Chapter 20

20

I'm so wound up from everything that happened with Lloyd that I feel like a woman possessed for the rest of the party. I lose track of how many glasses of Pimm's I drink—I only know that it's enough for me to stop tasting them. My filter, and my fear that I'll say the wrong thing to people, vanishes. I make dry remarks that cause the rest of the group to howl with laughter; I even tell Tasha at one point to get over herself and stop being such a snob, which makes the others shriek and giggle—but it's not satisfying in the way it should be. It feels mean and twisted, and not like me at all.

"Are you okay?" Will asks me later. We're back at the pop-up bar, and I lean against him a little for support.

"Fine! Totally fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You just seem…"

Off. Because I am. Trying to bury the shame of my flagrant disregard for the heart Lloyd wears on his sleeve, and the sting of him having no defense when I pointed out that my reputation was the only one at risk if people found out about us.

Will waits, giving me an uncertain look, concern knotting his brow, but I give him a playful shove with my shoulder and tell him, "I'm just having fun! Don't be such a party pooper."

I'm not having fun.

I want to go home, and bury myself in my duvet and sleep through the entire rest of the internship. I want to find Lloyd and tell him I'm sorry for icing him out and for kissing him—it's not his fault I got caught up and forgot myself.

I want to tell him I'm sorry for being so prickly all the time and putting so many walls up. They must have been up for so long, maybe a consequence of never having close friends or of Mom walking out on us, that they've become such a part of me I don't know how to take them down and let him in. I'm not even truly aware when I do let him in, because he makes it so easy.

But after I snapped at him like that, I don't think Lloyd will let me in so easily next time; he doesn't owe me anything, not really.

For his part, you'd never know anything had happened. He's mingling with different groups of Arrowmile employees, getting involved in games and cracking jokes. He laughs brightly, smiles broadly like nothing's wrong, looks relaxed and casual as ever.

I fare worse and worse the harder I try to have fun. The booze makes my brain sluggish and my tongue heavy; it's tricky to keep up with conversations, as hard as I try. There's a nagging voice in the back of my mind that I should be sensible, sober up, that above all this is a work event and I should be trying to impress people—but I tune it out, thinking that if that's how I sound to Lloyd, no wonder he thinks I act coldly toward him. No wonder I've always had such a hard time making friends.

I drown the voice out with another drink.

I'm not used to alcohol and even less used to any kind of partying, so it's not too long before I have to step out for a break. My stomach is churning and I can't trust myself not to throw up on the boules. I go inside to the toilets and close myself into a stall, sitting down with my head between my knees for a few minutes and focusing on my breathing, only emerging when I'm sure I'm not going to be sick.

I stumble out of the stall, unsteady.

"Anna? Are you okay?"

Verity's face swims in front of me. She's in the queue for the toilets, and reaches for my arm. Her hand feels hot against my clammy skin.

"She's drunk, " says someone next to her. This voice is snide and superior; Tasha's lipsticked smirk cuts a bright-red line across her face. "God, Anna, can't you handle your drink?"

How pathetic, I think she says, but then I decide I must have imagined it, because Verity doesn't react, even to laugh.

"I'm fine." I don't sound fine. My words run into each other. Neither Verity nor Tasha looks very convinced, but I stand up straighter and say something like, "I should probably just get something to eat. I'll be okay," and Verity nods and they let meleave.

Back outside, I head straight for an empty bench. The warm evening air is sticky and stifling, but there's a cool breeze that fans over my skin and helps me feel less queasy.

I get my phone out to pretend to scroll so that at least I look occupied rather than drunk. There's yet another text from Mom—how would I fancy meeting up soon, maybe? Uh, not at all, thanks. She'd like to see me! Well, she should've thought about that thirteen years ago before cutting us out of her lives.

Someone sits down next to me, so close and familiar I think it must be Lloyd—or maybe uncoordinated Will—but I'm hit by the smell of expensive cologne and after a split second I realize it's Monty.

He drapes an arm across the back of the bench, behind my shoulders, and hands me a glass of water with a grin.

"Thought you looked like you could do with this."

"You're not wrong." I take a sip, the taste cool and grounding. I drink slowly, worried about unsettling my stomach further. I go back to scrolling aimlessly through my phone, surprised that Monty doesn't leave.

"You don't have to stay," I tell him.

He shrugs, a gesture I feel as his shoulder moves against the back of mine. "S'okay. I needed a break, too. Kind of full-on, isn't it? I can't decide if I'm supposed to be networking or challenging Topher Fletcher to a game of beer pong. Makes me want to see what they do for their Christmas party," he goes on. "Now, I bet that's a riot. Bet they go all out for it."

"I guess if this summer goes to plan, we'll find out."

"Here's hoping. Wonder who'll make the cut. Present company excluded, obviously." He gestures at both of us, and I'm oddly flattered that Monty thinks I've got what it takes to get offered a permanent position when the internship ends. Looking around at the others, scattered in small groups around the lawn, he says, "Tough competition."

"Uh-huh."

"Be good to see a few friendly faces back next year, though, won't it?"

"I don't graduate next year," I blurt, brain too sluggish to stop me—but luckily, Monty misinterprets it.

"Oh! I didn't realize you were doing a master's. Nice. Well, the year after, then." He grins at me again, and I drink some more water rather than responding and outright lying about my degree.

After a little while, when I've finally finished my water and sobered up a bit, Monty asks if I'm feeling better and I'm relieved that I am. He doesn't mock me for not handling my alcohol like Tasha did, like I expected he would—I know rugby lads have a pretty heavy drinking culture, and Monty's been no exception to the rule so far this summer.

Instead he just says, "We should go get a bite to eat, that'll help. The others are probably hungry, too."

"Good plan. Thanks for looking out for me."

"Hey, it's all good. What are friends for, right? Come on—let's go get dinner." He slaps his thighs before standing up, and it takes me a beat to follow suit, too surprised that Monty—cool, popular Monty—considers us friends. It's a good feeling.

He mistakes my hesitation for being wobbly and still drunk, so offers me a hand up. His skin is cool and coarse, and I can't help but compare the sensation to when I've held Lloyd's hand.

As if my thinking his name summons him, I'm suddenly acutely aware of a pair of eyes on me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and when I look around, I see Lloyd and Will standing not too far off. Lloyd's green eyes lock onto mine. A myriad of emotions flickers across his face before Will nudges him and says something. I can't get a handle on what's going through Lloyd's mind exactly, but I know it's nothing good.

After what happened between us earlier, I can't blame him. He must really hate me.

I feel Lloyd's gaze following me all the way over to the others, and even after we leave as a group to get some dinner.