Getaway

Chapter 4

Fletcher – unlike in all the cheesy romance books I read – did not pull out my chair for me as we sat down.  Instead he plonked himself on his own chair – well bar stool – and waited for me to join him.

We settled into a not entirely uncomfortable/awkward silence whilst I tried to find some way to sit comfortably on the stupid contraption.

“Are you okay there?” Fletcher asked biting back a smile.

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

And that was the end of that.

Once I was settled comfortably I turned towards Fletcher expectantly. He had been the one to invite me to have a drink with him and – in my mind – it was therefore his responsibility to initiate conversation. However he sat there, completely oblivious, and stared at the people passing by.

Eventually he seemed to notice my gaze on him and turned back to me.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked.

“Can I look at the cocktail menu?”

“You’re not even old enough to drink! And I refuse to assist you in breaking the law.”

I just shook my head at him and gestured at the cocktail menu despite his protests. Eventually he passed me it, frowning and muttering ‘fine, but if I get arrested you’re paying bail’.

Flicking through the menu I was thrilled to see that – as I’d thought, mocktails were indeed available.

“I’d like a Virgin Strawberry Daiquiri,” I told him.

“A what?”

“Virgin Strawberry Daiquiri, it’s like a normal Daiquiri but minus the alcohol,” I explained.

“So it’s disgusting?”

I stuck my tongue out at him and pouted. Fletcher just laughed at me.

“Well, you’re the one who’s got to suffer through it I suppose,” Fletcher sighed as if it was some sort of great sacrifice I was making.

“Whatever. Just shut up and order.”

“Why can’t you order for yourself? Are you trying to get me to pay? You could have just asked,” Fletcher said.

“Fletcher, it’s all inclusive, neither of us are paying,” I pointed out.

“Why can’t you order then?”

“I don’t like ordering.”

“Why not?” Fletcher was insistent.

“It’s...” I looked around lowering my voice slightly, “Well, it’s scary.”

“Scary?” Fletcher asked trying not to laugh at me and the reaction was certainly not appreciated.

“I don’t like talking to strangers, get used to it.”

“I’m a stranger and you’re talking to me.”

“And I don’t like it,” I retorted.

“Ouch. Are you always this mean to people or do you save it for boys you’ve just met who can’t play volleyball?”

“I’m always this mean to people.”

“Good to know.”

I had a smile on my face at this point; there was something about having a conversation with Fletcher that made me feel kind of happy. Not in a ‘all my problems are solved’ way but in a ‘this is a nice change’ way.