Girl Abroad

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, OUR ONCE-PROMISING FRIENDSHIP IS near shambles. Lee alternates between sighs of disgust and groans of impatience while he surveys my wardrobe, half of which is still crumpled in suitcases. My room is bursting with boxes that arrived from Nashville this afternoon. I barely started cracking them open before it was time to get ready for his friend’s gig.

“Babe, you know this is silk?” He pulls a blue peasant top from one of my crushed packing cubes. “You don’t treat good fabrics this way.” Then he finds one of my favorite vegan leather jackets, which I’d considered wearing tonight. “This, on the other hand…”

He holds it up by the lapel pinched at a distance between two fingers, his nose scrunched as if he’d found the garment stuck belly-up in a storm drain.

“Are these patches ironic?”

“I love that jacket,” I protest. Fine, so maybe it’s a little derivative and passé, but I still love it.

Lee walks it across the room and drops it in an empty cardboard box. “We’ll call that the maybe pile.”

I get the feeling that box will be sitting at the curb this time tomorrow.

His passive-aggressive approach to personal styling continues as I try on different iterations of curated outfits. Each one elicits only slight variations of disappointed grimaces until I’m standing in my bra and underwear amid a knee-high pile of war crimes Lee apparently regards as personal insults to his taste.

There’s one bag he hasn’t opened yet, so he tears into it with a disappointed huff. I’m taking a second glance at the clothes still hanging in my closet when he gasps.

“What is this?” Lee holds up clumps of fabric in two fists.

Apprehensive, I respond, “Clothes?”

He beams at me. “Finally!”

From the bag, he lays out a black graphic T-shirt, a long cardigan, and a dark gray pair of cutoffs. Basically something I’d wear to ride my horse or do chores. He then grabs a handful of necklaces from my dresser and throws them at the outfit with a pair of booties compiled on my bed. The relief that washes over him is visibly intense.

“Clothes,” he declares happily.

His phone buzzes on my nightstand. As he goes over to read the message, I notice a secret smile tug at his lips.

“Who’s that?” I ask, because I’m nosy.

“George. A new friend.”

“A special friend?”

His smile grows wider. “Could be.”

“He coming to the show?”

Lee laughs at me and shakes his head. “Not that kind of friend.”

“Ah. I see.”

“We’re meeting up after the show, though.”

“Got a picture?”

Lee beckons me over and opens Grindr to show me his new friend’s profile. I lean in for a better look. George is handsome, except for one glaring deformity.

“What’s with the cop ’stache?” I demand, aghast.

“Oh, babe, I know,” he grouses. Lee places his finger over the lower half of George’s face. “But see? Perfect.”

I laugh. “Maybe you can talk him out of it.”

“If things go really well, I’m shaving that thing off once he falls asleep.”

“Lee, mate!”

Jack suddenly bursts into my room while I’m still standing in nothing but my bra and underwear. My hands fly up to fight over what to cover more.

“You got any ibuprofen? I’ve a headache throbbing behind my left eye. What’s up with that? It’s driving me mad.”

I turn sideways in the hopes I might become invisible to him. Like camouflaged prey in the forest. Except I’m more like a pale, freckled deer in the headlights. Our eyes meet in the mirror on top of my dresser. His quickly flick away at realizing I’m not exactly dressed for company. They return, though. Only for a second. Something flashes across his expression that I can’t read. Then it’s gone.

“Put some clothes on, ay?” Jack says with an unbothered grin. “This is a family establishment.”

Oblivious to my mortification, Lee answers Jack with, “Top drawer of my vanity.”

“Lee in there?” Jamie appears in my doorway, entirely naked. A towel is slung over his shoulder. “Have you used my trimmers? I’ve just gone to find them, but they’re not in my cabinet.”

My hand flies up to avert my gaze, but it’s too late. The image of Jamie Jr. is burnt on my retinas.

Barely a week in and already my father’s worst nightmares are coming true.

“Go on, darling. Have a gander,” Jamie says with humor in his voice. “Surely you’ve seen a knob before.”

“Oh,” I say, coughing a laugh. “Isn’t that quaint.”

Jack keels over with laughter. “Oh no, mate. She called it quaint.”

“I think she meant the euphemism.”

“No, she’s said your willy’s sweet and delicate like Grandma’s knitting.”

Truthfully, my experience with a penis by any name is limited to a one-night stand in high school and a guy freshman year I could generously call my boyfriend. The sex was good, but neither of us were devastated when we moved on.

“Yeah, so can I have my room back now?” I ask, arms strategically placed, talking to the floor.

“Right, you lot.” Lee corrals the boys away from the door with arms out wide. “Time for a house meeting about knocking first.”

Relief trickles over me once they’re gone, and I allow my hands to drop to my sides. Cohabitation will take some getting used to.

And door locks.

We catch a ride to the pub, which is itself a fraught ordeal. Lee seizes the front seat and leaves me sandwiched in the back between Jack, Jamie, and Jamie’s penis. But it’s Jack, with his sculpted arms and muscular legs pressed against mine, that has me running warm. Both from embarrassment and nervousness.

Like a scratchy throat warning of a coming cold, I feel the fizz of a budding crush bubbling in my gut. He looks utterly edible in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt with a surf logo stretched across his broad chest. And he smells really good. So good I have to force myself not to breathe because I’m worried I’ll sigh dreamily each time I inhale.

Except not breathing isn’t conducive to staying alive, so before long, I’m forced to suck in an abrupt gulp of air. Which makes me cough for a few seconds and draws an amused look from Jack.

Check her out, folks. The weirdo American who hasn’t figured out oxygen.

I’m practically jumping out of my skin by the time the driver pulls up at the curb. The moment I’m out of the car, I breathe in the fresh evening air and pretend I’m not at all affected by the hot Australian standing next to me.

Inside, the pub is crowded but not bursting. Most of the commotion surrounds the bar and dartboards toward the front of the room. We bypass them to the tables arranged in front of the tiny vacant platform just large enough to squeeze in a drum set, mics, amps, and a couple monitors.

Lee leads us to a table with two young women already seated. A pale willowy blond with a severe pixie cut sets down her martini when he walks up. She’s wearing a satiny dress with a deep vee neckline and a ton of funky silver jewelry. She lifts her large seafoam eyes to mine, and I’m already feeling small and underdressed.

Beside her, a taller girl stands to kiss Lee on both cheeks. This one wears a tight ribbed tee and leather pants that encase her endless legs. She’s gorgeous. Like easily the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in real life.

The similarities between her and Lee are impossible to miss. They have the same mouth. Same dark eyes and high cheekbones. They’re not identical, but you’d know these two were related from across the room.

“My twin, Celeste,” Lee says by way of an introduction. “Cece, this is Abbey.”

“Ah. The American.”

I get that a lot lately. “One and the same,” I answer shyly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise. This is Yvonne.” Celeste nods toward the elegant blond, then gives me the up and down.

While she examines me, I wonder if Lee’s assistance earlier helped or hindered. Both Yvonne and Celeste are dressed far more glamorously and sexier than anything I would have come up with. I suddenly feel like a little kid.

As Jack and Jamie run off to the bar, Yvonne rises to greet me with double air-kisses. I zig when I should zag and we end up in this awful dance trying to get out of each other’s way. She ends up kissing my ear, then my nose, and we are both worse for the entire exchange. At this point, I’d prefer to leave the country and never come back.

Her eyes flicker with amusement. “Right. That certainly was awkward.”

At least she has a sense of humor about it. “Very discouraging,” I agree. “Doesn’t bode well for the rest of the night.”

That gets me an airy laugh. “Oh hush, darling. It’s going to be a smashing night.”

“What are you drinking?” Lee asks me.

“White wine?” I hadn’t given much thought to what my drink would be now that I’m legal on this side of the Atlantic. This seems the safest choice.

“Pace yourself,” Yvonne mocks. “Wouldn’t want to risk having a good time.”

So it’s going to be like that.

Yvonne asks for another espresso martini and Celeste orders a pint. Armed with our drink orders, Lee leaves me under the unshielded scrutiny of the two women.

“You’re probably not much of a drinker, right?” Celeste guesses. “You’re not legal in America.”

“True. But I also think it’s sort of a PTSD,” I find myself confessing. “I can’t tolerate the smell of beer and liquor. Makes me sick. I was around too much of it when I was a kid.”

“Why’s that?” Celeste asks. “Parents alcoholics?”

Subtle. She certainly shares a brashness with her brother.

I shake my head. “No, not like that. But my dad was kind of a partier back in the day. Came with the territory.”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

I’m not sure why I keep talking. I don’t actually want to have this conversation. But something about Celeste’s penetrating stare creates a persuasive cocktail that pulls the words from my lips, and I lose control of my better instincts. A terminal case of wanting to be liked by everyone.

Celeste narrows her eyes. “What territory’s that?”

“No, I mean…” Shit. I don’t know what I mean. I walked myself into this corner, and now I’m struggling to find my way out. “Like his job…” Seriously, Abbey?

“His job,” Celeste repeats. “What does that mean?”

I could dip and dodge all night, but she isn’t going to let this go. The intent in her eyes tells me she’s got a whiff. And now, if purely for sport, she’s getting this bone.

I let out a quick breath and capitulate. “He was a musician.”

One perfect eyebrow arches. “What, like, would I know him?”

I hate this part.

“Gunner Bly.”

Her mouth falls open. Yvonne cocks her head. I know exactly how it goes from here. This is usually the moment they start gushing. Telling me my dad’s hot. Which, no, gross.

Then they’ll go on about their prom song or graduation song or breakup song or that time they lost their virginity in the Dairy Queen parking lot. Why people think I want to know these things is beyond me.

And then, inevitably, one of them is a budding music producer. Their cousin is a singer. Their boyfriend has a band. Everyone wants something that I have zero power to give, and I become a prop, a means to an end. Whatever relationship we had or could’ve had devolves into a quid pro quo. Doesn’t make it easy to have friends.

It’s lonely as hell, actually.

The boys return to the table with our drinks. Celeste ignores the plea in my eyes and instantly turns on her brother.

“Why didn’t you tell me Abbey’s dad is Gunner Bly?” she accuses.

“What?” Lee chuckles as he looks at her sideways. “Who said that?”

“Abbey.”

“What, really?” Jamie blinks at me.

I nod reluctantly.

“Should I know that name?” Jack scans the table. I knew there was a reason I liked him.

Yvonne hands him her phone. And if I’m not deluding myself, she’s watching me with a newfound respect, perhaps? It’s better than contempt, so I’ll take it.

Jack holds the phone up to his ear, listening intently as a Spotify track plays. Then his attention jerks to me. “Oh, the ‘heart is a windmill’ bloke.”

I hate that song. It’s one of Dad’s first singles and at this point a cliché staple of every commercial, saccharine TV soundtrack, and instrumental elevator background score. How the hell is a heart like a windmill anyway?

I asked my dad that once. He said he was probably high when he wrote it, then gave me the just-say-no-to-drugs talk.

“Really?” I glance around the group. “None of you are going to make a big deal out of it? Because you have no idea how refreshing this is.”

“We’re English, Abbs,” Jamie replies in his crisp, posh accent. “Englishmen only make a big deal about pints and footy.”

“You seriously don’t care?” I glance at Lee, who seems most likely to suffer from celebrity obsession syndrome. He grilled me hard when he found out I grew up in LA.

“I listen exclusively to pop stars and power ballads,” he says gravely.

I hide a smile and turn to Celeste, who shrugs. “I’ve never been a Bly fan. But that one track he has? ‘Acrimonious’? Not terrible.”

I’m tempted to type that out as a quote and text it to my father.

“Gunner Bly: not terrible”—Celeste Clarke.

To my immediate relief, no one presses me for salacious details or some vague promise of a favor. There’s no gushing at all, in fact, and the group quickly moves on to a nostalgic cataloguing of their middle school playlists.

I am well off the hook when the lights in the room dim as the band takes the stage. They get decent applause from the audience. Proving they’re capable of caring about more than soccer and beer, Lee and the boys whistle and holler, which elicits a nod from the bassist while he plugs in. A couple of stage lights above our heads flash on, at which point my attention becomes transfixed.

For perhaps the first time in recorded rock history, the bassist is hot.