My blood is humming.
“You good?” the bartender asks.
I take a gulp of water and wish fervently that it were Prince whiskey. “Yeah,” I rasp. “All good.”
Not fucking all good. Very bad, in fact. Terrible, really.
I text Whit. It’s four a.m. in Liverpool. He’ll be awake. He has a long run this morning and he likes to start before the streets get crowded.
Tristan
Help.
Whit
What happened? Did an underwear model hump you in public?
Tristan
Very funny. I was dancing with Katie and Ifelt something weird.
Whit
Tell me you did not get an erection.
Tristan
Nothing like that. Things just felt different for a minute.
Whit
Different how? You didn’t do anything did you?
Tristan
I would never.
And there’s the rub. I’m the worst kind of asshole. Dancing with Katie, touching her, liking it. Was I trying to turn her on?
I frown down at the bar.
If I was trying to do anything, it was show her how to feel good.
Tristan
I’m helping her get laid.
Whit
By sleeping with her yourself?
Tristan
Fuck. No. She said she wants to get a guy. I’m just showing her how to be confident.
She desperately needs it. I had no idea she was this shy around guys. There’s a burn in my throat at the thought of how she sees herself. As someone who missed out. As someone who needs to lower her expectations.
I finally look over at the dance floor. The guy is a crappy dancer.
