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I talk without knowing where I’m going, trying to string meaning to my original darkness metaphor.
“In the dark, it might be quiet or there are sounds. The room can be the same or different. You know where you are or you don’t. None of it matters when he’s there, because Huan works it out. There’s nothing wrong with him. He's so competent, like a walking comfort zone where you don't have to think. He works it out, and sure, I can get so bothered by his presence and… and… I should hate this—but I’m also absurdly settled when he’s doing his job.”
“Job?”
“J-job as a boyfriend. Of course.”
“Do youwantto be open? It sounds like you care about him. It sounds like you love?—”
Love?!
“Yes, I’m sure!” I say, cutting her off.
Brutally aware of everything I said, I feel like an instrument was jammed into my side, opening a window to a place I didn’t need to see or declare. Obviously, Huan and I are not in love. Not even close. That is an insane notion. But what about the other silly stuff I said?Like him making me feel settled and safe?
It’s cool, I’m pretending. All of this is in the capacity of a bodyguard.
Repeat: Huan is paid to be here.
I am his literal job.
Shaking it off, I smile at Rachel. “We’re figuring it out! Should we head back to mine so I can change for tonight?” I say this loudly enough so Huan can hear and trail behind—hopefully from a far distance.
Because I can’t imagine what he’ll think of me now. At least, until I tell him all my words were exaggerated for Rachel’s sake. That I know we don’t have any kind of relationship beyond necessity. He’s not special in my life, and I’m not special in his. It’s an exchange of money for services rendered.
Even though—for a bit—we need to pretend.
The objectives for tonight’s party are clear. I need to make sure Rachel does not guess I am tangentially famous. I will also have Huan watch me sordidly pick up other men (can’t forget that)… while I convince Rachel that Huan and I are in an open relationship.
This is what it means to be un-boring, Komal. Remember, this is what this whole trip is about!
EIGHT
I am going to squeeze this London party like a rolled up lemon between my teeth. Not because I haven’t partied before—I have, albeit in rich kid settings—but because I know there’s a three week timer hanging on my London experience, and I’m hungry for the exhilaration to start. Not the kind you get from jumping from a plane or anything planned like that. No, I want the kind that bubbles giddy anticipation under your skin. I mean, the kind that has you slugging back drinks at the bar until you’ve drunk enough boldness to approach strangers around you. When a ragtag group forms, and with more drinking, we become eager moths. Fluttering. Connecting. Over-sharing. Toppling into a climax of obscene joy. Tabletop dancing. Or hooking up in a hostel bathroom.
According to Rachel, that is the pinnacle of hostel travelling when you are single. Horny sex in the only place you’ll find privacy, andsignificantlybetter than fucking in a shared hostel room while others pretend to sleep around you. Bathrooms are socially acceptable. Doable. And… sexy? In aI Lust For Your Cock So Much This Toilet Doesn’t Even Existway.
Anyway, I’ve already drunk a good amount. We started early. After we went to my hostel and I changed, Rachel and I went tohers and drank some beers she had stowed in her room before we came downstairs to the attached bar.
Now Rachel sucks the last of her margarita dry. The corners of her mouth curl. “We should get another round from the English suits that came in.”
I pull my eyes to the direction of the entrance, passing over other partiers milling around us. The night is halfway done, crowd medium sparse but enthusiastic. Apparently, despite the insane amount of options London offers, people other than us pick this spot to hang out. Maybe because it feels like we’re in a brick cellar that could double as a bomb shelter and that’s aesthetically intimate, or maybe because if you’re staying at the hostel, you can just get sloshed and conveniently go upstairs to bed after tiring of getting sloshed.
Not that the “English suits” Rachel is checking out look like they’re from the hostel. Usually hostel travellers are identified by multi-purpose clothing. One pair of pants or a shirt or a dress must work in different outfits, the fabric rollable without getting overly wrinkly. Merino wool is a good giveaway.
But these men have fancy navy dress pants, button downs and ties on.
“Bankers,” Rachel supplies, before tugging me out of my seat and pulling us towards them. She doesn’t want us to approach the newcomers, but to oscillate in their general area like hummingbirds with come hither glances. We pick up pool cues and begin: the caressing of long sticks, Rachel bending to review angles on the billiard table we aren’t using properly, and long back arches as if we’ve become cat women.
Two of them amble over. And they are objectively attractive in a British way if your frame of reference for British men is the first result of a Google search. Brown hair (height gifted by product), Caucasian, long straight noses, and tilted grins that produce, at minimum, one charming cheek dimple. One is talland lanky. The other is shorter and broader. Either qualify as footballer bodies, I imagine.
“I’m Judd,” says the shorter one. “This is Tom.”
“I’m Rachel. This is Komal.”
Eyes go up and down. I don’t know whether to be flattered or objectified, so I land on neither. Clearing his throat, Tom asks, “Where are you ladies from? And what brings you to London?”
Rachel gives him a searching look. “Is that the best opening you got? Or can I hear a more outrageous one because we’re the outrageous sort of people you should try to impress?”
