“I just thought—whatever, Avery. You’re a real bitch.” He strides to the door.
“And you’re an asshole!” I shout. “You drugged me with shit you stole from my parents.”
“It doesn’t even last that long, even less for you” he snaps back at me, referencing my higher tolerance than most. He has a han
d on the doorknob. “Get over it.” He wrenches open the door.
“Well guess what else doesn’t last that long?” I yell at him, pointing at his hips.
His face contorts in rage and he storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Whether it’s the lingering effects of the devil’s breath or the pure anger I’m feeling, I feel antsy. I can’t stay here.
I throw on my hoodie and scribble a quick note to Erin so she won’t worry. I leave the dorm and walk quickly out of the residence wing, to the entrance hall, and out the double doors into the courtyard, not breaking stride as I reach the gate. My ribs ache just a little, but I’ll be fine.
Or I will be soon … once I find that tavern I saw down in the village.
It’s freezing on the trek down, if not well below. My feet are numb by the time I find it. I push my way into the door and stomp my feet on the mat, shaking residual snow off my shoes and pants.
The inside is every bit as warm and inviting as it was cold and inhospitable outside. I head past the full tables to an empty seat at the bar, plopping down some Romanian money on the counter.
The bartender asks me what I want in Romanian, and I just point to something on the menu behind him. My lessons in the language only go so far, and though I can’t speak it well enough to actually order anything, I’m proud to understand a bit of what he says.
He nods and pours me some clear liquid in a glass, which he slams down on the counter with gusto. I nod back at him, lift it to my lips, and take a sip. It tastes somehow sour and sweet at the same time, and it burns like fire all the way down.
After my first drink, I make the sensible decision and point to the beers on tap instead. I sit and watch the people at the other tables. I have little idea what anyone is saying, but they look like they’re having fun. One table keeps ordering shots, getting louder with each round.
I’m surprised by how many young people there are in this town. Usually the old villages like this end up dying out as the people my age move to bigger cities.
One of those young men has been glancing my way, and I know the meaning of the gleam in his eye. At first, I pay him no attention, but as the few beers become many, I catch myself looking his way as well.
I can feel myself becoming tipsy. I wobble on my stool a little when I lean a little too far forward to stare some more. There’s a buzz in my veins, heavier than the feeling from the devil’s breath earlier. I scowl as I remember sitting across from Sawyer just a few hours ago, unknowingly spilling my goddamn guts. Piers, Owen, and Bennett may have hurt me, but what Sawyer did was betrayal.
Like I conjured them; Piers, Owen, and Bennett burst through the door to the tavern, stumbling and laughing as they do. I put my hood up and shrink back, hoping they won’t see me, but I have nothing to fear. They’re not paying attention as they drift to the only empty table at the opposite end of the bar.
A waiter goes over to them. They order in broken Romanian, and I’m impressed in spite of myself. The waiter leaves and comes back with beers a minute later. It’s obvious that they’ve been pre-gaming. Piers and Owen are already a little sloppy, and Bennett has a goofy smile slapped across his face.
I try to turn away and focus on myself, but my eyes keep getting drawn back to them. The more beer I drink the louder they get. Their voices carry over the din of the bar, but I’m not sure if that’s because they’re literally louder than everyone else or because they’re the only ones speaking a language even my drunken mind can understand.
“Well, boys, to failing!” Piers says, clinking his beer against the other boys’.
“It’s gonna be me that gets dropped,” Owen says, settling back in his chair. “I’ve got the lowest scores.”
“Wanna bet?” Bennett asks. “After the score Davies just gave me, it’ll be me for sure.”
“No,” Owen tells him, grabbing his shoulder. “It’s really gonna be me, dude. You’re so great. Like, really great.”
He’s easily the drunkest of the three. He’s barely able to sit upright in his chair, even with one hand clutching at Bennett’s collar. Their faces are so close together … it almost looks like they’re about to kiss.
I know I’m just imagining it, but I’ll admit … the idea is kind of hot.
“It’ll be me,” Piers chimes in, but the other boys shout their disagreement.
“Your dad won’t let that happen!” Owen yells, his words slurring.
“Who are you kidding? My dad would love to lord that over me,” Piers retorts.
Bennett reaches a long arm across the table and grabs Piers’ arm, giving it a shake. “You gotta stop putting so much stock in what your dad thinks, man.” He’s starting to get as sloppy as the others. “He doesn’t know the real you.”