Erin complains we’ll be late as I pick through my clothes. Working where I do allows me a wardrobe filled with dresses I rarely wear. Do I attempt to prettify myself, or should I dress down in an ‘I’m not trying to impress anyone’ way? I vote for the latter. A tee and jeans are still slung over a chair from the last time I left the house in the evening. That was two days ago, when I decided pj pants and an old shirt—also looking suspiciously like nightwear—weren’t suitable attire for a trip to the nearby cafe with Erin. The tee and jeans will work.

I brush my thick hair into a ponytail and slick on lip gloss, then walk through to my impatient friend.

She shakes her head. “You took that long to get ready and that’s what you’re wearing? Didn’t you buy another of your weird dresses the other day? Where is it?”

“I did but I don’t want to wear the dress yet.”

“Then what’s the point in buying?” She taps her teeth. “Well, anything looks good compared to your sweatpants, I suppose. Let’s go.”

We’ve visited our weekend haunt for years—from drinking here when underage with false ID until the twenty-somethings we are now. This meant eighteenth birthdays had to be celebrated elsewhere, but the staff in the small bar change so often we never came under any real scrutiny. Only Erin and me were underage, although Tyler came occasionally too. As they’re a couple of years older, Cole, and Erin’s brother Kai, had no issues, although Kai kept a close eye on his sister when she was around. In recent months, Kai’s travelled overseas, and is headed away again soon, so we rarely see him. Tonight is a rare appearance.

The latest refurbishment rewound the establishment to the pictures I’ve seen of the place in the 1970s, which I don’t quite understand. Retro is retro, but this is odd. The day they started serving weird cocktails in jars, plus ‘boutique’ aka ‘fancy names and fancy prices’ beers, was the day I realised my disconnect from my so-called peers. What exactly is wrong with drinking from proper glasses?

The whole time we sit in the bar, I’m in two minds whether to leave. Erin spends the evening staring wistfully at the man-bunned barman. Wistful? Well, more like salivating. Cole sits with us, chatting to Spencer. I half-listen as I check prices on the game’s trading house on my phone app. The price of herbs jumped recently and is screwing up my in-game market domination.

“Pardon?” I look up as Erin speaks. “What herbs?” she asks.

“Oh.” Did I say that out loud? “Nothing.” I incline my head towards the hottie behind the bar. “Is he next on the list?”

“I do not have a list, I’m just particular.”

“How did the latest date go?”

Erin picks up her drink. “Didn’t you see my Facebook post yesterday?”

“No.” ‘Erin’s Adventures in Tinder Land’ became a regular feature recently, names changed to protect the innocent, as she shares details of her disastrous dates.

“What was wrong with this guy?”

“He wouldn’t stop showing me pictures of his cats. I’m allergic to cats—and to weirdos who have six and spend the whole evening talking about nothing else but their feline antics.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I climbed out of the window in the hallway.” Erin sips her orange cocktail from the mason jar and continues her scrutiny of the new barman.

“What the...? Why?”

“He would’ve seen me if I went through the restaurant’s front door.”

I blink at her matter-of-fact tone. “Why didn’t you use the back exit? Surely the place has one.”

She rubs her lips with an index finger. “Oh. Yeah. Didn’t think about that.”

People often point me out as odd, but Erin’s cut from the same cloth. Her capacity to find herself in awkward situations is incomparable. She spends a lot of time floating around in a world nobody else belongs in, or understands. I’m unsure if common sense exists in there.

Not that I can criticise another person for living in a fantasy world.

Cole side glances us at the conversation and purses his lips. “What did he do when he found you’d gone?”

“Who?” she asks.

“Date Guy Number Six.”

“Oh, nothing. I didn’t hear from him again.”

“Really? You surprise me,” says Cole with a laugh.

“Do I?” Her brow furrows. “I mean, I wouldn’t bother contacting a date who ran away.”

“I’m being sarcastic. You take the world way too literally, Erin.” Cole shakes his head. “Drink?”

“Sure!”

Cole slides from his chair and his tall figure crosses the bar. I once crushed on the guy, most girls in our school did. The guy was, and is, effortlessly and cluelessly attractive with his deep brown eyes and sculpted features—not to mention the equally perfect body thanks to his place on the local soccer team. He left us to be impossibly perfect in other ways by training to be a teacher and heading to remote communities for a year. Now he’s back, and rejoined our group.

“Can you not see it?” I ask her.

“What? Where?” She twists her head from side to side.

“Cole. He wants to be more than friends with you. Always did.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m glad he’s back though, I missed my friend and confidante.”

“You’re back to spending a lot of time together,” I remark.

“Of course. Plus he lives with my brother, I see him all the time.”

“Uh huh.”

“Uh huh, what?”

“I wish one of you would make a move. Five years is a ridiculous amount of time.”

“Exactly. If we had romantic feelings for each other, I think it would’ve happened.”

I’ve spoken to Cole about this too, and he denies it, hands down. Who knows? But I think Erin deserves a guy who’s nicer than the losers she keeps meeting. Not that I have much success with guys myself. Obviously.

Cole returns with another jar and bottle, which I pick up to examine the label. “Another horrible beer I haven’t heard of.”

“I like it.”

Erin takes a tentative swig from the bottle and sticks her tongue out. “Yuk. Tastes really bitter. Like yeast.” She grabs her drink and swills her mouth with it.

“After drinking that super sweet excuse for a drink, it would do,” he replies.

Kai faces away from me, chatting to a girl I don’t recognise. He doesn’t introduce us but that isn’t unusual because the girls don’t stay around long. He and Erin share the same facial symmetry that equals beauty—same olive green eyes and thick dark hair. Erin’s tumbles down her back, Kai has close-cropped, longer on top like most guys I come across. Tyler’s and Cole’s hair is lucky to see a comb more than once a month.

A guy walks through the door and I resist my first instinct to hide under the table. Marshall. With a girl. Well, there goes the idea that him not contacting me was because he’s too busy. Evidently busy—but not in the way I thought, judging by his hand on the girl’s ass. As they stand at the bar I cringe—his hand isn’t on her ass but roaming it.

Excuse me, Evie, but why the hell did you let that hand on you?

“Oh, fuck,” I mutter.

Marshall has mastered the art of dressing down but still looking dressed up. I swear I glimpsed rows of colour co-ordination in his open wardrobe.

The problem is he knows how to dress to impress and Jesus did my hormones know about it. Unfortunately, his sexual prowess did not match up to the image of perfection in front of me.

Some guys base their lovemaking on the porn they watch too much of. Love-making? Ha. Seriously, ‘making love’ is the phrase this guy used on me, but clothes off and we’re talking downright selfish, dirty fucking. No eye contact, nothing. Which is difficult if he’s slamming into me from behind. I haven’t seen much porn, but it was as if he followed a script. Marshall took a shower straight after, so I curled up under his expensive cotton sheets, half-expecting him to strip the bed and send me home.

“What’s wrong?” asks Erin.

“Marshall,” I whisper, eyeing the guys at the table for their reactions. They carry on their conversation, oblivious.

“Can you please enlighten me why you fell for his bullshit and into his bed?”

And that question is the one circling my mind since I woke up in his bed and wanted to get the hell out as quickly as possible.

I rub a finger along the condensation on my glass. “The first time I met him, he smelt nice.”

“Smelt nice? And that’s your criteria?”

“One of. He hits a few items on my list. Want to hear them?”

“You’re odd. Go on.”

“One, smells nice, obviously. Two, forearms.” I point at mine. “Don’t care about biceps but a nice forearm, mmm. And number three, feet. Not gross feet.”

“Gross feet?”

I shudder. “I don’t like feet.”

“I suspect you weren’t looking at his feet.”

“And four, jewellery. Hate jewellery on a guy.”

“You do realise that you are only talking about appearance, Evie? That’s not good.”

I sip my bourbon and coke. “So? Guys make their decisions based on how a girl looks.”

“But do you like an intelligent guy, serious conversations, or a funny guy who goofs around? What about how he treats other people...animals?”

“Now you’re sounding weird. If you hooked up with him, for instance.” I point at the barman, who I swear throws a coy smile in her direction. “Would you have deep and meaningfuls first?”

“Not deep, but a chat. That’s why I meet up with every guy who contacted me on Tinder so far.”

“Like an interview? Maybe if you stopped trying to find a complete stranger who ticks boxes, you could naturally meet a decent guy.”

“Isn’t it easier to find out everything up front? Some guys just hide who they are.”

I splutter. “And people never hide who they are online, do they?” I shake my head and touch her arm. “Just be careful.”

“That’s what I tell her,” says Cole in a gruff voice. “There’re a lot of weirdos out there.”

“Like people who collect kids’ toys?” she asks and cocks a brow at him.

“What?”

“Those plastic character thingies.”

“POP!s? They’re not kids’ toys.”

“And comics. They’re for kids.”

Cole opens his mouth and I swear he’s about to protest until the look he gives becomes more despairing than insulted. “I’m just saying, be careful.”

“I’m not stupid.”

Cole and me glance at each other. No, but there’s a vulnerable naivety at her edges, one a sweet talker might take advantage of.

“Well, I can’t be bothered chasing Marshall or anybody,” I say. “I don’t want to become invested in somebody and take on their issues. I’m young, I’ll have fun, and when I’m all grown up, I’ll find a decent guy.”

I watch Marshall as he turns, holding two drinks, and scans the bar. His eyes rest on the group and the bastard doesn’t even approach to say hello: a quick look in my direction and away again. A surprise pang twists my stomach.

My intoxicated brain often suggests a one-night with a guy could be fun and no-strings, but the next day I feel awkward and usually wish I hadn’t succumbed. Despite my protests that I don’t want a steady relationship, my romantic life continues to plummet downhill.

Life is definitely easier in the game. I should stick to finding my thrills in there.

I study the girl. She should consider climbing out of the window like Erin did, because all she has to look forward to later is the enjoyment of the ‘sex-by-numbers’ Marshall follows.

Refusing to allow Marshall the satisfaction he’s spoiled my evening, I turn my back to him, and attempt to join in a conversation non-relationship related.

Five minutes later, unable to distract myself with tales of nights out I don’t attend, I pull out my phone and open the game app again.

Not only are the herb prices bad, but ore inflation is insane this week. Market cornered, I’m in charge of how that part of the game economy goes; my strategies keep the gold rolling in. Nobody matches my skill playing the trading house, but somebody is trying.

I need to go home and fix this—I’m not being screwed over twice in one week.