Young Writers Society

#22: Talk to someone new

It’s the end of the world. Literally, the world is ending. Otherwise, why the hell would I be in this place?

The little red numbers of the countdown meter in the corner of the television above the bar are just one of the many bits of evidence attesting to the rapidly approaching apocalypse. Forty-three more days until an asteroid of astronomical proportions crashes into the earth and destroys life as we know it, blah, blah, blah. It’s an imposing comfort, like a reminder of an upcoming test scribbled in a planner, except this isn’t really a test anyone can pass. I’ve grown used to those numbers and as morbid as it seems, I’d miss them if they were gone. In a little over a month I and everyone I know and everyone I don’t will be consumed in a fiery blaze of death. I owe it to myself to have at least this much fun before I’m dead, right? Except I don’t owe myself anything and even if I did, this could hardly be counted as fun.

The bar is called Paddy’s and it smells like vodka and old socks. Despite the Irish-sounding name, there’s painful country music trickling from the speakers and this place is packed, so I’ve already lost sight of Mel, who’s managed to abandon me for her group of friends—or sex partners, I’m not sure, really—in record time. I don’t know how but I’ve already replaced by a bunch of sorority girls and frat boys who still laugh when someone says ‘boob’. Not that I blame her of course; my roommate deserves to have some fun too. She was generous enough to give me a ride here and I can’t really expect her to mope around with me all night. And I will certainly be moping. The only reason I’m here is because we both got tired of that ‘dying roommate’ smell stinking up our dorm and the unnaturally still form lying in the other bed was probably definitely scaring off her potential suitors and the least I could do was give her some kind of affirmation that I’m still alive.

Somehow I find myself standing behind the only guy sitting at the bar without a girl dripping off his arm, mostly because there’s enough room to breathe around him and probably because I’m secretly hoping he’ll be offish and a loner so I won’t have to talk to him long. Mel said to try to talk to one guy, right? Well, here I am. She didn’t say he had to talk back. I cough a little to alert him to my presence, hopefully not freaking him out and hopefully not sounding nervous. Can coughs sound nervous? Did my cough sound like a man cough? I have no idea and it’s too late to run now anyway so I settle for smoothing my hands over my stomach, telling myself I’m doing it to get rid of wrinkles but I’m actually just trying to dispel the swarm of butterflies that’s just hatched within.

The guy turns to me slowly and I can smell alcohol and mint rolling off of him but he doesn’t seem drunk in the slightest, thankfully. He looks like he belongs in a place like this—broad shoulders covered by a black t-shirt, jaw just a little too rugged to be safe, a tattoo running his right arm—but at the same time he looks like one of the preppy boys from the private school I never went to in Solomon—chestnut hair tousled to perfection, eyes brighter than fire, jeans hugging his frame like a glove. He’s all hard edges and soft curves, like a feather made of steel or some other horrible analogy. Either way my black dress seems a little too short now and my makeup a little too heavy beneath his gaze. Suddenly those butterflies inside of me morph into fully-grown ostriches and a few emus for good measure, but I manage to swallow down the nerves and say, “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” he retorts in a voice twenty times more confident than mine. “Aren’t you a little young to be in a place like this?” He’s smirking, eyeing me up and down and I start to panic because for all I know I could’ve just propositioned a cop and I could end up in jail for this. Then I remember that jail is a nonfactor in my life now and that he’s joking. There’s a smile playing on his lips now; a smile so slight it can hardly be called a smile but it’s not not a smile, so you call a club a spade and deal with it. I laugh nervously and slide onto the stool beside him. Maybe I’m not as out of my element as I thought. But then again, isn’t that the point of this? To live a little before I’m dead? Jump in the water headfirst? Is this even living? Who knows. I’m taking way too long to answer.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say just as sassily. It’s obvious he’s underage; he might have the build of a fully grown—and extremely attractive—man, but there’s still something about him that makes him seem young and we both know it. The guy nods slowly, looking at me with his wicked eyes that, I’ll admit, warm me up a little and a knowing smile. I feel like I’m being dissected as I sit here and it’s not at all unpleasant—a bright spot in this otherwise unsavory evening. “I’m Holly. Holly Madison.” I set down my half-full glass of Sprite and offer my hand to him, not sure if it’s bar etiquette or not. He looks amused with that quirky smile again but he shakes.

“Logan Moore,” he says, and then he waves to Ben, the big bartender Mel had bribed with her boobs earlier, who lumbers down toward us. “What’s your poison, Angel?” Logan asks me.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I say, a little breathless at his casual endearment. I like it though. He’s a calm spot in this too-loud room. I cling to that because now I feel ridiculously alone, like the time my sister left me at the manatee exhibit at Sea World.

“Two Jacks, neat. Put it on my tab,” Logan says and Ben grumbles something I can’t hear before waddling off. Two months ago when they’d first announced our impending demise the world immediately fell into chaos and rarely did people pay for anything anymore. I still do, however, and I’m glad to find someone who feels the same. Money means nothing anymore and it’s not anything but a formality but I’d like to think I’ve kept my sense of normalcy in the midst of all of this.

“So, Holly, you never answered my question. What are you doing here? You should be home building a bunker, I’d think. Stocking up on bottled water and canned goods with your family.” Our drinks are here now and I eye him coolly as I sip. His dark hair looks soft and the stubble growing on his jaw looks rough; he’s a man of contradictions, it seems. About thirty more shitty analogies come to mind.

Instead of correcting him on the detail that I, in fact, do not have a family to do pre-apocalyptic activities with, I say, “What’s the point? It won’t really make a difference, and I want to have fun tonight.” Logan snorts at this and something lights in his eyes. I’d like to think it’s because of me, but I’m not really sure. I glance up at the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen of the TV above the bar. I don’t know why the news is still a relevant thing since all that ever happens anymore is crime and of course, the looming apocalypse, though it’s hardly a forgettable circumstance. As the plastic newswoman is telling us for the thirty-millionth time this week, there’s an asteroid of astronomical proportions hurtling toward us at alarming rates and soon, we’ll all be fried crisp from the heat or melted from the veritable shock waves. Blah, blah, blah, death and destruction, doom and gloom. I think if I hear the word ‘devastating’ one more time I’ll throw up.

I also don’t know why they keep throwing that word out, hurtling, since hurtling would imply something a hell of a lot faster than the pace that gargantuan rock is coming toward the Earth. I can’t pretend to know all of the details but I know that that word seems over-exaggerated and a bit melodramatic really since it’s coming at us at roughly a mile per day. It’s all happening way too fast and also horribly slow; it sounds like so much but it sounds like nothing at all at the same time. I choose to not acknowledge this though; really, that asteroid is a subplot to my life more than anything and I plan to treat it as such.

“You’re right,” he says. “There is no point, is there?” I look back to him and shake my head. There is absolutely no point to this hopeless situation. I don’t know what else to say now and Logan is just looking at me like I’ve got something on my face so I smooth my hand over my already-drooping curls and wipe my mouth self-consciously, fidgeting because we’ve hit a dead end. How long have we been here now? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Not long enough?

Thankfully he saves our floundering conversation before it gets too awkward by calling to Ben again, this time for a round of shots. Obviously he’s got some kind of fake ID. Or maybe Ben is his dad. Maybe he’s just good at playing off his youth. Maybe Ben just doesn’t give a fuck. I have no idea, really, and I don’t care.

“Why, Logan, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re trying to get me drunk. That’s no way to treat a stranger,” I say with a bat of my lashes. Oh my god, I just batted my lashes. HOLD THE PHONES. Is this what they call flirting? Am I actually flirting with a real, live human boy? This is a startling development, and a not entirely unwelcome one.

“I’m just helping you out here, Angel,” he says, shrugging. “You say the word and I’ll drink this whole bar dry myself. God knows I’d like to.” He mutters that last bit and picks up a shot glass between his fingers. When he tips it back and I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows, and I think it just got a little bit warmer in here. Or maybe that’s just the rock gaining ground. When he takes another I pluck it from his fingers and knock it back myself, leaving him empty-handed and looking at me with his lips forming a little surprised ‘o’. The cutest damn ‘o’ I’ve ever seen.

“Didn’t you learn to never separate a man from his liquor? That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Holly,” Logan says, mockingly serious. I suppress my giggle and smile as enigmatically as I know how and take my own shot, bring it to my lips, and swallow, letting the bitterness wash through me. “You’re really something, you know that?” he says. The light still hasn’t left his eyes and he’s turned them on me now, making me squirm in my seat.

“You’re too sweet. I bet that’s how you get all the girls in bed,” I joke, nudging him with my elbow. I don’t realize what I’ve said until it’s too late.

“That’s definitely not the line I’d use if I wanted you in bed, Holly,” he deadpans, pinning me with a fire dancing in his eyes. Holy shit, did I just reference sex out loud? The very last thing on this dying planet I want to think about right now is the kind of girls he sleeps with; probably girls like Mel, or maybe a Victoria’s Secret model every other night. Not girls like me who still buy their panties from Target and haven’t licked whipped cream off of anything except a spoon before. Logan’s lovers probably…

Oh my god, I’m thinking about Logan having sex. I stop myself right there in my tracks, entirely unwilling to trespass any further into that immutable territory. I try to corral the wild birds running free, flapping their stubby wings in my stomach. After a few seconds of awkward silence, me trying not to breathe like a beached sea cow, Logan looks away, fighting a smile, and reaches for another shot. I’m just praying I’m not as red as I think I am right now because I’m imagining I’m pretty fucking red.

“So, uh, um,” I stutter out cleverly. Man, do I have a way with words. “Where do you go to school?” I’m grasping at straws.

“I don’t. I’ve been doing freelance photography for a newspaper here, the Messenger, for a while though. College never seemed like a necessity to me, I guess.” I’m glad we feel the same. I never would’ve gone to college if it weren’t for my mom explicitly stating that the money she left for me was to ‘further my education and build a future for myself.’ “What about you, Angel?”

“I’m going to UNC Wilmington for—“ Logan cuts me off by pressing two fingers to my lips and silencing me for more reasons than one. For instance, I’m almost positive he bathes his hands in lotion made by God himself for at least an hour a day because his hands are softer than anything that could possibly exist in the natural universe.

“Wait, I want to guess.” A bit reluctantly, I’d like to imagine, he pulls his hand back and goes into deep thought. “Something tells me you’re not a number kind of girl, so no math or sciences. You’re obviously not a partier since this clearly isn’t your scene so nothing artsy, but you are here, so nothing business-related. That leaves…English? Journalism?” Logan looks at me finally and I’m staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“How the hell did you figure that out?”

“It’s called logic, Holly, process of elimination. You might want to close your mouth before something flies in there,” he says nonchalantly like he hadn’t just read me like a book. I snap my mouth shut and he chuckles, reaches for another shot and tips it back.

“How old are you, anyway?” he asks when it’s all down, looking at me with his head cocked to the side like he’s genuinely curious. His hair is just an inch too long, curling over his ears and he has to brush a chestnut lock from his forehead. I can feel the heat crawl up my cheeks already. I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t underestimate my age; I turned eighteen last November and people still ask me when I’m turning sixteen. I don’t answer him. Instead I reach for a shot and knock it back with a smile.

“The better question is how old are you?” I say, jabbing him with a finger in his surprisingly hard arm. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy to go to the gym and spend unholy amounts of time on his physique but I’ll be damned if I didn’t just poke a rock.

“I’m old enough,” Logan murmurs, looking down into his empty shot glass. Why did I even bother asking? Most of us won't even reach our next birthdays.