"No, he didn't. I was there," Bryce came to my defence. "I mean, sure, the clothes did seem like he was desperate to impress people, but he wasn't rude to her." Desperate to impress?
Jack acted like he hadn't heard him speak. "That's why I'm pissed you invited him. We don't want him here, and he doesn't want to be here, so why is he here at all?"
"I don't mind that he's here," Darryl told the group. "He seems like an ok guy."
Jack argued, "You're only saying that because the guy is on TV. He could piss in your beer, and you'd still think he's swell, just 'cause he's shaken hands with a few real celebrities."
Wow. It stung, but I couldn't say I was surprised. Jack had made enough comments throughout the evening. Some mocking, some hateful. He'd also thrown plenty sideways glances in my direction. I was under no illusion that we would one day be friends. Jack had drawn a clear line, but I had not expected him to be quite so vocal to the rest of the group, especially after I had gone out of my way to be polite.
"Look," Bryce spoke with confidence. "Parker is here because I felt sorry for him. He doesn't have any friends, and he barely speaks to his family. He's only here for a week or so. What's the harm in being nice to him for a couple of days?"
I nearly lost myself. My hands trembled from the sudden flood of emotions — anger, embarrassment, betrayal and sadness. I remained silent, hidden from sight, around the corner of the building. I couldn't believe I had been so naive. Of course, Bryce didn't really want to spend time with some fag from out of town. He felt sorry for me. It made perfect sense. My mother had died, and he knew I had no one in town to lean on. He had been doing me a favour. If he had been doing the same for anyone else, I would have thought it endearing. With the situation as it was, however, I felt pathetic and sick to my stomach. I had been foolish to entertain the thought that our budding friendship might be genuine. It was another lesson in the lifelong study of human interaction and insincerity.
I found myself weighing my options. If we were in Toronto, I would have left. I would have called an Uber and cut my losses. Dellwood didn't have a taxi service, so my options were limited. Bryce had driven, and I wasn't about to steal his truck. Calling Lauren or Oliver to drive out to get me was also out of the question. My only available course of action was to pretend I hadn't heard their conversation. It couldn't be that difficult. If Bryce could pretend, so could I. I would survive this night and then avoid him for the rest of my time. Everything will be fine; I told myself for the hundredth time that evening. I headed back into the building and aimed straight for the bar.
"Can I get three shots of tequila?" I asked the lumberjack.
"Three?" He repeated for clarification.
"Did I stutter?" Yes, everything would be fine. I would endure. Endure and drink.
“Iamnotdrunk!" I could hear my words slurring together even as I said them. It had been two hours since I'd overheard Bryce's admission. Two hours and many, many shots of tequila. Not to mention the gin and tonic glass that had been glued to my hand and had been filled and refilled with fervour. I was feeling quite good. More to the point, I wasn't feeling much of anything at all. "Iwouldlike another ginintonic, please."
The bartender gave me a large-eyed, astonished-but-not-surprised look. I had given my fair share of people that same look when I had been slinging drinks. It was the "You've seriously, without a doubt, absolutely, had enough" look, and I recognized it right away. "Imfine," I declared, my voice rising in dramatic inflections. I was lying, of course. I was not fine, and a part of me knew it -- but the larger part of me didn't care.
After Bryce and his friends had returned from their smoke, the night had gone by without incident. I was even having fun. I had decided not to speak to Bryce, Jack or James. I chose instead to spend the bulk of my time conversing with Darryl. Who I now considered to be the most genuine of the four and my only ally. He had been more than happy to be my partner in crime. We let the others continue to play pool while we indulged in wetter activities. All my favourite people came out to party; Jose, Johnnie, Jim and even Captain Morgan was in attendance. When karaoke started at midnight, Darryl had been a hesitant but willing participant. He became the Sonny to my Cher, and the beat did go on. Just not on key.
It was amazing how fast you got to know someone when you gave them your complete, undivided attention. Darryl had grown up in a small city south of Dellwood. His daddy had run off with a cocktail waitress. So, Darryl quit school at sixteen to get a job and help his mom support his four younger sisters. The entire situation was quite clichéd, but sad, nonetheless. He and his wife had met at a house party, where she had vomited on his best bud’s microfiber sofa. It had been love at first sight. At least it was, once she had regained consciousness the following morning. They were now married with two daughters under six. A handful I would have assumed, but he swore they were well-behaved princesses. Of course, he also claimed that being outnumbered by the women in his family didn't bother him. And that he didn't enjoy the sanity working out of town, on the oil rigs, provided. It was then I decided Darryl too was a liar.
I couldn't understand why the conversation I had overheard was affecting me so deeply. So, Bryce had felt sorry for me - there were worse things. Sympathy was no crime. So why did I feel so betrayed? It was completely irrational. I hadn't known him long enough or well enough to justify the feeling, and yet it was impossible to quell. My original plan had been to drink myself into a state of uncaring, and it had worked for a time. But there came a tipping point when not caring became really caring. Then, I drank even more to drown the embarrassment and anger that kept rising to the surface. That had brought me to this moment, and the bartenders disapproving glare.
"How 'bout I get you some water instead?" The lumberjack bartender offered and turned to grab a large plastic glass.
“Hell no, H2O!" I chanted. It was a line I had picked up from a cheesy nineties movie. I was disappointed when he didn't immediately get the reference.
"What's the ruckus?" Bryce materialized beside me, leaning on the bar with boyish charisma. The moment I saw him, his hazel eyes looking at me with happy warmth, it was easy to forget that I was pissed at him. I did not return his warmth, but I did turn to him in earnest. "The bartender won't serve me," I pouted, hoping that as a frequent patron, Bryce would have influence that I did not. The bartender, thus far, had not been enamoured by my limited celebrity status.
Bryce made eye contact with the bartender. Neither one attempted to mask their amusement at my expense. I did not find the situation as entertaining, but I smiled too. I hoped to catch a fly with some honey, rather than vinegar. For a moment, I thought it was working. Then Bryce wrapped his arm around my shoulder and ushered me away from the counter. It was then I realized the battle had been lost.
"Why don't we sit down for a bit?" He offered, pulling out a tall bar stool at one of the nearby tables and gesturing for me to take it. His hand had fallen from my shoulder and lingered on my back. It feathered across my spine, nudging me forward. His hand felt strong and controlling. Control was not something I was willing to relinquish quite yet.