The third time their eyes meet, Finn dares to suspect she might be looking at him. But she might be looking at him only to make sure he isn’t looking at her, in which case he must now look like a creep. Embarrassed, Finn instantly breaks the eye contact and makes himself seem busy by opening the weather app on his phone. But wasn’t there a smile on her face? He’s fairly sure he saw a smile. And it wasn’t strained or pitying. No, it was something different, something good. Finn’s guts flutter. He puts the phone down, gulps the rest of his beer. Then, he slowly lets his eyes glide away from the table, across the dance floor, all the way to the bar counter where he sees her again. And she is already looking back, smiling.    

Finn feels the nervous urge to do something stupid, point finger guns at her or something, but Tom distracts him just in time, arriving with a pint and a big fat sigh. 

‘Fuckin six euros for a Beamish now,’ he cries, and to soothe his agony downs half of his beer in one go. 

‘No wonder the youth don’t drink anymore,’ Finn says with a voice louder than his own. He feels too aware of himself: the unkempt hair on his chin and the sweat in his armpits and the outgrown nails on his toes. He suddenly feels it all. 

‘Man turns 22 and starts talking about the youth,’ scoffs Tom. ‘Talk about your mortgage next, why don’t you.’

Finn doesn’t find the comment particularly funny but lets out a laugh, glancing at the bar counter where their eyes meet again. An electric sensation rushes through Finn’s veins, his heart throbbing against a hopeful chest. Is this what it’s like? 

He calls himself Finn the Wingman; it’s the sort of thing he jokes about. Finn doesn’t think about it much, not a real problem anyway, yet now he can’t help but admit how he’s been aching to be seen and to feel wanted. Even his first kiss happened just because Lydia fell for him after a year of friendship; it was awkward, teeth clashing, barbeque sauce breath. Finn bet she had scolded herself for catching feelings. But now the girl at the bar looks at him, it’s him she looks at, and Finn looks back, cheeks burning, and finally he can stop pretending he’s been content, finally he can stop joking. The girl takes a step forward, and Finn tries to focus on what Tom’s saying, but she’s walking towards them, and she’s beautiful, and he squeezes the empty glass so hard his knuckles turn white.

‘Hi, sorry,’ she says once arriving to their booth. Tom turns his head around, and Finn’s sure she’d be smitten by his friend’s face, but she keeps her eyes on Finn. 

‘Howdy,’ he splurts out. He can sense Tom looking at him now, maybe realising what’s going on, realising he’s about to witness history.

‘I just have to ask,’ the girl continues, ‘are you the drummer of The Greetings?’

For a second, Finn thinks it’s a trick question. ‘Afraid not?’

‘Oh, shit, sorry!’ she says. ‘You look just like him. I would’ve done a whole fan girl speech here. Whew, good thing I asked first!’

Finn opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Tom says, ‘Fuckin wish he was that cool,’ and the girl smiles at him while making an exit, in a softer way than before. Finn laughs, his stomach full of flies. 

Arriving home, Finn stares at the bathroom mirror, yanks his lips into a smile. Disgust crawls all the way up his spine. He makes a promise to dedicate one more day to the gym, to change his hairstyle once again. Might start wearing rings, like Tom. Finn creeps into the bed, pulls his blanket all the way up to his ears. 

‘Morning,’ mumbles the sleepy voice beside him. Without his own will, Finn turns on his back, turns his head, and faces Lydia’s closed eyes. 

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Sorry I woke you up.’

Half-asleep, Lydia smiles. ‘Had fun?’

‘Mm.’

Silence falls onto them. Finn looks at the ceiling, listens to the familiar breathing. He doesn’t think about it much. Tomorrow, she’ll kiss his forehead, and he’ll feel lucky again. They’ll have sex, and he won’t wonder if she’s thinking of someone else. Won’t wish for someone else to be thinking of him. Finn closes his eyes and waits for the day to come.