by Ney, Sara
I never win anything, but I enter anyway, filling out the form from my phone while on the toilet, Ashley waiting at the bar for me to hit the loo.
I climb back up on my barstool, excited.
“Guess what I just did.”
Ashley stares at me, waiting, large hand wrapped around a pilsner glass of beer.
I wait for him to say What? or at least take a guess, but he doesn’t.
He raises his brows—both of them.
“There was a poster on the back of the bathroom stall for a contest. The prize was a trip to Las Vegas.”
“Let me guess,” he says at last, drolly. “You entered to win.”
“Duh! It was easy—all I had to do was click to enter and fill out some information.”
“You realize you’re never going to win, right?”
Why would he say such a thing? “Think positive! It could happen.”
He’s right though; it most likely won’t—I never win anything, and the probability of a trip to Vegas, which is my DREAM?
Statistically very unlikely.
“When have you ever heard of anyone winning a trip to anywhere?” the party pooper asks me, chugging from his glass and wiping the foam from his upper lip.
“Never, but miracles happen. Stop being such a downer.” I got a beer too, but it’s not my favorite, and now I’m no longer in the mood to drink.
I raise my finger at the bartender, and she comes over. “Can I get an iced tea—and a water, please.”
Scowling at my roommate, I push my beer forward glumly.
Ashley laughs. “Fine. You’ll probably win.”
I glare at him. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. It has no place at this table.”
“We’re not at a table, we’re at a—”
“Stop being so literal. Just stop.”
He’s being so annoyingly realistic right now, even with the hot British accent.
“What did I say wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He studies me for a few seconds, disbelieving. “When girls say nothing is wrong, it means something is wrong.”
That’s a stereotype, but in my case it’s true.
I’m irrationally irritated because he doesn’t think I can win a trip I probably will not win.
“You’re the expert on girls now?”
“No, not at all, but don’t lie and say nothing is wrong.”
I glance over at him, taking a sip from the cold glass in front of me, just a baby sip.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I blurt out the question, honestly curious since I brought up the subject of girls.
“No.”
I’m on a roll now being crabby, so I might as well ask, “Is there a reason why?”
“Not particularly. Just haven’t found a girl I want to turn into a girlfriend—not that Mum hasn’t tried to set me up.”
“How would you date someone from England when you’re halfway around the world?”
“Video chats? Plus…” He fiddles with the napkin under his glass, tearing it apart tiny piece by tiny piece. “I won’t be halfway around the world for long. I move home at the year end.”
“That’s right—I keep forgetting you’re not from here.” I laugh. “I mean, the accent is a good reminder…and so is the fact that you’re so proper.”
A bit stiff and rigid at times, but not unbearable.
“I don’t think anyone has called me proper before. Dodgy, yes—proper, no.”
“Not to your face, but I reckon there are plenty of people who think you sound like Queen Elizabeth when you’re speaking.”
“I do not sound like Queen Elizabeth.”
He sounds so offended.
“Prince Charles then?”
“Stop it.”
I sigh, content, and pick up a mozzarella stick, breaking it in half. “I’m glad we’re doing roommatey things together.”
“Roommatey things.” That gets him grinning. “Like two chums, eh?”
“Exactly like two chums. Two bros.”
“Hey, hey, not so fast.” Ashley makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be comparing us to bros.”
“Why are you being such a party pooper? I was teasing.” I put the cheesy stick in my mouth and bite down. “I didn’t even ask you to fist-bump me or anything.”
“What’s a party pooper?”
Is he being serious right now, or do they not use that expression in Britain?
“A party pooper is you—i.e., someone who doesn’t want to have fun. A Debbie Downer.” I do my best to explain, but even my explanation sounds lame. “Someone who doesn’t think I’ll win a trip to Vegas.”
Plus, he doesn’t seem to give a shit what the definition is; he only knows he doesn’t like being called a name.
His face contorts when I pull the end of the mozzarella stick from my mouth and an ooey-gooey string of cheese follows.
“Did you just use i.e. in a spoken sentence?”
I continue chewing, conscious of the fact that he probably has better table manners than I do. “Can you not change the subject? I’m being serious.”
“Wait—why am I a party pooper because I’m telling you not to get your hopes up about winning a vacation to Las Vegas? A vacation, by the by, that is mid-semester. You”—he points to me—“can’t go anywhere. You”—points again—“are on scholarship. You can’t jet off willy-nilly whenever you please.”
I toss my hair, affronted. “I can if it’s over the weekend and we’re not traveling.”
Ashley snorts. “And who are you going to take? How many people is it for?”
“Um. Two.”
Another snort so indignant I take offense.
“I should take you if I win just to torture you.”
“Deal.” He nods. “I’m so utterly confident you won’t win the trip that if you do, I’ll gladly go and let you drag me around—we’ll see and do whatever you wish.”
Whatever I wish.
Music to my ears.
That would be a dream!
“There’s this landmark in the desert called Seven Magic Mountains—these colorful rocks someone painted. Kind of like Stonehenge. They look so cool, and I want to go and take pictures.”
Ashley gets out his phone, and I can see with a glance over his shoulder that he’s googling Seven Magic Mountains.
“This isn’t a landmark—it’s an art installation, and never compare it to Stonehenge again.”
“See? Party. Pooper.”
“I’m not trying to crush your dream, Georgie. I just want you to manage your expectations.”
How about he lets me worry about my expectations and stops being such a fun ruiner.
“Okay Mr. Cold Bucket of Water.”
He looks confused again, and honestly, this language barrier where he doesn’t understand—or refuses to understand—my dumb jokes is wearing on my nerves.
So frustrating.
All I’m trying to do is have a laugh and a daydream along with my beer and snacks; is that too much to ask?
I switch from the cheese to the nachos, scooping up meat and slimy orange sauce, stuffing it into my mouth.
“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” Ashley says at last, joining me in the appetizers.
We settle into another companionable silence, the music blasting from the speakers the only voice I want to be hearing right now.
Why am I so crabby?
What’s my problem?
And why does he have to touch me every single time he moves? Could he be any bigger?
Ugh.
Our fingers meet when I reach for the nachos again, and I rear back like he’s scalded me, his big hand hogging the platter and causing my eyes to run up the length of his forearm.
His tattoo-covered forearm.
“Your parents sound conservative—how do they feel about your tattoos?”
He chews.
Swallows. “Well.” Wipes his mouth with a paper bar napkin. “At first Mum almost had a heart
attack—knickers were twisted about it for weeks, and I’d only gotten the one on my shoulder.” He takes a swig of beer to wash down the rest of the chip in his mouth. “Then I got another one at the end of my freshman year. It felt like something to do, you know?”
“It just felt like something to do? Who goes and gets tattoos because they’re bored? Lunatics, that’s who.”
That causes him to laugh, head tilting back, exposing his throat and the ink low on his collarbone. I can see glimpses of it peeking out above the neckline of his plain t-shirt.
“I’m not cracked in the knob. I like how they look.”
“Has your mom seen your arms?”
“Yeah, we FaceTime and she’s seen them. Thought she was going to faint when I got the one that says Mum.”
“How cliché.” I chuckle.
“At least I don’t have a motorcycle—that would put her over the edge. They’d commit me.”
“What’s your brother like?” I wonder out loud, free to dig into the chips now that his fist isn’t hogging them.
“Jack is…the opposite. Very proper lad, as you’d say. Buttons to the neck, same bird since we were in school, probably going to take a gap year after finishing college.”
Bird?
“What kind of bird?”
“I don’t know—she’s blonde. Her name is Caroline, quite a bitch actually.”
“His bird is a bitch?” I laugh. “What the hell does that even mean? It squawks too loud? Does it bite?”
Ashley considers me. “Are we talking about the same thing?”
“I don’t know—are we talking about an actual bird?”
He shakes his head. No. “His bird. His girlfriend? Caroline.”
I squint in his direction though he’s right in front of me. “Is bird one of those British terms that doesn’t mean the same thing in America?”
“Quite.”
Ahh, that makes sense andddd I’m an idiot.
How embarrassing.
“That’s a strange word for girl” is the only thing I can say, because I feel foolish.
He shrugs. “I didn’t invent it.”
That he did not.
I go back to the original subject. “How old is your brother?”
“He’s younger—twenty.”
“And he’s home with your folks?”
He shoots me a look. “He lives in London.”
I know nothing about London or what it takes to live there, but I do know it’s freaking expensive. How does a twenty-year-old afford it? Yikes.
“That’s right, I think you mentioned that.” Pause. “Has he come to visit you?”
“Yeah, he’s come to visit. Caroline wanted to see Chicago, so they came in for a few days then rented a car and drove up to see the city.” He plucks a mozzarella stick from the basket. “I think it’s her secret dream to have a place in America, too—she’s hoity-toity and has aspirations never to work a day in her life.”
This bothers him, I can tell.
“That’s too bad.”
Another shrug of those massive shoulders. “It’s Jack’s problem, not mine. I’m not the one dating someone who wants to be showered with gifts and have a membership to Annabelle’s.”
“What’s Annabelle’s?”
He’s still chewing. “The poshest club in the entire city of London. Costs a bloody fortune to be a member.”
Oh.
“She can dream on. It’ll never happen—Jack will never have that kind of blunt.” Chew, chew. “He won’t inherit.”
But I will.
The words aren’t spoken out loud, but they’re there as if he said them.
I wonder what all of it means, my overactive imagination building a story in my mind about Ashley’s background using the information I have: his sophisticated accent. The house he lived in alone, with the granite countertops and spare bedroom—with its own bathroom.
The brand new truck.
The boarding schools.
The talk of inheritances and exclusive clubs where you need memberships.
Out of my wheelhouse.
I knew girls growing up who lived like that, blue-blooded Southern belles whose families had been in the area for generations. Snotty, stuck-up girls who were members of country clubs and looked down their noses at people.
Noses they had surgically altered. Faces they had fixed, personalities they could not.
Not a world I want to be trapped in.
“Is that why you moved here?” I suddenly blurt out.
“Is what why I moved here? Annabelle’s?”
I giggle. “No. Did you move to the States to get away from your responsibilities? The people?”
His nod is slow. “Yes, I think so.” He starts up again, plucking at the mangled napkin he’s already picked apart and destroyed. “Not all of it’s bad—it just gets tiresome. I don’t want to do lunches and garden parties and fucking charity events the rest of my life. That’s not who I am.”
But that’s what I was born into.
“But you’re going to work for your dad?”
He nods again. “I happen to love numbers and finance, so I think it will be a good fit. And if it’s not…” His shoulders rise, blasé. “I used to go to the office with him sometimes if I was home on holiday, and I always loved it. He’d set me up with my own desk and have me calculate figures, and clients would come in to talk stocks.” Ashley stops talking. “What about you? What’s your family like?”
“My parents are your average Americans. They both work full-time, long hours. Yard work on the weekends. I grew up in a little house, no room for a dog, but it’s a cute place.” I think about how all this may sound to him, this description of my parents and upbringing. “No fancy clubs or charity events, if you don’t count the fundraisers at school so the soccer team could get new uniforms.”
“You play football?”
“I did for a bit—that’s how we discovered how fast I was. Then when I started getting scouted for track and field, I had to decide what I wanted to focus on—no one wanted me getting hurt on the soccer field, and track was the safest choice for a scholarship.”
“Was it? Couldn’t you have gotten good enough at football to get a better scholarship for that?”
“Maybe? I didn’t love it though. The rules stressed me out. I couldn’t remember half of what they were, where I was supposed to be on the field, who went where during a goal kick.”
“Makes sense.”
“Anyway, my parents didn’t have any money set aside for me. I did what I had to do, and soccer confused me, so I quit.” I drink from the water glass the bartender set down earlier. “I love playing a sport—I get to travel.”
“And see the inside of hotel rooms?”
“Mostly.” I can’t help laughing.
He’s right; we travel, but it’s not like we get to play tourist. Track and field isn’t exactly a sport that garners any type of fanfare—no one actually gives a shit about it except the athletes and coaches.
It brings in almost no money.
We have almost no spectators.
It’s a sport that comes and goes with little or no notice.
Similar to rugby, I imagine—such an obscure sport to play.
“How long have you played rugby?”
Ashley makes a humming sound deep in his throat. “Since I was in secondary school. Rugby and lacrosse.” He grins, flashing the gap. “How predictably British.”
“It’s fascinating. I love it.” I wink at him and wish I could take it back, because his eyes widen and he looks away—as if he’s not sure what to make of my flirty little gesture.
That makes two of us…
It’s awkward for a bit as I rack my brain for something else to say, or talk about, or ask him.
“Do you have any pets?”
There. That’s a good one.
“Mum had a few yippy dogs for a time. They’re dead though.”
Um. Okayyy.
“I didn’t have to pu
t up with them since I was at school, although one of them—Buttercup, a Pomeranian—hated me with a passion. Bit me twice, the lil’ fucker.”
I giggle. “Say Buttercup one more time.”
His brows furrow. “That’s enough out of you, missy.”
I think he’s teasing me back, but it’s hard to tell; he still looks tough. Rough around the edges with the beard stubble and black shirt and inked-up arms.
I cannot believe I walked up to this guy those weeks ago and had the nerve to ask him on a date.
The audacity!
But then again…
Look where we are now. Sharing snacks after a morning hike, living down the hall from one another.
Never in a million years.
My watch beeps and I glance down at the notification.
Ronnie: Heads-up: Coach is doing checks. She’s giving everyone 30 min.
Shit.
“We have to go,” I say with a sigh. “My coach is doing a random curfew check tonight.”
They like to make sure we’re not out partying sometimes so that we’re in top condition for the upcoming week; they’re going to want a live selfie of me at home, with the date and time stamp on it.
“Gotcha,” Ashley says, already reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Takes out a few bills and tosses them on the counter.
I reach into mine, too.
He stops me as I rise from the barstool. “I’ve got it, Georgie.”
Blushing, I give him a shy smile. This isn’t a date; he doesn’t have to be paying for my drinks. I feel like in the past few days, all I’ve done is take and take and take from him.
Imagine if I did win that trip and I could treat him to a weekend away—a weekend of fun, on me. To show him my gratitude for all the nice shit he’s done for me.
“Thank you.”
We rise, gathering our stuff, and make for the door.
Ashley did all the things tonight a guy does when he’s on a date: pays the tab, gets the door, puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me outside.
He’s not doing it on purpose; the good etiquette is deep-rooted in him.
Still, I can feel his warm hand on my spine, the polite hand that simply cannot help itself.
And tonight, when I lie in bed—after sending the coaching staff a photo of myself taking my makeup off in the bathroom, scrunching my face up and sticking out my tongue—I can’t help but wish it had been a real date, pondering what it would have been like to kiss him when we got out of the truck.
