Holly, The List, and the End of the World: Chapter 2

#2: Get really, really drunk

Two hours, four shots, and a glass of Jack later and I’m drunk. Jesus, I’m such a lightweight. The closest I’ve been to alcohol in the past month is the bullshit “End with a Bang” apocalypse frat party Mel had dragged me to back in August when this whole thing was just starting and that was a weak excuse for a kegger if I ever saw one. It was every bit as horridly tacky as it sounds too, with explosion sound effects every five minutes and drinks named after bombs and dictators, which made absolutely no sense to me since that’s not what’s happening at all.

Logan, on the other hand, seems perfectly sober and he’s watching me with this amused glint in his dark eyes, popping mini pretzels from the bowl between us in his mouth every few seconds. We’ve hit a sudden and acutely apparent lull in our conversation for the second time tonight and I squirm, feeling myself start to sweat a little bit. I will myself to stop being disgusting because pit stains aren’t the biggest turn-on in my experience with guys.

“Quit looking at me like that,” I say, tugging at the ends of my dark hair that’s gone flat and frizzy. It’s an awful habit and I have more than enough split ends to show for it but it’s comforting, so I do it anyway.

“Like what?” Logan asks innocently. A little too innocently.

“Like I’m confusing you. Like I’m confusing,” I say, leaning toward him and lowering my voice menacingly. “Quit it.” He leans toward me too and all at once I don’t mean what I said. The air between us is more breathable, Logan’s mintiness overpowering the cigarette smoke and alcohol. I would let him look at me like this for the next forty days or the next forty years if it meant we could stay here in this moment for just a little bit longer.

Unfortunately it’s not in the cards because Logan pulls back and breaks whatever cool drunk mojo connection we had going. “I’m not, but if you insist,” he says with his smile and without moving his eyes from me. I look down at my chipped nails that I definitely should’ve painted before I came out and bite my lip to keep from pouting. Then I realize that there’s really no point in letting this kill my vibe since I’ll probably never have a night like this again and I take a deep breath in, out, and let the disappointment go.

“Logan, I think I’m drunk,” I ask him. Or tell him. I can’t really discern between the two because everything is starting to sound like the adults from the Charlie Brown commercials or a goose, like a flat honking sound.

“I think you’re drunk, too. I think you’re very drunk, actually. Maybe you should be getting home…” he trails off, looking at me questioningly. He’s right, of course, but the thing is, I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here and drink with him until I can’t see straight and not talk about the world ending or be eclipsed by my surroundings and just have fun. I’m enjoying the sensation of being in the eye of the storm with Logan in our own corner of Paddy’s.

“I don’t want to go home,” I pout. “I want to stay here with you and get really drunk and never hear about that stupid asteroid again.” My arms cross and I huff stubbornly, poking out my bottom lip like a five-year-old child. Sure, I’m exaggerating a little bit but I think it’s working because Logan runs his hand over his face to reveal a smile to rival any of the others tonight.

“As great as that might sound right now, you don’t mean that, Angel. But I’m not going to make you go if you don’t want to,” Logan says, making my pout melt away. “You’re pretty funny when you’re trashed, you know?”

“I never ever drink ever, Logan. This is only the second time since that party Mel took me to and I hated it because beer tastes like warm pee, but this is really good stuff here,” I say matter-of-factly, raising my glass to him and nodding vigorously. Not that I know what warm pee tastes like, but the whiskey really does taste good now that I can’t actually taste it anymore. I think that’s how alcohol works though; the drunker you are, the less you notice you’re drinking something that tastes eerily similar to lighter fluid. Logan’s just watching me and trying to contain his giggles, doing an awful job of it, too. Maybe he is a little drunk after all.

“I should’ve known you never would’ve come to a place like this on your own,” he says, finally getting himself under control.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. For all he knows I could be a party animal—the kind of girl who gets up on the bar and takes off her shirt and whips it around her head. I could do that right now if I wanted to just to spite him. Except I’m wearing a dress, not a shirt, and this bar looks like it can barely support the weight of the glasses set on it right now, and also I will never be that drunk. Not even if the world’s ending.

“Nothing, just that you seem more like the type to be at home gathering supplies like I said earlier, and digging a hole to hunker down in…or studying.”

I gasp. “You think I’d be studying at the end of the world? I’m offended!” I screech. I’m only half-joking because while he’s partially right, I’m a little mortified that he’d guess I am—was—the kind of girl to settle in for a fun night of derivatives and speech analyses on the weekend. Logan starts laughing again and holds his ribs and when he almost falls off of his stool, I start laughing too. It’s one of those laughs that reaches your bones and rattles your organs around until you can’t breathe anymore and it feels great. We’re probably being way too loud but I don’t know that it matters since it’s roaring in here now. I can’t even hear myself think, which isn’t saying much since my head is a fuzzy mess.

“I have no clue. I just wouldn’t expect a girl like you to be in an alcoholic ashtray like this is all. Admit it, this is hardly your scene, Holly” he says, finally controlling his giggles and slipping back into his indifferent mask, raising an eyebrow at me. I miss his smile automatically, and even without it he looks extremely kissable right now. What does he mean ‘a girl like me’? Are girls like me the kind of girls guys like Logan want to kiss? Maybe.

Suddenly that same electricity is back in the air and the flickering bulb above our head is an overly-bright spotlight. Logan and I are the only two people in Paddy’s. I’m staring at him, drinking in his face, the freckle beside his mouth, his eyelashes and his dark hair that are both too long for him, the slight crookedness of his nose. His eyes are looking at me a little too hard and his lips are parted a little too much to be just breathing. Everything about him is just too. Slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare me off, he reaches out a long finger and twines a strand of my hair around it and leans in just a little bit. I hold in my air because we’re literally no more than five centimeters apart and then…

He jerks back away from me like he’s snapping out of a trance, drops his hand from me and looks away. I’m disappointed and relieved all in the same breath; it’s not like I haven’t kissed guys before. I just don’t kiss strangers, especially when I’m this drunk. At the same time I really, really wanted nothing more than to see if his lips are nearly as soft as his skin and the rejection stings a lot. Obviously we’re both just drunk and, while that was definitely something it was also nothing. I take my irrational disappointment as a sign that I’m officially wasted, and I take my intoxicated status as a sign that I should be going.

“Well, Logan,” I say without letting my voice waver, standing as gracefully as I can in these godawful heels, “It’s been lovely chatting with you but I need to get out of here. Thanks for the drinks and everything.” I tug down the bottom of my dress as far as it will go and scan the bar for Mel.

“It’s been fun, Angel. See you around.” Logan’s still not looking at me. I want to imagine that he sounds a little sad about our parting, but I don’t think he does. I want to imagine that we will see each other again, but we probably won’t. I’m headed back to college to live out my life in relative monotony and he’ll probably spend it here with his liquor and other girls who aren’t me. I resist the urge to get right back up on the stool and start joking with him again, talk about everything and nothing like we have been all night. Instead I smile at him one last time, shake my hair out and walk away like I know where I’m going, and shove through the massive crowd until I can’t feel his eyes on me anymore.