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The restaurant door opens, and I glance up to see a group of young men come into the restaurant. More like boys, really. They look like they’re around my age. Then I notice that a couple of them are wearing jackets emblazoned with the logo of a college, and I realize they must be.
How funny that I’m already thinking of them as just boys, in comparison to Oz. God, I don’t know how I’m ever going to find a man in my own life that could compare to him. It’s just a shame that this isn’t going to last.
The boys are a little loud as they settle into the next table over, talking between themselves about some upcoming party and who they’re going to invite. A couple of them have flushed cheeks, and I wonder if they started the night by drinking somewhere else. It’s legal here, I guess. And if they are college students already, they’re older than me. Plus, it’s getting later into the evening now. I suppose I shouldn’t judge.
“How was everything?” the waiter asks, coming over to start clearing our plates.
“It was amazing, thank you,” I say warmly, smiling at him. He’s been nothing but polite. I know it’s his job, but sometimes waiters can be surly or just put in the minimum effort. He’s been the picture of good service. “I think Oz just wanted to get the check.”
“Certainly,” the waiter nods, moving away with his perfectly stacked pile of plates.
“Hey, you’re American,” one of the boys at the next table says. I look around, blinking, and realize that he’s talking to me.
“Um, yes,” I say, not sure if that was a question or just a statement.
“Where you from?” he asks, even though one of his friend’s snickers, says “Harry”, and tries to pull him back by the arm. He ignores them, twisting in his seat towards me.
“I’m from San Francisco,” I say, because the question seems innocent enough, and it would be rude not to answer. “California.”
“We know where San Fran is,” Harry chuckles. He looks me over in a way that makes me feel instantly uncomfortable. Like he’s studying my body. He doesn’t have any right to do that. “What are you doing over here, then?”
“Looking at colleges,” I say, trying to keep my calm. I don’t want to panic. He’s just a little drunk and making conversation. That’s all.
“Oh, yeah?” Harry glances around at his friends. “We’re college students, love. You should come to our dorm with us tonight, so we can show you around.”
A few of them laugh again, hiding it fairly badly behind their hands. “We’re having a party,” one of the others says. “It’s not open to everyone, but you look cute enough to get in.”
“Cute enough?” I say, frowning a little. I didn’t mean to react, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. Actually, I’m thinking I should try to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible.
“Well, we can’t have just anyone come in,” Harry says, egged on by his friend’s boldness. “We only let in the hottest girls. You can hang with us, though.”
I stare at him, and then away from the table, wishing he would shut up and leave me alone. I don’t want this kind of attention. I don’t like the way it makes me feel, and I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Like I might owe him something if he lets me come to his party.
I don’t want to go to his party.
“I don’t want to go to any parties,” I say because it’s true and it’s in my head already and I might as well say it. “I’ve got a lot of tours to go to in the morning.”
“We’ll give you a much better tour than that, won’t we, lads?” Harry says. He moves suddenly, making me flinch, and before I can properly react he’s sitting next to me in the vacant chair that was between us. He slips his arm around the back of my chair, making me shift forward away from it. But that only leaves me feeling more vulnerable and exposed, and closer to him anyway.
“Come on, say you’ll come,” one of the others says. “We’ll take you there after we eat.”
“Gentlemen,” someone says, and I look up to see the waiter. He looks as harassed as I feel. He’s got a worried look on his face, too, like he wants to calm the situation down but doesn’t know how. “May I take your orders?”
“Not just yet,” Harry says, leaning closer to me even while talking to the waiter. “We’re still deciding what we want off the menu.”
I want to get up and leave. I want the waiter to say something to save me. I want the chef, Marco, to come back out and tell these boys to get out and leave, but none of that is happening. And I don’t know how much longer Oz is going to be.
