Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

// p a r t t w o //

    I sat on the couch of my new home, my legs crossed but proped up on the cushions, as I sipped a cup of tea and watched Game of Thrones, sparse yawns occasionally making their way from my mouth. It was a Saturday at 8:00. And I was the most lame person in the universe.

    The UK had suited me, though. I liked the rain, the shops, the food, the diverse people, the buildings. I felt at home, though it was quite different from LA. Perhaps I was getting a little lonely, though. Although I was always selective (some might say stuck-up)  about whom I surrounded myself with, I found myself getting bored of this kind of night.

    The only person I knew on a remotely personal level in England was George, and I wondered what he was up to on a night like this. Likely, he playing a show with his band, getting very drunk and/or high, or fucking some idiot girl.

    He and I had caught up on the past six years we missed. I had learned that George was in a band, The 1975, and they were getting a lot of recognition. I learned that he shared a flat with a friend called Matty, who I would "just have to meet in person", rather than George explaining him. I had also learned that George Daniel had gotten very, very handsome in the last six years.

    George had learned that I was a relatively boring person who concentrated on my studies and was excited to spend my year here. I'd told him I wanted new experiences, and to write about absolutely everything I could. He had also learned that I blushed when he teased me, and that I became shaky when he stood too close. Consequentially, George Daniel realized that he liked all of these things.

    The sudden urge to text him came up, and I was mentally creating a pros and cons list.

     Pro: If George wasn't busy, I'd have someone to keep me company.

     Con: If I got chemically imparied in any way, I wouldn't be able to suppress my ridiculous crush on him. I shrugged it off, trying not to overthink.

    Claire: What's up? Doing anything tonight? Getting bored in my little flat...

    I wrinkled my face up at the generic text I sent him. But to my surprise, my phone dinged a few minutes later.

    George: I've a show in an hour. Drop by if you want. Love to see you there.

    Hmm.

     The comfort of my hoondstooth leggings and oversized sweater, tea stain near the left breast, suddenly made me feel very self conscious about being so antisocial lately. This was London, and I was young, after all. I didn't come here to hide out in my flat.

    With surprisingly limited overthinking and second-guessing, I changed into a high-waisted black dress and a cropped black leather jacket (my favorite) and quickly threw my hair into a braided messy bun. I went for a classic cat-eye and a matte red lip.

    I was late, and the room was packed full of people, crammed like sardines in a booze and smoke filled tin. My body was uncomfortably close to dozens of people as I squeezed my way through the crowd, trying to find my dear friend George.

    Shit. He was already at his drumset, fiddling with his drumsticks with a calm demeanor on his face. The bass player, a dark-haired guy with a close beard, was whispering something to the guitarist, a sweet-looking guy, with killer cheekbones who nodded in response. Their frontman had his back turned toward the audience, and was drinking wine straight from the bottle.

    Well, then. Clearly that was Matty.

    I noticed the crowd was filled with girls. Pretty ones. Eager-looking ones. Ones who never stayed at home on the weekends watching TV. My eyes went back to the band as the singer spoke.