Page 50 of The F*ck-It List

“Actually, phones are banned, and if you do bring one, Eli will make you put it in a plastic baggie on the bar,” I say, putting my hands in my pocket so I don’t give in to the invasive thought to twine my fingers with hers as we walk up the road.

“Oh, okay,” she says easily. “Bye Cas!” she shouts behind her before stepping outside and closing the door without waiting for a response.

“Don’t you need keys?” I frown down at her.

“Got them, look! My dress has pockets!” She shoves her hands in said pockets and pulls her dress in several different directions to demonstrate, the jingling confirming her keys are safe inside. Shelooks up at me with a beaming smile that makes that familiar pull in my chest start tugging like mad. It’s a feeling I’ve only experienced in this woman’s presence, I’m starting to think of it as the Bea sensation.

We start up toward the pub, it’s only twenty feet away, so I set a slow pace and take a deep breath to try and suck up the courage I need to apologise to Bea. Again. “So,” I start. “About the other day—”

“It’s fine, August,” she says, looking at the road in front of her feet rather at me. “We got caught up in a moment; we don’t need to be awkward about it. Let’s just move on. We’re friends, right?”

She looks up at me again, her smile still fixed in place, but her eyes not quite caught up to it. For some reason, her declaring us as friends makes my stomach twist, a bitter taste in my mouth. I nod in reluctant agreement, and we keep walking.

“I didn’t know if you’d remembered about tonight,” I say, trying to move on from the disappointment weighing down my footsteps.

“Oh, I couldn’t forget. Joanie’s been texting me all day and your mum called about an hour ago to tell me to snack on some nuts because they’re good brain food.”

I laugh and she beams up at me like the sound makes her happy. “I think they’re excited to have a reader on the team. We do okay at these things, but usually end up arguing over answers. Be prepared to be the deciding vote.”

“That sounds so fun for me,” she says brightly, and I laugh a little.

My hand goes to the small of her back as we get to the door of the pub, and I push it open to guide her through. The place is packed, it always is on quiz nights, the whole village squeezes into the relatively small bar, raucous laughter and chatter happening in every corner.Eli’s moving with practiced ease behind the bar, serving drinks to those ordering for their tables.

“Yo, don’t forget your cover charge,” Connor shouts at us, weaving through the crowd toward Bea and I, shaking a big red bucket that jingles with change. “It’s a tenner each, cough up,” he says shaking the bucket right under my nose.

I’m too busy batting my nephew away to notice Bea reaching into her pocket to pull out a coin purse.

“Oh Unc,” Connor says disappointedly, shaking his head and tutting. “Don’t let the lady pay. Bad form.”

I catch Bea’s hand before she’s able to drop the notes into the bucket and gently guide it back to her body whilst simultaneously glaring at Connor who gives me a shit-eating grin. I take my wallet from my back pocket and drop a twenty into the bucket.

“Is that it?” Connor frowns.

“You said ten each!”

“Yeah, but it’s for charity,” he argues. “And I know Mrs Martin just paid you to fix the leaking tap in her utility rom. You like leaky taps, easy money, you call them. Might as well put that dollar to good use.” Connor shrugs, pouting his lips and tilting his head from side to side. The little shit.

Bea’s head is tipped down, and I know she’s hiding her amusement, which only makes Connor act up more, waggling his eyebrows out of pure cheek.

I huff at him and slip another ten into the bucket, guiding Bea away before the kid swindles me of more money. Mum, Dad, and Joanie are sat at a table in a far corner and welcome us with excited smiles.

“Perfect timing,” Mum says with a clap of her hands. “We were just choosing a team name.”

“What’s wrong with our regular team name?” I say, pulling out a chair and taking a seat, my large frame barely fitting in the space available. Bea scoots into the bench seating next to Joanie, the two of them hugging in greeting.

“We can’t be The Zeligs,” Joanie tells me like I’m an idiot. “We have Bea and she’s not a Zelig.”

The wordyetfleetingly passes through my head, and I look around accusingly, like someone put it there.

“What about our initials?” Dad suggests.

“What, S.P.J.A.B?” Joanie screws her face up. “Bit of a mouthful.”

“Bea and the Zees,” I say, pulling the answer sheet away from Mum and snatching the pencil from Joanie. “I’ve decided, and I’m the official writer.”

“Says who?” Joanie snaps.

“Me, I’m the biggest.”