oh, anna [-hs]

water me down

a/n are you guys ready for some flashback chapters???? ahahAHHH

aka are you ready to scream at your phone? because I screamed the entire time I wrote this.

57.

2013. New York City.

It's official. I HATE bars.

I know it's supposed to be like, part of the college experience or whatever. But I'm not fucking having it. It smells like shit. I'm sweaty. It's dark and I can't see. If one more guy touches my lower back while walking past me I'm going to break my gin and tonic over their fucking head.

I can't believe I'm here. If it was anyone else, I would go home. But it's not anyone else. It's Emma.

Sweet, shy, little Emma. Who has me wrapped around her fucking pinky.

I think I would die for this woman. That's fucking insane. I wouldn't die for anyone. I barely give people the time of day. But she's different. I don't know why, but she is.

I spin around on my stool to glance over at her. She's playing pool with some guy, he seems nice enough. Respectful, but lusting. Little does he know Emma's a "gold star" lesbian. She's not doing much to clue him in. She'll tell him when he stops buying her drinks. It's her birthday. Her goal is to blackout for free.

She told me she was a "gold star" lesbian the third time we hung out. I helped her smoke weed for the first time in her dorm room. She laughed a lot, and then whispered the definition really fast in my ear. She's never had sex with a man, never kissed a man, never so much as held hands with one. To be fair, she admitted that she'd never done those things with a woman either, but in her eyes it still counted. "Gold star."

I told her if that's what it meant to be golden, I must be literal dirt. I kissed so many people in high school, a cheerleader once called me "the plague."

She laughed at that, but she was high so she was laughing at everything. The third time we hung out was the first time I heard her laugh.

The guy she's playing pool with leans in to whisper something in her ear. He is very attractive. It's a shame Emma doesn't think so. He's lanky, but well-structured. His hair is golden brown at the roots, bleached soft yellow on the ends. His face is round like a cherub. He's wearing a dark knit sweater that I bet his mom bought for him. She shrugs and shakes her head at his comment, pointing in my direction.

And that's the first time he glances over at me. I lean my elbow back against the bar and sip at my glass. We stare each other down. He leans away from Emma and grins. A fake grin, laced with underwhelming arrogance. But his eyes still pull me in. I smile back. He walks over.

"Quinn?" He feigns a guess, but he knows. I nod. "I was talking to your friend. It turns out she doesn't like guys."

"Yeah. She likes to play pretend and drink for free."

"That's okay. You're much prettier anyway," he mutters under his breath. But his eyes never leave mine as the words fall out. And he doesn't look ashamed to say it. Like it's our own little secret. Like we're a domesticated couple, half asleep and confessing which kid's our favorite now that they've gone to bed.

I know he's lying. I think any stranger off the street would agree that Emma is the pretty one. But my heart skips like a beaten down vinyl anyway. Stupid heart, where's your feminist agenda now? Get a grip, Bellini.

I take another sip from my glass and stare at him over the rim. He runs his tongue over his teeth and melts into a smile. A heroic, Clark Kent, boy-next-door, take-me-to-lunch-with-your-mom smile that I just know is fake. But it's attractive all the same. He smells like cheap cigarettes and hoppy beer. He feels warm and familiar, like a high school night with the people my mom thought were bad news. They were.