I'm sitting in a booth, at the very back of a dimly lit pub in Manchester, sipping on ginger ale, but using the cover of darkness to make drunken decisions. Namely; texting my ex.

I watch one of my best friends, Steph, flirt with three guys at the counter, throwing back vodka shots and having the time of her life. She'd kill me if she knew what I was doing.

I stare at the green dot next to his name. He is active. I don't understand how anyone born in the two thousands still uses Facebook and lets people know about it. Nonetheless, it's my only means of communication with him since my friends blocked and deleted his number and anything that tied me to him when we broke up a year ago. They meant well, but I'm a sucker for pain and they also weren't aware of the five different aliases I had on Facebook. He did, though. I had friended him on all of them.

I knew it was unhealthy keeping a part of my life tethered to him, but I've been tied to him for so long, I doubt I'm ever getting over him.

I contemplate what to say to him. Spill my guts and tell him I want him back, then later blame it on alcohol? He doesn't know I'm the most sober person within a five kilometer radius.

I decide to play it safe.

Hi.

There. Now, I don't have to seem too needy and I can also mess with his mind, if he's been thinking about me as much as I have him.

Another glance at Steph and I can see that her lips are pursed. I know she wants to be rid of at least one of her three suitors. I tip back my bottle, emptying it, then head to the counter for another one.

I approach the foursome and elbow my way to my friend. One of the guys looks at me like he's deciding whether it's still wrong to punch a girl. I put my hands around Steph's waist and reach down to grab her butt.

"Why are you trying to make me jealous?" I whisper in her ear, just loud enough for the three men to hear me. "You know how possessive I can be."

The man who looked like he wanted to hit me grunts disgustedly and walks away. Another one raises his hands in surrender with a lazy smile on his face and stalks off too. The third man, after seeing that the other two have left, inches closer to us.

"I've always wanted to partake in girl on girl action." He says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. I'm not very good with European accents, but I feel as if his falls under British. It's strong and thick and I wish his face matched how deep his voice is. I want to gag. The unfairness of it all. I let go of Steph and give the man a once over. "What do you say, babe? He looks a little on the small side if you ask me." I say.

The man scoffs, smile still in place. "Baby, I'm the biggest you'll ever meet."

Again I want to gag, but Steph saves me from having to respond by placing her hand over the man's trousers, palming him.

She hums. "Well, he's not small, but he's not a big as we're used to, you know?" She shrugs at me.

I mask disappointment and nod sadly.

"It's too bad." Steph says sadly. "We'll have to find another one. Too-da-loo." She waves him off.

The man's smile disappears and is replaced with a dark look. Even darker than the first guy's. He sneers something about stupid black bitches as he stalks off.

I am…unimpressed.

"And good riddance!" Steph calls with a middle finger in the air.

She orders another shot of vodka while I order another bottle of ginger ale. I pour some in her glass.

"How are you not drunk yet?" I ask in awe.

"I'm not a lightweight, babe." She answers. "Can't one of these douchebags even flirt right? How's a girl supposed to get laid around here!" She yells.

Steph is usually loud and boisterous and very open about her sex life. I am not. I look around to see if someone heard her, but everyone in the pub is preoccupied with one thing or another.

"What about that second guy. The one that didn't make a fuss?" I ask.

Steph's mouth twists in a weird way. "He was, dare I say it…" she pauses. "Too freaky for my taste."

I gasp dramatically. She pokes my side. Drama aside, I've never really heard her say someone was too freaky. Especially for her.

"How?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"He wanted to, you know…" she says.

I don't know. I stare at her blankly and shake my head.

Steph sees I'm not kidding and shakes her own head in disbelief. "Wow, you're clueless."

I don't take the comment to heart because I know she rarely has filter. I also acknowledge that I can be clueless in matters involving sex.

"He wanted to go anal." She says.

I blink about five times. That really didn't cross my mind.

"Woah." I say. Then after a beat. "Ewe."

Steph's eyes snap back to me.

"Not because of you!" I quickly amend. "It's just…anal."

She shrugs and sips at her vodka. I drain half my ginger ale and sweep my eyes over the pub's patrons. I feel guilty for texting my ex, but after the show of vulnerability I got from Steph, I really need to change the subject.

"So, umm…" I start. "I did something bad." I say.

Steph's eyes are immediately bright with excitement. "Did you get railed?" She asks.

"What? No! A different type of bad." I answer.

"Did you blow someone in the booth?" She asks again, just as excited.

"Can you stop thinking sexual thoughts?" I ask. I glance around nervously to see if anyone heard her. If they did, they're not gasping and dialing my mum.

"I am losing interest in your story," she says, sipping her vodka again, until she slams it back on the counter and faces me with a glare in her eyes. Shit. She knows. "You didn't do what I think you did. Tell me you didn't!"

"I'm not sure I think I know what you think I might have done but if you're sure you think you know what I think you know I've done then you're definitely going to be madder." I blink and gulp down my ginger ale. I may have confused myself in the process of trying to confuse her.

She grabs me by the shoulders. I wince at the sting of her fake nails digging into my shoulder. "Tell me you did not text Grayson!"

I gulp again. Air this time. I should have kept my mouth shut. I see that now.

"Damn it, Kayla!" She lets go of me and swallows the rest of her vodka. "Where did you even get his number?"

"I texted him on Facebook." I answer sheepishly. I know what she's thinking. How could I have the nerve to be sheepish after what I've done. I'm thinking the same.

She glares at me. "You don't have a Facebook account. I know. I searched. So the only way you could have done that is if you just created one," her eyes then dawn with realization. "Or if you have a fake account."

"Five, to be exact." I say. I'm not sure why I'm telling her this, but a part of me knows it's right. A part of me knows I need the help.

Steph sighs. "Kay, I can't help you if you don't want to be helped. If you don't try."

"I do. I have tried. It's just a relapse. I won't text him again. I'll delete all my accounts. I just need…" I pause. I don't know what I need. I've been tied to this man since we were ten, I don't know how to not…be with him.

Steph nods as if she understands. I doubt it, but I'm still grateful. "What did you say?" She asks.

"Just 'Hi' ." I answer.

She nods, her lips pursed, eyes contemplative.

"Okay. That's good. We can fix that." She says. The Swedish song playing switches to a rock song. One I recognize from when I was still in high school. It's a Måneskin song.

The bartender places martini glass in front of me.

"I didn't order this." I tell him with a small awkward smile. I am naturally awkward. I smile to ease tension even when there is none. It makes me seem shy when I don't intend on hostility.

"Compliments of that bloke." He says. He has a Scottish accent. It goes well with his dark hair and green eyes. I suddenly picture him in a kilt and holding bagpipes and I have to stifle a laugh. I turn to the 'bloke' he was pointing at. Steph does so at the same time.

I am unsure of whom exactly I'm supposed to be looking at. There's a whole group of big, powerfully built guys in that direction. I am about to give up when he turns from the group's conversation to wink at me. At least, I think it's me he's winking at, not Steph. That would be embarrassing.

I let my eyes sweep up what I can on him. His hair is in a bun. I've always been attracted to guys with man buns, I can never really tell why. His hair is so blond it almost looks bleached and his full pink lips are stretched into a small smile. He is handsome. There's no other way I can put it. He looks like he could fold me, break me, mend me and make me scream all in one night.

I turn to Steph and whisper. "I'm starting to wish I had more of a sex life."

Steph let's out a low whistle. "I kind of wish that too. If you did, I wouldn't have to do much to convince you to share that beautiful specimen."

I laugh lightly. "A three-some does sound like something I'd agree to, if I had sex more. "

Man-bun begins to stride towards us, with someone whom I assume is a wing man on his tail. He is also quite good looking. Steph agrees. She appreciates this and calls him a gentleman for wanting to keep her distracted.

My phone pings with a new notification. Steph rips it out of my hand.

"You're not going to text him. Not tonight. Make him wait a little. Don't look desperate. You know all he did was reply with another 'Hi'." Steph says, using her caution voice. Like I'll have a meltdown if I don't find out what he said.

Admittedly, I am curious as to whether Grayson wrote back something other than 'Hi', but I've practically grown up with him. He's just as stubborn as I am, if not more.

"You want to get over him, right?" Steph asks just before the two men reach us. "The best way to do that is to get under this one. Just get laid."

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks as my eyes glance around. "I can't just-"

"Take life into your own hands?" She counters, interrupting me and effectively putting a stop to all arguments I might have raised.

Man-bun finally reaches us, and I turn to him with the most seductive smile I can pull off. I see Steph shake her head stiffly and I know I'm being overkill. I decide to take a sip of my martini and hide the lower half of my face behind the glass.

"Ladies," Wingman says with a charming smile. "We just saw you two standing here alone and decided to say hello."

"Hello there." Steph says, then takes a sip of vodka. I didn't even see the bartender top it off. She manages to make even that look seductive and all I can think is 'teach me your ways!' "I'm Stephanie. This is my friend Kayla."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl." Man-bun says.

I take another sip of my martini. It tastes like strawberries.

"And you are?" I ask.

Man-bun and his wingman exchange a look and I wonder if I've done something wrong. Do Europeans flirt differently? Don't girls ask boys their names?

I try to convey my questions to Steph with my eyes, but she just shrugs.

Man-bun finally turns back to me with another smile. "I'm Henry. This is my friend, Karl."

I eye him a bit. He looks like a Henry.

"Nice to meet you." Steph says. She begins to steer the conversation and my awkward self couldn't be more grateful.

Man-bun's eyes are trained on me. I feel like a science experiment he's about to dissect just to see what makes me tick. My light jacket suddenly feels too hot and I can almost hear my mother telling me to put on something not as revealing.

I ignore the nagging sensation because while my tank top does show my cleavage, it doesn't show too much that it's scandalous.

Maybe Man-bun thinks it's scandalous. Grayson would have thought so. But I'm not supposed to care what Grayson thinks.

I realize I've been lost in fantasy long enough not to notice that Steph's hands are on Wingman's chest, beneath his shirt, and his hands are groping her butt.

Man-bun clinks my glass with his beer bottle. "I think our friends want some alone time." He says.

"There's a booth back there," I tell him. "I don't think it's occupied."

I lead him to the booth where I made a drunken decision to text Grayson. I was sober then. I'm tipsy now. I'm almost through with my martini and I feel like I'm lighter on my feet. I want to make a drunken decision at this booth.

"I was sitting here before I got up to get a drink at the counter." I explain.

"So that's why I didn't see you before." He says.

I nod.

"So…" I say.

"So…" he parrots. I suspect I've ruined everything. I've made it awkward enough that he's going to lose interest in me and leave. "You're Kenyan. I heard they speak almost fifty languages there. How many do you speak?" He asks.

"Well, obviously not fifty," I say, giggling. I blame the giggles on the martini. "I speak two and a half languages." I inform him.

His brow forms a V. "How does one speak half a language?" He asks, puzzled. I hear the accent, it's rich and beautiful and matches his face (Thank God.) but I can't place it. The little know-it-all wannabe in my head is staring at half a page of 'Kayla's knowledge on European accents' and shaking her head in resignation.

"It's sort of like how, if someone was supposed to take four years of Spanish, and they drop out after two. Wait, that's not exactly the same." I say, realizing I'm about to ramble, but I do it anyway. "There's forty-two native tribes in Kenya, last I checked. I'm sure there's more now with minor tribes popping up every five minutes. Anyway…" I eye him to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep. He's still listening. "Each tribe has a native tongue. My mum didn't want to teach me our native tongue, so I kind of just picked up some phrases and while I can't fully understand, I can hear most of it. Speaking the language, however, is way harder, especially since I can never really pick up the accent."

"That's the half language?" He asks.

I nod.

"So the other two are…" he trails off.

"Well, English, obviously," I say.

"Obviously." He parrots.

"And Swahili. English and Swahili are our national languages." I inform him. "I can't believe I just gave you a lecture on my cultural diversity." I say, slightly horrified. No. Scratch that. I'm greatly horrified.

"I appreciate the change." He says, smiling.

I want to ask him what he usually talks about with people he's interested in. Cars? The Premier League? Måneskin? Greek mythology? But I hold myself back because I only have thirty-eight percent knowledge on Greek mythology, and I may or may not end up asking if he'd like to see a hippocampus— Thank you Rick Riordan!

"So, what brings you to England? I can't imagine it's the pubs." He says, smiling. My gaze is drawn to his full pink lips and I have to look away before it gets weird.

I laugh when I realize he was making a joke. "Well, the pubs are a nice touch." I say. "But my friends and I just wanted to tour England. I wanted to do it because it's got so much history."

"I could give you a tour if you'd like." He says, smile still in place.

"That's a kind offer, but we've already been here for a month, our flight leaves tomorrow." I say, a little sadly. I'd have toured all of Europe if it were up to me, but that would require a bank account larger than mine, and even so, my mother probably missed me already.

"So soon?" He asks, a hand above his heart as if he's been wounded or offended. "But there's so many places to show you!"

"Like where?" I ask. I place the rim of my martini glass at my lips, hoping to look attractively curious. Or curiously attractive. Whichever gets me laid at this point will do.

"The tour bus, the jet, my bedroom…" he says, winking at me.

My ears train on 'bedroom' but I try to keep my blush to a minimum.

"Why do you have a tour bus and a jet? Are you a rockstar or something?" I ask, suddenly curious.

"Or something," he says. He takes a sip of his beer. "You've really never seen me before?"

I study his face and force my eyes away from just his lips. "I may have seen you somewhere, but I'm terrible with faces. I could talk to you all night and not be able to picture your face tomorrow." I tell him, truthfully.

"Interesting," he says, sipping his beer. "So if I were to take you to my hotel room to…talk, all night, you wouldn't remember my face tomorrow?"

I feel the heat creep up my cheeks at the insinuation that we'd 'talk' in his hotel room all night.

I realize that I'm disgusted by my reactions. I am a legal adult and if I want to have sex with a hot guy I will do it, damn it!

"Depends…" I say, finishing off my martini.

"On?" He asks, inching closer.

"Whether you can…" I pause for dramatic insinuation, "talk all night," I say, looking straight into his eyes. I no longer care if it's weird or scary or intimidating to look into a man's eyes as intensely as I am. I want this man to make me scream and beg for mercy.

So, when he inches even closer, opening his mouth to speak again, I press my lips to his and the world dissolves around us.