Page 6 of Shipwrecked

“Why should you be twenty-one?”

“I started college a year late. I should have graduated last year.”

“Got it. You’re the type to have a life plan.” I’m not surprised. “What’s next for you?”

“Event planning. I should get offers for four of the places I applied to. Maybe five. I didn’t gel with the last interviewer.”

He’s not going to look away, I realise. He’s waiting for me to do it. I let my gaze drop to his arm, releasing the pressure on him, and add the last stroke of the triskele. He holds perfectly still. “How’s that? I think it turned out pretty well.”

“Great. Now do ten more going down my arm. And can you connect them the way your tattoos all weave together?”

“Alright, bossy.”

Jules tenses and pulls his arm from my grip, getting off the table with a slight wobble. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to be—sorry.”

“I didn’t mean—”

He’s already marching across the room to Charles and Yasop. “Ready?”

Jules puts his management skills on full display and ushers everyone towards the nightclub, not even glancing in my direction.

I’m left behind, paintbrush in hand, tip wet. I close the paint jars, rinse everyone’s brushes in a small sink tucked in the corner, and leave the tables set for the next group.

The nightclub is packed with holiday-goers and locals, the air ripe with sweat and drink. I don’t mind the mass of bodies weaving together on the dance floor, or the friends bunched together doing shots. But my eye catches on the two friends on top of each other, declaring meaningless lifelong devotion. They’re talking over each other, neither listening to the other.

When Seán started drinking and blurting out drunken declarations of brotherly affection, I used to get upset. I’d wait for morning, nonsensically expecting all trace of care to be gone. Care that existed before the drink.

I grab another Coke from the bar and find Seán at a table tagged with a ‘reserved’ sign. I take a seat.

I’m talked at throughout the night, everyone asking about my tattoos, on what side of the family I’m related to Seán, what I do for a living. They spill their guts about how they bombed their final exams and assignments. They’re all so glad it’s over, but now they’re afraid of what comes next. Jules politely ignores me, getting steadily drunker with each hour. He’s currently knocking back a shot of Jack Daniel’s alone at the bar.

Seán leans towards me. “Maybe he is upset about Darren. He doesn’t usually drink this much.”

Jules stumbles away from the bar and weaves through the crowd towards the bathrooms. It can’t be my fault, right? One little “bossy” remark? I didn’t mean it in a negative way. There’s nothing I appreciate more than someone with initiative. All of my girlfriends have been bossy.

“I’ll check on him.” I get up.

“Why don’t I do it? Maybe he wants to talk.”

Seán makes to stand just as Mary descends on the table with a smile. “We won!” Willow follows with a tray of drinks. Mary slides into the seat next to Seán, trapping him in the booth. I indicate the direction Jules disappeared in.

I skirt around the edges of the dance floor and enter the long hallway leading to the bathroom. As I turn the corner, I come up short, almost knocking Jules and Mathieu over. Before I can say a word, Mathieu kisses Jules.

Neither seems prepared for Mathieu’s weight to be suddenly thrown at Jules, least of all Jules. He stumbles, and I catch him. Mathieu pushes forward, as if pressing Jules against a wall and not my chest. They’re two shorties, the top of Jules’s head brushing my chin.

“What?” Jules mumbles.

“You and Darren are broken up, yes?” Mathieu checks. When he pulls back, I glimpse his black eyes, glazed over. His bouncy curls are messy, and his tan shirt clings to his body. He’s hardly left the dance floor for five minutes.

“Je ne parle pas français,” Jules says.

I frown.

“I know, but I will not hold it against you.” Mathieu cups Jules’s face in his palms and kisses him again. Jules doesn’t seem to notice the second pair of hands on his waist, holding him up. He’s leaning into me, yielding to Mathieu’s every touch. He gasps. Mathieu responds with a hungry groan, pushing harder into him. Jules presses against my crotch.

“Guys,” I finally object. I’ve been watching them make out for an indecent amount of time. “I don’t want to drop you, but I will if you don’t get off me.”

Jules makes a noise, but Mathieu doesn’t let him go. Jules lifts both hands to Mathieu’s wrists, and I watch in morbid fascination at his non-effort to get Mathieu’s tongue out of his mouth.