Page 16 of Sad Girl Hours
Chapter Sixteen
Nell
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
“Excellent work, lads,” I say, taking it all in. “Love the commitment to the theme.”
“Yes, thank you,” Saffron says, giving Vivvie a squeeze before turning back to me. “Can’t believe that combined we’re the age of one middle-aged woman.”
“We should get new names for the evening. I’ll be Sharon, you be Linda.”
“You’re not two forty-year-olds,” Casper interjects. “Just one.”
“Fine, then we’ll both be Sharon.” I address Saffron specifically now. “Happy Birthday, Sharon darling.”
“Happy Birthday, Sharon. It’s an honour to Shareon this special occasion with you.”
Vivvie looks at Saffron like she wants to kill her, while I look on with unabashed pride.
“Maybe you have become the same person,” Jenna says. “That was alarmingly Nell-coded of you.”
“I’ve never been prouder of you, Sharon,” I add, and when she laughs I feel like all the glitter on the decorations around us sparkles even more.
An hour later and we’re both changed (Saffron into a beautiful yellow satin dress and crocheted cardigan – sunflower necklace still shining golden on her chest – me into a brown and orange seventies floral maxi with classic swooping sleeves) and the party is well and truly under way.
Given we spend the bulk of our time just with each other, we’ve acquired a rather large cumulative acquaintance.
There are a few of my poetry-course mates and a few from the creative-writing modules I share with Jenna, a whole bunch of people from Saffron and Casper’s Athletics Club, and loads of Vivvie’s friends from her course that we met at the showcase at the end of last year.
They’re an almost obnoxiously queer group, none of the minimalist straight girlies apparently allowed, and all of them are – naturally – in incredible outfits.
I end up with their group a couple of hours into the night.
I danced a bunch with the main gang in the lounge, then got my snack on with the spread in the kitchen, beating Casper in a ‘who can catch the most jelly beans in their mouth’ competition.
I have another frenzied dance session when Saffron queues up several Britney songs in a row, before finally collapsing with Vivvie and her friends in the corner.
“Happy Birthday, Nell!” Evie grins at me.
They’re a non-binary lesbian, tonight wearing a playsuit that reveals a lot of leg and enormous – and very unnecessary – glasses balanced purposefully on their bright green hair.
“I love all the decorations,” they say, nodding to the Happy 40th!
balloons. “And just FYI – I famously have a thing for older women.” They wink at me and I have no idea what to do besides awkwardly laugh.
Vivvie looks even more vaguely amused than usual at this. “You’re a menace, Evie.”
Evie shrugs, still looking at me. “Nell doesn’t mind, do you?”
Nell does mind actually. Nell doesn’t know how to deal with flirting and especially not from people she doesn’t know. But… “Whatever,” I say, trying to be casual and ignore the fact that they’re still looking at me and I’d quite like to spray them in the face with a water pistol.
Apparently, that sentiment didn’t come across, however. Evie leans forward, smiling at me. “Would you like to dance?”
“Erm…”
Vivvie and all her friends are watching expectantly. I don’t particularly want to dance, no, but I also don’t see what harm one dance could do – maybe it’ll get them to back off a bit and I can go find Saffron or Jenna again.
“Sure,” I say.
“Excellent.” Evie stands up and takes me by the hand to pull me into the swell of people already dancing. I resist the urge to pull it right back out again.
The speakers are playing a classic 2000s boy band bop with a catchy tune and sneakily explicit lyrics when you actually pay attention – which I usually do.
Evie raises their hands over their head and sways their hips from side to side to the rhythm of the song.
I try to do my own thing at first but, by the time it’s hit the bridge, their arm has snaked round my waist and I’m forced to mirror their movements.
I’m starting to feel like my insides are itchy , so I decide to de-escalate the situation by making some polite chit-chat.
“I saw a couple of your pieces at the end-of-year showcase last year. I really liked the red dress you made with the high collar thing.”
“Thank you.” Their other hand lands on my hipbone. “It was meant to represent the lust people feel towards the fast-fashion industry and how it has a chokehold on our psyches.”
“Wow,” I say, and I’m not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. They remain blissfully unaware of the ridiculous pretentiousness of their sentence, instead looking vaguely smug, clearly taking my ‘wow’ at face value.
“You should speak to Saffron,” I say, trying to continue the conversation, but also hoping they don’t so that Saffron isn’t subjected to all of this . “She’s really into sustainable fashion. She talks about it a lot on her TikTok.”
“Mmm, maybe I will,” they say. “But I’m enjoying talking to you right now.”
“Oh,” I say. “Good?”
The song changes to a slower one, a Hozier song that I added to the playlist and am now intensely regretting as Evie somehow moves closer still. “Vivvie says you’re a poet.”
“I am,” I say.
“Impressive.” Their mouth curls up at one side. “You know, if you ever need a muse, feel free to give me a call.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
They’re still looking at me with that half-smirk smile, very close to my face, and my insides still feel hot, but definitely not in the good kind of way I hear people talk about.
There are people all around us dancing and laughing, the terraced house suddenly feeling smaller, like the walls are pressing in to give the houses on either side a more spacious kitchen.
I don’t want to be here, with this person so close to me uninvited.
I only properly met them today. Why would they think I want them all up in my personal space?
It only occurs to me then that I’m a (sort of) adult person, and if I don’t want to be somewhere, I can leave. My years of masking to the point of burnout are done . I don’t have to pretend any more if I don’t want to. And, right now, I definitely don’t want to.
“It’s been lovely,” I say. It’s a lie but I allow myself it as part of my exit plan. “But I could really use some fresh air.”
Evie’s smirk grows. “Well, we could—”
“See you later!” I say, removing their limbs from my body. “Enjoy the party. Make sure you try one of Casper’s spinach puffs – they’re delicious.”
And, with that, I dodge round the other dancers and leave Evie to ponder what just happened.
What just happened, I think to myself, is that they’re a pretentious person who’s terrible at reading people’s body language. I never used to be great at it either but I practised . I had to. Evie should borrow my notes.
I go to head into the courtyard but find it’s already at max capacity with three people smoking, so I work my way back through the house to the street outside and perch on the wall, staring up at the sky, willing a shooting star to come past so I can make a wish.
Because the thing is, yes, Evie is moderately insufferable, but that doesn’t seem to stop straight women being attracted to men. Evie is, objectively, attractive (physically, at least), but I still wanted to scream a little bit when they touched me. I don’t think that’s normal.
I could blame not being allistic, but I actually really like being physically affectionate with people I’m comfortable with.
Saffron and I walk arm in arm or sometimes hand in hand, and Jenna and I are notorious snugglers, but this felt different.
Loaded. Like the hand on my hipbone was a beginning, rather than an act on its own.
And whatever it was the beginning to, the idea of there being a middle and an end to it make me want to – again – scream.
Why would I want any of that with a stranger?
The thought comes to my head again, though: lots of people would. Lots of people would be thrilled, even flattered, by attention like that, regardless of whether they knew the person or not. Maybe even most people.
Most people.
Just not me.