All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking to me. “Uh…”

  “Whiskey, right?” Henry grins. A challenge. Pop would hate the thought of me drinking whiskey in a bar. He told me once that alcohol was for losers and that I would never be a loser. He was drunk at the time.

  “On the rocks,” I tell Sanjay, feeling at least three years older every time I say that.

  Sanjay slides out of his chair and heads toward the bar.

  The guy on the stage begins to sing and his voice cracks on every lyric. I cringe. Several people get up and leave. He didn’t get a dead dad introduction, so the crowd isn’t as nice to him when he finishes. Henry, Zara, and I clap politely. Mons yells, “Thank God!” and a few people around us laugh. He looks directly at me. Like he’s making sure I’m paying attention to him. I shift in my seat. Something is off about Mons; where there’s a light behind most people’s eyes, there’s a tunnel behind his.

  Sanjay returns with drinks for the table. I take my glass and distract myself with the burn.

  “How do you like London so far?” Zara asks. Four pairs of eyes await my answer.

  “Oh, it’s great.” I squirm and glance at the exit. She smiles like she thinks I’ll say more. I’m not doing her any favors here, but small talk is utterly painful.

  “Are you at university here?” I give Zara my most interested expression. This is a well-known awkward-turtle trick: get other people talking about themselves. It keeps the focus off you. It works a little too well on drunk people. I find out each of their majors. Henry: physics. Sanjay: history. Mons dropped out last year to work in his dad’s mechanic shop. Zara tells me she’s studying theatre at Saint Catherine’s.

  “Yeah,” Mons cuts in, like he thinks he’s the narrator of this conversation. “Our girl is London’s next movie star.” He tosses an arm around her shoulders. I watch her reaction—calm, subtle, calculating. She shifts her body and shrugs it off. Probably not the first time she’s dealt with him. “Here lately, she’s also a model.”

  This doesn’t surprise me a bit and I say so.

  Zara rolls her eyes. “That’s not even a little bit accurate. I needed portfolio portraits, and Henry needed a volunteer to help him perfect his portrait process.”

  “Henry’s great at taking pictures of beautiful women,” Mons interrupts again. “Has he asked you to pose for him yet?”

  I’m not entirely sure if he’s trying to insult me directly or to provoke a fight with Henry, but his tone is instigative. “He won’t stop asking,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. “I keep telling him no, though.”

  Everyone laughs except Henry, but he doesn’t correct me. From the corner of my eye, I catch him staring at me. I turn to face him and whoa. He looks away, but maybe not as fast as he should have. There’s a hint of a stomach flutter. Which, whatever. Doesn’t mean anything. I’m probably just hungry; I haven’t eaten since lunch. I stir ice cubes with my straw. They rattle and tinker against the sides of my glass. At some point, a third drink materialized beneath my hand and now it’s almost gone.

  His foot bumps mine under the table and my pulse quickens.

  It’s not like I’m attracted to him. Please. Not even. He’s cute, I mean clearly. But I have a boyfriend. And maybe he has a thing with Zara or something. Mons seems to think so.

  I glance up at him again, through my lashes. I don’t intend to be flirty, but…

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I narrow my eyes.

  He grins as he writes something invisible on the table with the tip of his finger. Then he turns the full force of his gaze on me. “No reason.”

  It definitely doesn’t cause any more flutters. I sit up a little straighter in my chair and drink the remaining liquid in my glass with a slurp. See? I’m unaffected. And a lady, at that.

  Henry leans in and props his chin in his hand.

  “So tell me.” He blinks. “How long have you been a raging alcoholic?”

  I bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling. “Only since I met you.”

  Zara and Sanjay chuckle, and I take a mental victory lap for this round. Henry smiles and holds my gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time. Probably only four or five seconds pass, but it feels like the sun has risen and set again by the time he looks away. His aura is a kaleidoscope of purple now.

  “Your aura is purple.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  His face scrunches and he laughs. “What?”

  “Your aura. Sometimes it’s this like, dark indigo up here,” I wiggle my fingers around his face, “mostly when you’re being an asshole, but right now, it’s plum. With a lavender outside edge.”

  “You read auras?” Zara asks. “Do mine!”

  Maybe they’ll all have a good time making fun of me about this later, but I don’t care right now. I concentrate on the feminine shape of her face, the high pitch of her jaw. Then I let my gaze defocus. Everything’s fuzzy, but after a minute, a rich sunflower shade blossoms behind her head. “Yellow,” I say.

  She stares at me. “My aunt says the same thing. Always yellow.”

  Maybe she won’t think I’m a freak. Or maybe her aunt is a known freak and this inks the certainty.

  “What about mine?” Sanjay sits up a little straighter.

  “Orange.” I noticed his when I first sat down. I don’t look at Mons, because his is tar-like. If he asks, I’ll lie.

  When I’m 64 blares from my lap. I silence the FaceTime call.

  Suddenly the room spins. Until this exact moment, I hadn’t noticed the effects of three drinks. It’s like seeing Dylan’s name on the caller ID activates my drunkenness.

  “Uh-oh,” Mons bellows. “What’s wrong?”

  I must have made a face because all four of them stare at me like they’re waiting for the bad news.

  “Nothing.” I shrug, and it sets me off-balance. “Just a call I don’t want to take right now.”

  I switch over to the text screen to send him a message instead.

  “Pardon me,” says a voice over my shoulder. I put my phone on the table and turn around. An older man with a backwards cap and a stubbly gray face smiles down at me. “Are you Nate Bryant’s daughter?” He’s fuzzy around the edges, but his aura is green. Trustworthy.

  “Yes!” I reach out and take his hand awkwardly, hoping he can’t tell I’m well on my way to wasted.

  “I’m Walter Kingsley,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I grew up with your father in Liverpool. We even played music together for a bit.”

  My throat goes completely dry. I have so many questions for him, but I freeze. It’s like I can’t remember how to talk. Nigel stops by our table and interrupts.

  “I’m so sorry we’ve not had a moment to chat,” he says to me. “Stop back by later this week. After six. We’ll all have some tea and discuss your father. Walter, you’ll come?”

  Walter nods. “I’d love to!”

  I nod and thank them, thrilled by the prospect of talking about Pop, and a little grateful I don’t have to do it in my current state.

  “Walter,” Nigel says. “I was able to do that thing you asked me to.” He puts his arm around Walter’s back and leads him toward the back of the bar.

  As they disappear through a door, Walter says, “But what thing?”

  I’m discombobulated by this incident, and my hands shake as I reach for my phone, but it isn’t there. Across the table, Mons shakes with silent laughter.

  “What is it?” Henry and Sanjay both crane their necks to see, but he’s clutching something to his chest. I squint. My phone. He has my phone? What’s he laughi—

  Oh! Oh God.

  “No,” is the only word I can form. I hold my hand out, hoping he understands I need the phone back, right now.

  “Hel-lo?” Henry sings. “What is it?”

  Sanjay’s gaze pings back and forth between Mons and me.

  For one heart-stopping moment, Mons stares at the screen, and I think he might turn it around and show ev
eryone Dylan’s last text. The photo. But Zara reaches over and yanks it out of his hand, then gives it to me. I shove it back in my dress pocket as fast as I can.

  “I’ve got you.” Zara winks. “Not a word, Mons.”

  The guys groan, and a blackmail smile unfurls on Mons’s face.

  I’ve decided I don’t like him. If I felt more capable of stringing sentences together right now, maybe I’d even tell him so.

  Ignoring Dylan hasn’t discouraged him from sending pictures like that. He’s never been good at taking hints. Maybe if I’d just been firm with him, he would’ve stopped. I make up my mind to delete the whole thread as soon as I’m alone.

  Henry finishes off his beer and slides backwards in his chair. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Everyone stands before my brain catches up. I jump up, and the room turns a cartwheel. I reach out and grasp the table edge for balance. This part. Wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Carefully, I sling the guitar strap around my shoulders and follow them—step slide—to the door. Chairs and tables become moving obstacles. I bump into shoulders and heads with the guitar as I go and wheee! Oopsie.

  “Sorry,” I sputter. “So sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me.”

  The air is twenty degrees cooler outside, and when the breeze hits my face, it fine-tunes the severity of my situation. Flashes of light orbit my head and I feel like I’m watching one of those awful first-person low-budget films.

  “What’s the plan, then?” Mons asks, walking backwards down the sidewalk. Zara and Sanjay trail Henry, and I hang way back.

  “Dunno.” Henry shrugs. “I wanted a break from amateur night.”

  I open my mouth to point out he wasn’t exactly volunteering to get up and sing, but I can’t push words past my lips. The lines in the sidewalk wiggle and zigzag like a conveyor belt. Ah, conveyor belts. Now I’m thinking about my lost luggage. And my lost medicine and clothes and all the other important stuff in there. Remake myself, hell. I need my stuff! Rupert is a liar, I tell you that.

  “What about that new place on Scoresby?” Zara suggests.

  “Their beer selection is shite!” Mons roars.

  Beer selection? They’re thinking of drinking more? A wave of dizzying heat washes over me. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. The conversation goes on, but their voices taper into oblivion. I look up to make sure they’re still there, and the world freefalls. I stagger to a halt next to a trashcan on the street and close my eyes. Warm saliva fills my cheeks. All the liquid in my belly reaches volcanic temperatures, desperate for the chill of the night air.

  I barely hear Zara ask, “Hey, is she sick?” from her separate planet in the solar system.

  “You all right?” Henry’s voice is closer now, but I can’t answer. I try to swallow all the lava seeping toward the back of my teeth.

  “She looks like she might chunder,” Sanjay says.

  If that word means what I think it means…

  Then, as if Sanjay, with his orange aura, has the power to manifest realities, I lean forward and grab the sticky edges of the trashcan.

  And chunder my face off.

  Chapter 18

  : If You’ve Got Trouble :

  TRASH SMELLY HOT throat palms sweating gurgling empty stomach head pounding humiliation eyes watering muscles clenching life over.

  Hushed voices confer behind me. An obnoxious cackle—I think from Mons—thunders through. I’d crawl right into the garbage if I had the wherewithal to make my muscles cooperate.

  “I’ll stay,” Henry says. “Go ahead without me.”

  Oh God, no. Breathing through my mouth doesn’t prevent me from smelling the contents below me. I pretend there aren’t people walking by snickering and gaping. If only Pop could see me now, amirite?

  “Here,” Henry says, and hands me a wet napkin. I don’t know from whence he acquired this miraculous object of relief, and I don’t care. It could be soaked in chloroform at this point and I’d happily bury my face in it.

  The cool cloth wipes away the sweat and ickiness on my face and lips, smearing red lipstick everywhere. I realize it a moment too late and whimper. Henry hands me a peppermint. I dizzily unwrap it and pop it in my mouth.

  “Feel better?”

  I grunt. He stands, hands in his pockets, casual as ever. Not a care in the world about the passersby. His glassy eyes twinkle behind square frames and he smiles. Just like the smile he gave me in the pub.

  Oh. I get it now. He’s amused. This is fun for him.

  My anger flares hot and sudden on the back of my neck. Come Monday, he’ll be reminding me how I embarrassed myself with a guitar and then yakked in a trashcan. And I’ll have no defense, because look at me. I’m a complete mess.

  The universe decides things aren’t bad enough, so it starts to rain. Cold, stinging drops sizzle against my flushed skin.

  “Go find your friends,” I say. “I don’t need an escort.”

  But he just stands there. Doesn’t say a word. I pack up my shame and start walking, but before I make it very far, the sky opens up. Again. Of course.

  Something tugs at my back, and I have to step backwards to keep from falling over. Henry pulls me under an awning as I whirl around, and he lifts the guitar by the strap over my shoulder.

  “At least let me carry the guitar,” he says. “I’ll wrap it in my coat so it doesn’t get ruined.”

  “Since when do you care?” I stumble.

  He narrows his eyes. “I don’t. But Patrick might.”

  He has a point. I hand it over and then zigzag into the downpour. It’s so infuriating the way I know where I want my feet to go but they won’t cooperate.

  By the time I make it to the back door of the Fox Den, I’m drenched to the bone. Freezing water rolls down my forehead, into my ears, down the front of my dress, which is suctioned to me like a second skin.

  I press my key into the lock and turn, but the handle doesn’t budge. I fiddle with it, becoming more water-logged by the second.

  “Getting drenched is becoming a habit for you.” Henry steps past me, balancing the wrapped guitar on his back. He holds an umbrella, dry as can be beneath it.

  “Nice umbrella,” I mutter.

  “I borrowed it. You could’ve walked with me.” The grin in his voice pisses me off more. “Allow me.” He takes the key from my hand and my reflexes are too delayed to stop him. I cross my arms over my chest. He deftly fits the key in the lock, lifts and jiggles the handle and opens the door, then raises his finger to his lips. “Shh.”

  When we step into the dim hallway, the door closes behind us and mutes the roar of the rainfall. I’m acutely aware of the chill on my skin, the quiet drip of water off the hem of my dress, the amber glow of the hallway and all the colors of the famous albums lining the walls. Henry closes the umbrella and sets it down. Before we get to the stairwell, he drapes his coat over my shoulders and clamps a hand around mine. I startle at the sensation of sudden warmth.

  He narrows his eyes. “Go slowly. And be quiet.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me until now that I should worry about George catching me sneaking in drunk out of my mind. If he told Mama, I’d probably be on a plane home tomorrow.

  We tiptoe up the steps, and I’m so dizzy I’m glad he’s holding on to me. The drip of water from my dress hits the wood. Thud. Thud. Thud. His eyes stay on me as we go. It’s dark in the stairwell, but his aura is different now. The lightest I’ve ever seen it. Henry likes me better drunk. Clearly. I giggle aloud.

  He shoots me a warning glare and I button my lip.

  When we finally make it to the third level, he drops my hand. I stare at him for a moment, wanting to say something, but he turns and goes to his room before I can.

  I head to the bathroom for a towel. In the mirror, horror awaits. The black eye makeup has drizzled down the sides of my face like charcoal lines in the snow. Red lipstick is smeared across my cheek. The colors pool on the collar of my dress. I look like Harley Quinn on a drun
ken bender inside a gas station car wash.

  When I remove the coat and hang it on the towel rack, it’s even worse. No wonder he covered me up. White dress plus lots of water is a really bad combination. I don’t stop to analyze whether it was because he was helping me preserve modesty or because he was repulsed by me.

  I strip down and towel off my hair and ruined face. Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I can remove all the humiliation of tonight along with the water and clown makeup. I brush my teeth to get rid of the puke-and-peppermint taste, then stumble into Patrick’s room.

  There’s an ever-present spinny feeling, and it makes simple things difficult. Like putting on a clean t-shirt and pajama pants from my thrift store pile, and brushing the tangles out of my wet hair. I fall on the bed. Closing my eyes makes the spinning worse. I clench my fists, despising being so out of control.

  “You’re a liar, Pop. There’s nothing magical here.”

  I lie awake in the dark for a long time until the sickening turmoil begins to subside.

  I’m nearly asleep when cabinets squeak in the bathroom. Doors open and close. I pretend it’s a stranger in there, because it’s easier than thinking about who it actually is and endlessly analyzing his behavior. He’s not some puzzle to be solved. Even though maybe, if he was someone else and I was someone else and we hadn’t gotten off to such a weird start, I’d like to be his friend.

  The light strip under the bathroom door disappears and I listen to his quiet footsteps. Into his bedroom. Out into the hall. For one nauseating moment, I think he’s coming to my door. But then there’s a loud creaking. Footsteps fade and then get louder again—a thudding on the ceiling above me. The attic?

  Above, Henry’s voice is faint, but he’s talking to someone. I can’t make out the words—just the baritone warmth of his voice. I creep to the door and crack it, ever-so-slightly and peek out.

  A pool of light spills onto the hardwood across the hall. Above it, the trap door is open. Henry’s voice sifts down. I tiptoe toward the ladder and listen.

  “…had to be hard for her, knowing her dad played there.”