I’m not this person. Not the guy who runs from social situations, though not through lack of wanting to. I make it my business to be someone people want to be around. Who they actively engage with, even if it depletes my energy levels faster than Eggo’s Subaru burning through petrol on the M4. I don’t know what’s got into me.
My head’s spinning. It’s the booze, or I’m getting sick, or it’s all the thoughts inside it. All these new feelings swirling about. I’ve shaken the image of Abs’s boyfriend’s butthole, so why am I still being weird about it?
I’m not jealous. Am I? Am I jealous of saucy lace undies and raunchy secret photos?
Whenever I’ve asked Abs about his relationship with Orlando and whether they’ve slept together yet, he replies with,“No, we don’t really do that.”The “really” part of his statement always throws me off. You can hide a lot of baggage behind the word “really.”
And why doesn’t he want to tell me? We’re best bros. Aren’t we supposed to tell each other everything?
I have a girlfriend. In a manner of speaking. I shouldn’t be jealous.
I’m not jealous.
I’m happy for Abs and Orlando.
It’s only because I’m worried about my bro. That has to be it. They’re not officially a couple, and I’m pretty sure Abs is in love with the guy. I don’t want him to get hurt. That’s where this odd, unsettled sensation is coming from. I should say something to Orlando, threaten him or something.
Fuck, maybe it’s Gadget. Who’d have ever thought I’d have a thing for low-rise jhorts?
I close my eyes and lean my head against the limewashed pub wall.
No, that’s not it. Those aren’t the reasons I feel weird.
“Diglett,” a gruff voice says, piercing through the stillness of the night.
I open my eyes as though waking from a dream. I hadn’t heard Eggo approach, but he’s standing in front of me now in his full bucket helmet and jocks regalia, holding what appears to be a piña colada in each hand. He knocks one against my fingers, and I accept it.
“Diglett?” he says again, like a question this time. I hear,“Wasson?”
I have no idea how well Eggo can see through his mask, but I take a few moments to gather what’s left of my spiralling thoughts before answering him.
It’s a clear night. Since moving to Bath, I’ve developed a new level of understanding for the phrase “blanket of stars.” They really do cover the entire sky. Especially out here in Mudford-upon-Hooke, where Owen and Gadget’s pub lives. To overthinkers and Trekkies like me, stars are like crack.
Eggo doesn’t rush me for an answer, even though I’ve been silent for a couple of minutes. He manoeuvres his cocktail to the base of his helmet and takes a noisy slurp through the straw.
“Do you ever just know something’s . . . amiss, even if nothing is evidently wrong?” I say eventually.
“Diglett?” he replies. Probable translation:“What’s up, me ’ansum?”
“I feel like . . .” I pause, wonder how much I should tell him, or whether I should even have such a serious conversation with a guy clad in only jocks and a helmet. A guy who so far has communicated tonight solely through the use of one singular Pokémon name.
Fuck it, Eggo’s here and he’s willing to listen, which is more than I can say about my smitten, arsehole-obsessed best mate.
“I feel like I’m missing out on something.”
“Diglett?” (Missing out on what?)
“Honestly, I have no idea. Everyone is living their life, doing the things they want to be doing, and here I am still trying to figure out what it is I want to be doing. I have FOMO, and I don’t know what for.”
“Diglett.” (Pard, that’s deep.)
I nod, not even annoyed that he’s not communicating with proper words. This is probably what therapy’s like.
“Have you ever felt like you aren’t really participating in your own life? I dunno . . .” I glance up at the stars again. Saturn isso bright tonight. I love it when the planets are visible to the naked eye. “I’m twenty-three, I’m still so fucking young, but I feel like I’m just waiting for the next thing to happen to me. Like . . .” Urgh, I hate how deep this has become suddenly. “Like I’m chasing happiness. I keep thinking I’ll be happy if this thing or that thing happens, but so far . . .” I shrug.
Eggo says nothing. Not even his Pokémon name.
Evidently, I have not finished. “I thought that leaving Perth would make me happy. I thought going on an adventure to the other side of the planet would make me happy. I thought playing rugby professionally would make me happy. I thought buying a house and a car and getting a dog would make me happy, and fuck, I am happy. It’s just that I see other people being . . . happier, and it feels like I haven’t reached my full happiness potential.”
