Page 4 of Unlikely
My loss is not hers, and hers will always be greater.
1
CLEM
TWO YEARS LATER
My body thrums, alcohol swimming in my veins, the bass of the music making my chest thump and my pulse flutter. Without a care in the world, my body sways to the music, eyes closed, arms raised in the air.
It isn’t often that I exchange an early night in my bed for a night out—drinking and dancing in a club isn’t typically my scene—but it’s my twenty-fourth birthday, and every now and then I need an excuse to step away from the monotony that is my life and the constant hurdles of reality.
Sensing someone near me, I open my eyes to see my friend Nina and her boyfriend of the month, Nick, making out on the dance floor. Some of our other friends are scattered throughout the mass of undulating bodies, but truth be told, they’re more her friends than mine, and I’m enjoying the noisy solitude.
My mind empty, my body in sync with the beat.
Surprising me, a hand presses against the small of my back, and I open my eyes to find Nina and Nick right beside me.
Leaning into me, she moves her mouth closer to my ear and tries to shout above the music. “We’re going to get some drinks. Same as before?”
I’m extremely particular about what I drink and how much. I’m also a twenty-four-year-old who earns twenty-two dollars an hour as the manager of a café, and I don’t have the option to be frivolous with my money or buy multiple drinks for anyone other than myself tonight.
I shake my head at her and mouth,“I’m good.”
Nina rolls her eyes and slides her hand into mine, now dragging both me and Nick across the dance floor and to the bar. “Don’t be so stubborn,” she chides as we stand in line. “We’re here on my father’s dime tonight, remember?”
My cheeks flush in embarrassment, and I turn to look away from her, hating that she could see right through me. I’m not poor or struggling, it’s just that my money was often accounted for before I got a chance to spend it on myself.
Nina is a close friend of mine… well, as close as I let people get. I met her about three years ago when she started working at the same coffee shop as me, only to find out she was a trust fund baby who didn’t need to slum it with the rest of us but for some reason was very willing to do so.
This meant that every so often she liked to splurge on her friends… namely me.
It’s a point of contention between us, because I don’t know how to differentiate between pity and her love language. In my world, there are no such things as good deeds, and everything has a price, one that is too often too high. But after three years of knowing each other, I’m slowly learning to trust that outside my immediate family, there are such things as friendship and unconditional love.
“Fine,” I concede. “A vodka orange, please.”
Nina attempts to wave down the bartender and then turns to hand me her credit card. “Can you order for us? Just get me my usual and Nick another whiskey on the rocks,” she instructs. “I broke the seal about an hour ago and now I can’t stop peeing.”
Laughing, I pluck the black card out of her fingers. “Rookie mistake.”
She shrugs. “We’ll be back.”
I glance between them. “Do you need Nick’s help to pull your panties down? Is that why he’s going with you?”
They both smirk, and Nina pretends to scratch the slope of her nose with her middle finger. Shaking my head, I watch them retreat back into the crowd and am left wondering how long I’ll have to wait with the drinks before they get back.
As I wait patiently for the bartender to serve me, there’s a man quick to fill up the empty spot beside me. Expecting him to try and push me aside to get his drinks before I do, I’m unpleasantly surprised when he turns his body toward me, leaning his chest against my shoulder.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he shouts into my ear.
Turning my head, I take in his clammy skin, heavy eyelids, and blown pupils. He’s a mess. A mess that reminds me why I end up always hating coming out to places like this.
I try to move away from him amid the sea of bodies surrounding me while also trying not to lose my spot at the bar. Instead of leaving, which is what I want to do, I offer a quick, short response and hope he moves along.
“I’m good. Thank you.”
“You are good, aren’t you,” he slurs. “I bet you’d be a good fucking girl too.”
My spine stiffens at his unwelcome candidness and my lungs expand, air filled with disgust and anger.