At least it seems that way as we follow the server through the pub. To my left, a guy waves. To my right, another guy fist-pumps. We pass by a table with four young women. “Hey, Connor!” one calls out. He flashes them a smile and a polite nod and continues on. That’s when all four sets of eyes settle on me and I morph into that frog in my tenth-grade science class. The unfortunate one beneath my scalpel. I shift discreetly to avoid their gazes and end up bumping into Connor. “Sorry,” I murmur. But he just displays those perfect white teeth to me. He doesn’t seem bothered that I’m on his heels. He’s never bothered. The attractive fortyish server shows us to a table for six and takes a handmade Reserved sign off it. “Thanks, Cheryl,” Connor says. She pats him on the shoulder. “What can I get you two?” “A Corona for me and a Jack and Coke for Livie. Right, Livie?” I just bob my head, clenching my teeth and fighting the urge to announce publicly that I’m only eighteen and this establishment should know better than to serve me alcohol.
