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The tiny voice that's suggested one day Bryn would call me for another date is silenced. Who am I kidding? He's a rock star. She’s a leggy blonde. They’re a match. I'm an idiot.
“I'm leaving,” I say firmly.
“Aww.” He pouts in an exaggerated manner and drops my hand. “Call me?”
Without responding, I head to my friends across the pub and grab my bag with shaking hands. “I'm going. I have things to do.”
“Was that—?” begins Ben.
“See you at the house.”
Before I'm assailed with twenty questions about Bryn or Ruby Riot, I hightail it out of the pub in case anything else disastrous or mortifying happens.
