrast to the wine.
I look up urgently, hoping she hasn’t noticed my disgust. She hasn’t, because she’s too busy pouring shot number two.
‘Proost!’ The crowd cheers again.
‘To new friends,’ she says, clinking her shot glass against mine.