College Ruled

two

| 02 |
___________

AS IT turns out, I'm not as smooth as my imagination likes to tell me I am.

        Now, I'm not a regularly clumsy person. But I've had a few drinks and even with the carbs soaking in my stomach, I'm known to be a bit of a lightweight.

        Which is something I should be cautious about as I struggle my way to the other side of the bar—fresh drink in hand and my false confidence in the other—but it isn't.

        Because I, Remedy Clarke, am always overestimating myself.

        It's one of my many fatal flaws. It's why I do worse on the exams I'm the most confident in or why I'm always running late even though I swear I know the best short-cuts or why Leyla's favorite phrase for me is 'this is so not a good idea' anytime I'm positively dead set on doing something she knows is dumb.

        And tonight, it's why I blindly believe I can approach a guy without making a complete fool out of myself.

        The sea of people spreading around the bar thickens by the second, a bunch of alcohol-induced parasites slithering in and out to fight for their next buzz.

        The clock next to the liquor shelf reads one forty-five. Fifteen minutes to last call.

        Which is still the perfect amount of time to waste on some good old-fashioned (hopefully semi-stimulating) conversation, so that I can at least tell Christina I didn't spend the entire night sulking.

        Everything according to plan.

        It's when I make it to his side of the bar that my problem arises. A problem that comes in the form of a pair of frat boy wannabes, staggering into my path on their way back to the dancefloor.

        A new song chooses that moment to come on, blasting Drake through the distant speakers, and they both pause. Slowly, they turn to each other, grin like two kids in the final showdown of some battle royale, and let out identical, drawn out, "shiiiiit"s.

        They promptly burst into a lopsided, lyrical screaming match.

        And I power forward, assuming (hello fatal flaw) that I can gracefully step out of the way to avoid smacking right into their now-bobbing shoulders.

        What I don't account for is the uneven, cheap carpeting and my currently imbalanced reflex skills.

        And to make matters worse, the guy doesn't see it coming.

        Because of course he doesn't.

        He must've lost track of me when I left my original perch by the bar, because his eyes are still wandering over in that direction. And he doesn't notice me again until after I stumble forward and dump my drink all over the side of his white T-shirt.

        It was full—Danny's very generous with the drinks he pours me—and strong; the sweet stench of amaretto is immediate. Which, granted, isn't the worst smelling alcohol, but I'm sure he still doesn't appreciate having to use it as a makeshift cologne.

        The three amaretto cherries that I'd dropped in the drink roll off his lap and land by his feet.

        "Motherfucker," I hiss.

         The curse is aimed entirely at myself and the coordination skills that chose this specific moment to screw me over, but by the scowl that delicately burrows into his lips and the crease in his forehead when he glances down at his soaked shirt, he doesn't take it that way.