I breathe out a heavy sigh and sit down on a bar stool
.
Normally I love a challenge, but
I’m really not in the mood to be stranded on a r
ainy night in a foreign country
.
I’m
surrounded by
a mob
of partiers
and smoke so thick I could be sitting
in
side
a
burning
building
.
All I want is a
warm, quiet bed
.
I wipe wet strands of hair o
ff
my face and
stick out my bottom lip, forcing it to tremble
for
a
dramatic
effect
.
The
manager
i
sn’t
fooled
.
“
We’re
booked up,” he say
s and then he g
rins
.
“
But y
ou’re a cute girl
.
I’m sure you can
finagle your way into some bloke’s room.” He winks at me and I
frown
.
Does he think I’m going to put out
, just
for a place to crash
?
I know I’m
an
American
, but despite the rumors, we’re not
all
easy
.
I
wrap
my
stone-washed jean jacket
tighter around my chest and my teeth chatter
.
I
inherited
th
is
jacket
at a flea market in London
.
I
t loudly displays the British flag on both the front and back and it’s
so ugly
the person working the booth gave it to me for free
.
I fe
el
a special bond with the
coat
, like
we’re both
underdog
s
, just looking for people to love us for who we are
.
I know it’s strange to feel an emotional connection to a garment, but strange seems to summarize my thinking process in general
.
The inside of the coat is
even lined with red, white and blue stripped flannel
.
Bonus.
I drum my fingers on
top of
the bar
and
mentally sort through my cash
.
I have barely enough money to
pay for food and lodging for the next two weeks
, let alone budget
for a new wardrobe
.
Almost e
verything I own in my life was in
that
stupid luggage
.
All my clothes
.
An old
T
-shirt I stole from Gray that I sleep with every night and still smells like him
.
Souvenirs I bought for all my family and friends
.
Three journals I filled during the trip
.
A painting I bargained for from a
n
artist in Prague
.
A poster of the England Cricket team I bought for Gray
.
C
lean
, dry
un
derwear
.
I’m comforted to know
I still have my camera,
money and ID’s in my backpack
.
I try to count my blessings
.
I have my health, minus
all
this second hand smoke
.
I’m alive
.
I’m not in a gang
.
But for the first time since I’ve been traveling, I want to go home
.
I want to see
the calm eyes of
someone I trust
.
Gray’s eyes
.
I want t
o lie
on his warm chest in the dark
and
turn th
e music up and my thoughts down
.
My thoughts are interrupted
when a guy
wearing a shiny soccer jersey
falls against me, blowing
a mouthful of beer breath in my face
.
He apologizes to my
boobs
.
Nice
.
I shove him off me and he teeters on his feet until he catches the bar ledge
.
“Do
you
know
where else I can stay?” I ask
the manager
.
He tells me the whole city’s ful
l
-
up for a
n air
show in town
.
My head sinks down to my arms
and I rest my forehead on the
bar
.
When
I let out
an exhausted groan
,
h
e sets a beer
down
in front of me
.
“This one’s on me, love
,
” he says
.
“Looks like you can use a pint.”
“Thanks,” I say
and
slam half the beer
.
I
look around the smoky space and
see a blue cou
ch in the corner of the room
.
H
alf the
upholstery
is ripped off and there could be a rat infestation going
on, but I have a feeling that it’s
going to be my bed to
night
.
Just as I reach this conclusion, a young girl and guy crash
down on
the
couch, their hands pawing at each other’s faces
and lips
pressed
together
.
He
climbs on top of her and
she
pulls his shirt halfway up his back
.
I guess I won’t be using that couch
after all
.
A deep yawn escapes my
throat
and m
y eyelids feel like weights are
pulling them closed
.
Despite the music and the noise,
I start to nod off at the bar
.
A girl suddenly slams an
empty pint down next to me
and
I
jump in my stool,
almost fall
ing
over
.
She looks about m
y age
, with
an army cap
pulled low over
short brown hair
.
She has a round face and full
red
lips
and she’s
nudging
away the same drunk guy that fell on me
.
I notice
she’s talking in an American accent
.
She glances at me and her huge, brown eyes meet mine
.
She takes in my
drooping eyelids
and the fact that it’s taking
considerable
effort
for me
to hold my head up
.
“
Are you okay?
”
she asks.
I consider this word
.
“
Okay’s a vague descriptor
,” I say
.
“
If you consider
okay
as in all my limbs are
currently
attached
to my body
and I’m not suffering from a terminal illness, than yes, I’m okay
.
If, however, you take in
to
account
that I’m homeless,
so
aking wet, all my luggage was
stolen,
I’m wearing the only pair of
underwear
I own
,
and I’m in a forei
gn land where I know no one, then
no,
I guess I’m not
okay.
”
I slam the rest of my pint and she’s still standing there, studying me
.
“
Enough about me,
”
I say
.
“
What’s your story?
”
I stare back at her and grin because it’s just
nice to have company
.
She smiles and tells me she’s out here visiting her grandmother, but she’s from the States.