He flinches away, his foot bouncing. “Well, I’m fine with youbeing friends with her. But just as long as she doesn’t take up my place as your best friend. I’m your number one friend.”
My mind flashes back to childhood, my mother saying the same thing: “Felicity might be your bestschoolfriend, but I’m your best overall friend. Felicity is a fair weather friend anyway. She’s not loyal, like me.”
Maybe this is just an emotional Cancer thing, seeing as my mother and Timmy share the same star sign.
But it sounds like he’s truly worried. Like, because I got along with someone I just met, I’m suddenly going to deprioritize him and throw him away like a piece of trash.
The irony is that, while that’s definitely not going to happen, he made me feel like that earlier in the night. Like he was going to discard me and our plans thathesuggested because he wanted to help these people go in search of party drugs.
I don’t like that he tried to ditch me, and part of me wonders if the reason he didn’t want to introduce us is because he could tell we would get along well, and he was threatened by the idea of me making a solid female friend connection.
Either way, I have no intention of ditching Timmy, I got to meet new people including someone who really could be a great friend.
So all in all, I consider this day a win.
42
NOT TIMMY
He’s getting drunker in the Irish bar, and I’m not even sure how—he doesn’t have any money. I only bought him one drink. He must have sweet-talked someone in line to buy him a shot, or maybe he’s found a way to scavenge drinks from patrons distracted by the live music or overhead TVs. I’ve seen him drunk before, of course, but this is the first time we’ve been in a bar and he’s behaving this way. In any case, he’s a mess.
The pub isn’t one of those trendy, modern bars. It’s old-school Irish, tucked away on a quiet street, filled with heavy wooden tables, low ceilings, and dim light that casts a perpetual amber glow. The air smells of stale beer, damp wood, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke crossed with BO and aftershave. Football highlights flicker on the TVs mounted above the bar, while a group of regulars sing along to live music with raspy voices. The bar is essentially packed, and it’s not the place for Timmy’s antics.
Yet, here he is, in the middle of it all, doing his version of a shuffle dance, arms flailing, legs writhing like they’re trying to escape from underneath him. But we’re not at some EDM rave or a club where they’re playing house music. The speakers are blasting the band’s old Irish rock songs, and Timmy’s out there trying to shuffle like he’s inanother world entirely. He weaves and sways, narrowly avoiding toppling over, and every few seconds he knocks into someone, their drinks sloshing up the sides and over the edges of their glasses as they glare at him. But Timmy is blissfully unaware, enjoying himself in the moment, the king of his own chaos.
The bartenders are too busy to notice, three deep with people calling for drinks the whole way around the bar. The bouncer, a hulking guy with tattoos running down his neck, doesn’t seem inclined to intervene, even as Timmy’s dance threatens to spill over into someone’s pint. Instead, he just laughs. Timmy has bragged about knowing him, although I can’t tell if the bouncer actually knows him or just finds his stupidity entertaining.
A woman sitting at the bar with her husband beckons me over, a vision of expensive surgeries and high-maintenance glamor. Her soft pink lipstick and perfectly sculpted cheekbones belong in a different setting—maybe a yacht club or a high-end casino—but here she is, slumming it in a dive bar with the rest of us. She winks at me.
“How do you know Timmy?”
“He’s my fiancé.”
Her eyes widen in disbelief, her heavily mascaraed eyelashes fluttering as she processes my words. “Yourfiancé?” Her tone is incredulous. She glances at him, then back at me, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. “What’s your name?”
“Margaux.”
“Margaux,” she repeats it like she’s trying to convince herself. “He can’t be your fiancé. Not Timmy. He can’t.” She looks at me and then at him. “No, for real. You can’t be serious. He’s not, right?”
I nod, unsure how else to respond. “He is.”
“Margaux, sweetie,” she shakes her head and trails off as he almost topples into a group of regulars who are clearly not amused. “Him? Really? Really, Margaux?”
I want to melt into the floor. But instead, I just offer a tight smile and a nod, pretending none of this is happening. Inside I’m screaming, how did I get there? How is this my life?
He’s making a fool of himself and being a problem, amenace, but I don’t know how to stop him. I’m sure if anybody else acted half the fool Timmy is right now, they’d have been kicked out half an hour ago. He’s seriously destroying the fun of all the patrons around him who are simply trying to move around on the dance floor and enjoy their drinks. But here Timmy is, creating problems, and the staff seem to be just fine about it.
Suddenly, Timmy makes a wild dash for the door, nearly colliding with a barback carrying a tray of empty glasses. Without a word, he’s gone.
I blink at the spot he disappeared from. I look for him, but can’t see him on the street. A few minutes later, I turn to the nearest group. “Has anyone seen my fiancé?” I ask the crowd around me.
Three guys immediately raise their hands. “I’ll be your fiancé!” one yells, as the others laugh and join in. “Forget that guy, I volunteer to replace him.”
I can’t help but laugh, even as part of me wants to cry. Timmy’s chaos is exhausting, but here I am with strangers, still holding onto the hope he’ll somehow get his act together and we’ll go home quietly.
Eventually, he comes back, just as drunk if not worse. His shirt is untucked, and there’s a fresh stain on his pants that I don’t want to think too hard about. He swaggers up to me, his eyes glassy.
“Let’s go to the strip club!” Timmy announces loudly, like it’s the best idea in the world.