. . .” I tailed off as I heard the words and then I shrugged again. “I don’t know,” I said softly, almost inaudibly, almost to myself. “I don’t know,” I repeated a little louder this time. There was a lull in the conversation, a beat of sadness or aloneness, I could feel it, and I’m sure everyone else did too, because for a few seconds they all kept quiet and waited for me to speak again.
“I know what you need.” The chef finally spoke up. “You need a good ol’ gin and tonic.” He clapped Mark on the back, and Mark jerked forwards a little. It was clear that those massive hands wielded some considerable power. “You know this man makes the best gin? And they stock it here. So what do you say?” he asked.
“I’m not drinking at the moment, I’m doing Hashtag NoWineO—” I cut myself off again. This was such an automatic response to this question and, suddenly, it didn’t seem like it needed to be. #NoWineOClock didn’t fucking exist here. It was the furry mammoth in the normal zoo. And then I nodded with conviction. “Okay. Sure. I mean, why not? When in Rome with no internet, right?”
Everyone looked at me as if my statement had confused the hell out of them, but the chef obliged and soon he returned with the most beautiful-looking gin. His name, I soon learned, was not “chef”, but Logan. He placed the big, beautiful glass in front of me; floating pomegranate seeds, a long copper straw, mint leaves and twisty bits of orange rind and suddenly, it was just all so funny. I burst out laughing. It was the kind of laughter that bordered on hysterical, but it was also clearly contagious, because soon everyone at the table was laughing too.
I pointed down to the gin. “It would make such a good photo on Instagram,” I said, wiping a tear away. “But I don’t have my phone.” And then I was hysterical with laughter again. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to post it.” More laughter from me. I got the feeling that the people at my table were starting to feel less amused and more concerned with my current state. But I wasn’t stopping.
“Hashtag ginology!” I said, almost snorting, and then I looked up at everyone at the table. “Hashtag night out.” More laughter from me. Snorts of sharp, ugly-sounding laughter. “Hashtag blessed. Hashtag happy. Hashtag fucking hashtag . . .” And then the laughter turned to tears, and soon, I was weeping like a blithering idiot at the table in front of a whole bunch of strangers.
God, this was so embarrassing. But it wasn’t the first time I’d done this. I felt an arm come up around me; it was Samirah and she gave me a firm, empathetic squeeze. I looked up at her and she smiled. She didn’t say a word, but something in her caring and calm eyes told me that she wasn’t judging me for this outburst. And I’m sure I must have looked terrible. Some unhinged woman, crying into my pretty gin.
“Here.” Logan pushed my gin closer, until the copper straw touched my lips. “Have a big old sip, lass,” he urged. I wrapped my lips around the straw and sucked. It was tasty as hell.
I looked over at Mark. “It’s good,” I said to him.
“Thanks,” he said and then grinned. “Look at you . . . such a rebel. Drinking gin without taking a photo of it.”
“And tracking how many calories it has in it,” I added. I smiled back at him while I sucked on the straw as if I hadn’t had a drink in months—which I hadn’t. Our eyes locked over that glass, over that gin of his that was all silky and warm and delicious. My eyes trailed down to his hands, lying loosely on the table. His beautiful hands, mournful-guitar-string-strumming fingers. And then I looked back up at him, our eyes locked again and he held my gaze with such intensity that I was sure I might fly off my seat and then—
“Hi.” I heard a voice behind me and turned, the moment that I’d just shared with Mark was over. Because standing behind me was the hottest man I’d seen in a while. Hot in a completely different way to Mark. This guy was the epitome of generic, model hot.
“Hi,” I said back, a little whispery.
“I’m Zack,” said the extremely large and attractive man.
“Frankie,”