Tyler shook his head. He wasn’t drunk. He might be a little tipsy, just a little, but he wasn’t drunk. Nope, nope, nope.
“He got sick of me,” Tyler said.
The girl sighed. “Yeah, you’ve already said that. Like, ten times.”
Tyler pouted. “You’re sick of me, too. I can tell.”
The barmaid laughed. “Dealing with moping drunks is part of the job description. Trust me, you aren’t the most annoying one. You’re kind of cute in a pathetic way.”
Tyler frowned, not sure if he was being insulted. Besides, he wasn’t drunk. He was just…he was just…
He stared at the brown liquid in his glass. “Everyone gets sick of me.”
“Here we go again,” the girl muttered, sounding exasperated.
“They do,” Tyler said, and threw his drink back.
“Go home, mate.”
“Mum once told Dad that she wasn’t surprised that I don’t have any other friends besides Nick,” Tyler said into his glass. “I overheard.”
He could feel the girl’s eyes on him. She didn’t say anything.
“People get sick of me,” Tyler mumbled. “They always do. I’m too much—too needy.” He knew he was likable—at first. People always said he was easy to be around. He was loud, a little cocky, a bit of a whore for attention, but always well-meaning. People generally didn’t mind him. He’d always had plenty of buddies—but just one friend. Nick was the only friend who’d stuck around for years, the only one who hadn’t eventually gotten tired of him, the only one who didn’t seem to mind his dumb jokes, his immaturity and his neediness. Everyone but Nick always told him to grow up. Nick was the only one who seemed to like him the way he was.
But it looked like Nick had finally gotten sick of him, too. It was probably bound to happen. If his own parents found him a total disappointment, of course Nick would get sick of his shit too. It was inevitable. So there was no reason to be so upset. It was fine. He could deal.
Tyler bit his trembling lip, hating himself a little for his inability to be tough. Fuck, why was he such a mess? Men were supposed to be tough; his dad always said so. His dad hadn’t even cried at Tyler’s granddad’s funeral. If his dad could do it, Tyler could fucking deal with his best mate avoiding him and refusing to take his calls.
“I don’t miss him,” he said stubbornly. “Screw him.”
The girl sighed, sounding long-suffering, as if it wasn’t the first time Tyler had said that tonight.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Tyler’s shoulders slumped.
“I do miss his cock,” he said wistfully.
“Okay, you’ve definitely had enough,” the barmaid said, looking at him with a crooked smile. “Go home and sleep it off, pretty boy. I’m sure your boyfriend will answer your calls eventually.”
Tyler scowled, his stomach clenching into something uncomfortable. “He’s not—not my boyfriend. I’m not gay.”
“Ah.”
Tyler looked at her suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The girl shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, my advice is the same: go sleep it off. Things will look better in the morning.”
“It doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Sleeping it off,” Tyler said. “I keep waiting, and hoping, but nope. I’m still me, and I’m still the same loser he got sick of.”
The girl heaved a sigh. Her eyes were almost the exact shade of Nick’s. “For Christ’s sake. Are you sure he wasn’t your boyfriend? I definitely didn’t mope this much when my actual boyfriend dumped me a while back.”
Tyler shook his head with a weak laugh. “I told you I’m not gay. I’m not moping. I’m just…”
“Getting smashed,” the girl said, very dryly. “You sure look like you aren’t moping.”
Tyler glared at her, but it was half-hearted at best. He didn’t feel too good, both physically and emotionally. He was just…so damn tired. Tired of not knowing what the hell he wanted from his life, tired of his inability to be someone people would want to stick around for.
Maybe if he were a better person, someone more put together, someone more selfless and less pushy, Nick wouldn’t have gotten sick of him. Maybe if he hadn’t pressured Nick into fucking him, Nick would have still been his friend.
A friend? a voice at the back of his mind said.
Yes, friend, Tyler told himself stubbornly. Nick was more important to him than a few great orgasms. He could survive without Nick’s cock, but he definitely didn’t want to lose the best mate who had always been there for him. Maybe Nick had been right and it was a mistake to mix friendship with sex, but it wasn’t like he could tell Nick that when he wasn’t answering his calls.
“Gimme another bottle,” Tyler told the barmaid.
“Nope,” she said. “You’ve definitely had enough. Look, go home. Or call your boyfriend and tell him to take you home.”
“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Tyler said, his brows furrowed in confusion. He thought he’d already told her that. Or hadn’t he? “I’m not even his type,” he mumbled. “He doesn’t want me, not like that. Even if I were gay—and I’m not—he wouldn’t choose someone like me.” Tyler’s lips twisted. “He’d never choose someone like me. I’m…I’m me. He always goes for interesting, successful guys, not losers like me.”