𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 ✓

EIGHT

-

The bar is filled with people, all chatting and laughing. It smells of beer and sweat in here, and I smooth the fabric of my dress. Kelly helped me pick it out, saying that I couldn't possibly live in blouses and dress pants all the time. After I figured that she was right, I had surrendered, and now entered the crowded bar in a bright yellow sundress that swayed down to my ankles and had short, ruffled sleeves. I have my hair in two braids - I am still amazed at how I managed to get my thick curls into them - and my glasses on, the golden ones with the black accents that I loved so much. Kelly told me I looked great, and after some twirling in front of my mirror, I started to believe her. Chester had seemed to agree with her as well, having meowed more enthusiastic than usual - or maybe that was my imagination. 

"Hey, Charlotte, over here!" a familiar voice overtones the loud noise in here, and I look around confused until I find Erin, Joyce, and a few other colleagues, sitting in a booth at the other end of the bar. I squeeze myself through the crowd, stumble over the filling dance floor, and eventually reach the table, waving at everyone.

"Hi," I rather shout than yell, letting my gaze drift across the faces I usually only see in the office. They all look so much more casual and relaxed than I knew them, and it looks so weird in a way. With an unreadable feeling in my stomach, I realize Sebastian's not here yet. I sit down next to Joyce, congratulate her, and eventually order my first drink. Tonight, I'm telling myself, my reputation is second. I won't ruin anything tonight by being a party pooper.

"I'm glad you're here," Erin sighs, stirring her cocktail with the plastic straw. I nod. She is sitting across the table from me, right at the edge of the bench that wraps around the round table in a half circle. 

"Sure thing," I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. One of my nervous hands stroked over the frizzy braid that touches my left shoulder. 

"You're not usually going to gatherings like this, do you?" Joyce asks beside me, and I turn to her with a shrug.

"I guess... I just like to be alone sometimes," I stammer, and by the time I turn my head back around to see Erin with her bright eyes glaring at me with an unreadable expression, I see out of the corner of my eye that he is here. A light brown leather jacket draped over his arm, Sebastian walks directly up to our little group, a cocky smile on his face. I groan when his eyes meet mine for a second, and I see a mischievous glisten in them. The competition's on.

"Joyce," he exclaims as soon as he is close enough to the table for us to hear him over the background noises, and Joyce whips her head around in surprise. As if she hadn't expected him to actually show up. But to be fair, in secrecy, I have thought the same thing. He just never seemed like a particularly social person.

"Happy Birthday," he says loudly to drown out the chatting around us before getting a spare chair to sit on. The bench is fully occupied with a total of seven people now, and he sits there by himself, obviously proud of the fact that he doesn't have to side next to someone thigh to thigh again. Memories of the Team-Building day shoot back into my brain, and I am thankful for the distraction that is the arrival of my cocktail, which I immediately sip on. Tonight, I won't be a party pooper. I will be fun.

Sebastian, his jacket now hung over the backrest of his wooden chair, orders his drink, some Scotch, I believe. The waiter walks away, and the chatting of our colleagues continues in an even louder tone. I silently stare at my drink, occasionally glaring over to Erin, who scrolls through her phone - an old one that still has a home button - and try not to get involved in weird conversations. As it turns out, colleagues talk about the most inappropriate things in private, including their sex life, and relationship problems. So while I'm eavesdropping on Joyce's conversation with Tim, another editor, I find out too many things about her admittedly very toxic relationship with her boyfriend Maxwell. I close my eyes to try and focus on myself when a voice rips me out my the zone I'm trying to build.

"Already hammered, aren't you, Emmons?" His gleeful tone makes me rage. I sniffle and open my eyes again, my head turned in his direction, and he has his brow arched, and a crooked smirk on his face while the waiter brings his drink.

"Thank you," Sebastian politely says without turning his gaze away. Erin on the other side of the table locks her phone and stares at me while I try to not explode in what could count as anger. Despair, maybe. Nothing I do is worthy to be left uncommented. 

"It's my first drink," I eventually counter, and Golden Boy huffs in response.

"Not the answer to my question," he teases and leans back in his chair, one hand holding his drink and swirling the few ice cubes in there around like I usually do with my iced coffees.

"Not hammered, asshole," I sharply reply, my nostrils flared from holding myself back.

"Sure thing," he says, and for him, that topic now seems to be over. For me, it's not. I glance at Erin, who appears to not have taken more than two swigs from her cocktail, and tilt my head.

"You okay?" I ask. She looks uncomfortable. Usually, she is a very open and empathic person, and I have never seen her so... upset. She shrugs and nods, but it doesn't convince me. Yet, it is clear that she doesn't want to talk about it as she turns away to listen to the conversation taking place next to her. 

"Another one?" Joyce asks me at the sight of my empty glass. I glare down. I hadn't realized that I emptied the cocktail with one long swig. Only the crushed ice remains at the bottom, accompanied by a single lemon slice. I briefly side-eye Sebastian, who chugs his drink as well and then nod at Joyce with a forced smile.

"Bet on it," is my answer, and she orders us new cocktails. Watch me being all fun and relaxed, Stan. 

He orders another of his weird drinks that I don't understand and looks at me like I was a maniac. He almost looks... concerned in a way, but at this point, I'm blaming the first influence of alcohol to play tricks on my mind. 

"Good thing it's happy hour," I say to Joyce, who seems content about my sudden calmness around the team. I adjust my glasses on my nose, pushing them up a little, and see the waiter bring our new drinks. When I quickly empty half of my new Piña Colada within seconds, I see Sebastian furrowing his brow. Take that.