The Bright Side

Chapter 15 - Part 3

SKY

I'm seriously going to wet myself any second now. I don't know much about human physiology, but I feel like my heartbeat is pushing so much blood through my kidneys that they can't do other than... work. I can't get up, though; my knees are wobbly and I'm afraid that I'll just drop to the ground when I give up on the support of my bar stool.

"Alright, mate?" Jo wipes the counter in front of me and eyes me carefully. She's quiet today. It's a version of Jo I only ever caught glimpses at, but it's one of my favourites. It means she's all there. For me.

"Splendid," I huff.

I shoot the umpteenth glance at the glass entrance door and feel kind of relieved to see that it's firmly shut and that no one is about to change that any time soon. Solely an army of raindrops is besieging the bar, knocking against the windows, trying to find a way inside. Foxy Roxy's is still empty, which is to be expected on an early Saturday morning and the comfy chairs grouped around small tables look a bit lost without any students to occupy them.

"Here," Jo says and sets a shot glass down in front of me. "Don't ask - bottoms up."

"It's ten in the morning," I say feebly.

"Yeah, yeah. It's ten in the morning and you don't drink, but I suggest you down it nonetheless, because you look like you're going to faint any second." She nudges the glass towards me.

"If you say so."

I grab the shot glass and gulp the burning liquid down. It settles down in my stomach, cuddling up to its insides and I have to admit that it feels kind of nice although it doesn't quite manage to erase all of my tension. Another might, though, and I point towards the glass and nod.

Jo smirks and fills my glass again and I quickly knock it back so its friend inside my stomach will have a comrade in arms against my nervousness.

"One more?"

"Eh, no. I might want to stay sober," I tap my fingers against the wooden surface of the counter. "What's the time exactly?"

The entrance door opens and both our heads fly towards it to see the person entering I've been waiting for. He dumps his umbrella in the rack and hangs up his trench coat on the never used wardrobe. His smile seems self-assured, but his eyes do go wide for a split second as they find me, and he slowly navigates through the furnishing on his way to the bar. He's dressed casually – for a politician, just like when we met in Seaford, wearing corduroy trousers and a pullover over a shirt.

"Seems like it's time," Jo states and takes up re-polishing the glasses on the shelves behind the counter.

"Hello, Sky," the father says as he takes a seat next to me and holds his hand out. His professional posture somehow reminds me of Simon Grant.

"Hello, ..." I hesitate. I have no idea how to address him. Tristan's suggestion of calling him Rupert comes to mind and I swallow the chuckle as well as the smile.

"John. My name is John," he says, as if it wasn't anything out of the ordinary to have to introduce yourself to your offspring.

"Hello, John," I repeat and finally manage to lay my hand in his. His grip is warm, dry and tight. "Alright?"

"Alright," he firmly shakes my hand and sits down next to me at the bar.

Jo appears before us and nods towards the father – John. "What can I get you?"

"Coffee, please," he orders without hesitation. "And one of those," he gestures to the empty shot glasses in front of me.

My heart nudges my rib cage, trying to make me say something, but I just don't know what. I watch Jo's back stretching as she grabs another shot glass from the top shelf. She pours some caramel brown liquid in and sets it down and the father – John – knocks it back just like I did seconds ago. After that, we sit in silence and just shoot each other side glances – mine rather helpless and his biding. I try to figure him out, try to figure out how he's feeling about seeing me – hell, I'm trying to figure out how I feel about seeing him again, although I've been the one to initiate this. His face is calm, apparently, he's reading the menu on the big sign behind the counter and his posture is relaxed, only his fingers tap silently against the surface. Just like mine, in sync with my heartbeat. I watch his fingers, the choreography they dance on the battered wood – little finger first and then the others one by one and the index last – and it mirrors my own tic exactly. He notices it, too, just the second I force my hands to remain flat on the counter. A side-glance later his eyes return to my hands and my nails (metallic teal), flicker back to my face before he silently stares at the mirror behind the shelves again.