I stumble out the back door. No way am I risking the walk back out past the open doors of the reception hall.
It's cooled down rapidly, and the shock of it slaps some composure into me as I loop back around the front of the building. I don't even have a ride home. I wasn't expecting to alienate everyone before the end of the night.
I pull my phone out of my bra and sigh. At least I have that and a credit card. Uber, it's your lucky night.
Loud laughter interrupts my silent lament as a rowdy group of tipsy twenty-somethings exit the bar beside the reception hall. I watch them stumble to the curb, and something about their carefree giggles pulls at me like the moon does the tide.
I glance back at the bar. Carlow's, only the "w" in the neon sign is burnt out so it looks more like Carlos. I shrug. Why not? I'm already six feet under. Might as well drown myself in the memory of the night I accidentally sent Connor and Nessa into each other's orbit.
I trudge up the rickety steps and push the door open. The interior looks just like I remember it: Riding a debatable line between rustic and run down, with heavy wooden chairs and even heavier tables. The bar has more modern decor, with cushioned round stools anchored to the floor, and I make a beeline in that direction.
The crowd tonight is much thinner and mellower than it was the last time I was here, but the slow night comforts me.
"I'd like to start a tab," I announce to the young woman behind the bar. She peers at me from under her jet black bangs, and I remember that I'm dressed for a wedding. The only thing I'm missing is a sash that reads "Former Maid Of Honor."
She grabs an orange bottle from the center of the rack and pours me a shot even though I haven't asked for anything. I don't care. I grab it enthusiastically, spilling a little over the sides.
"Runaway bride?" she asks.
I scowl. "I wish."
She nods. "He's bad for her?"
I sigh and shake my head. I might hate Connor, and his head might not fit into the state of Texas, but he and Nessa have always been perfect for each other. Even I can admit that.
She tries one last time. "Handsy groomsman couldn't take a hint?"
I snort into my shot, then swallow it anyway. "He wishes."
"Okay." She leans forward on her elbows, tilting her head at me. "I'm intrigued."
"And I don't want to talk about it."
"I'll trade you," she says, pouring a shot and showing it off in front of my face like Vanna White. When I reach for it, she pulls it back.
I sigh, my throat still burning from the first shot. I'm already buzzed, but I still want the second one because I still remember everything.
"Friend of the bride or groom?" she asks.
"Bride." Then I give in and mumble, "But I slept with the groom."
She sets the shot down in front of me and pours another one, raising an eyebrow. "These'll keep coming as long as you keep spilling."
"Can't you get in trouble for that?" I ask, but she just shrugs.
I blow out another gusty breath, my lips flapping, and lay down another layer of drama. "And I might be in love with her. And I might have told her that tonight, but she thought I was talking to her husband. He did, too."
The next shot lands on the bar, and I seize it without remorse.
By the third one, she doesn't even have to bribe me. The whole story is flooding out faster than she can pour. I came here to drown, and I am.
"Did I mention I'm a lightweight?" I slur thirty minutes later.
"Yes. A couple times, I think."
"Well, now you know." I nod emphatically, not sure what my point was.
"Indeed."
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a man asks from behind me.
"Yes," we both answer. I don't even look up, but from the corner of my eye I see his bulk settle at the other end of the bar.
"I'd better go," the bartender says, nodding toward the new customer.
I watch her walk away. Was she always that blurry? She should get that checked out. Doesn't seem safe. A blurry person in such a blurry world is a recipe for disaster.
I fold my arms on the bar top and lay my head down in them. I just need to rest my eyes for one second before she comes back.
Pulsing music thumps me back awake after what feels like only seconds. I raise my head like a grumpy goose, looking for who I need to murder to restore the peace, and I notice that the crowd is at least three times the size it was earlier.
And everyone is wearing green, including me. My dress is gone, replaced by jeans and a tank top whose armpits have seen better days, and blessed sneakers have replaced the uncomfortable fancy shoes I wore earlier.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asks over the music, waiting expectantly. She's still here, only she's dyed her hair; about half of it is dark blue.
"Your hair," I reply. "It's...different."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," she shouts back. "What do you want?"
"Um, water please." I've already had quite the night, but as I take stock of myself, I realize I don't feel the effects of the earlier shots at all.
"Actually, can I have that clear thing in the orange bottle you gave me earlier?"
She leans over the bar, tilting her ear toward me. "I'm sorry, what are you talking about?"
"You know, the...." I start to point to the center of the wall of alcohol, but the orange one is noticeably absent. Maybe I drank it all. "Whatever you recommend," I finish instead.
As the drink lands in front of me, I notice the green shamrocks decorating the walls. I'm having deja vu.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" someone asks from behind me. I roll my eyes and shrug. I don't care anymore.
Connor sits down beside me, a green sparkly tiara nestled in his hair and a string of paper shamrocks dangling around his neck. He looks exactly like he did five years agoâand, I realize, so does the bar.
Somewhere deep inside, I realize I'm dreaming. In real life, I must have passed out at the bar. I'm probably getting dragged out like a sack of potatoes at this very moment.
Of course this is the dream I would have. I couldn't have superpowers or lose all my teeth or something. I have to relive the night I met Connor.
"Little overboard, don't you think?" I comment on his decorations.
"This?" He lifts the shamrock streamer off his shoulders. "Where's your spirit? At least you're wearing green, right?"
I give him an unamused glare.
He raises his hands. "Touchy. What, did you get stood up or something?"
"You have no idea," I shout over the music. Stood up? Sure. The girl I love married someone else. Him. Does that qualify?
I vaguely remember a similar response and a similar train of thought as the real scene had played out five years agoâNessa had promised for months to come to this party with me, but at the last minute she'd gone home to visit her parents. When I'd joked about it back then, it had actually come out as a joke; in this dream world, it's more of a dismal statement.
"Well, it's your lucky night," he says, plopping himself down on the stool beside me. "I did, too."
Are dreams supposed to be so accurate to the memories they're derived from? Mine are usually patched together from random occurrences. Like being on the Flash's team in a special version of the Hunger Games taking place on Captain Picard's version of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Not that that's ever happened to me.
I take a large gulp of my drink.
"I'm Connor," Connor interrupts my thoughts.
"Alana."
I really wish I was one of those people who can control the direction of their dreams. I would spill my freakishly green drink on him. Or make the ceiling fall down on his head. Not to kill him, of course. Just a concussion and maybe a minor fracture. His nose doesn't need to be that perfect.
And he doesn't need to be that built, either. If I could resculpt him just a little bit, tone down the muscles, make the crinkles around his eyes just a little less genuine, maybe Nessa wouldn't feel the need to marry him.
"Could you stop mentally undressing me?" he asks. "It's making me uncomfortable."
Crap. I forgot I'd done that that night, too. For different reasons, of courseâbut I can't really blame myself for it back then. I can appreciate beauty when it sits in front of me wearing a plastic tiara.
"Hey, you got stood up, so...."
"That makes me fair game?" he infers. "Because that makes you fair game."
"I was going to say that you have nothing better to do, but by all means, find yourself a better conversation partner." I finish my drink in one gulp and signal desperately for another one.
"Probably wouldn't be hard."
He wouldn't be smiling if he knew how much he'd mean it in a few years. "I'm starting to see why you got stood up. Maybe your date could see the future."
"Maybe yours saw your nasty-ass shirt," he says, glancing pointedly at the grayish discoloration seeping through the bright green fabric at my armpits.
I shrug. "Didn't seem to scare you away."
"I'm a little drunk," he calls.
"Me too," I admit after another large gulp of my second drink. I remember that I'm still in college, and I haven't yet experienced the following years of painstakingly building up an alcohol tolerance to manage his and Nessa's couple cuteness. That's probably why the buzz is so strong already. It's also probably why I don't quite hate Connor at the moment.
I've forgotten how endearing he was that night.
Too bad he had to go and ruin it by dating my roommate.
"Never get married," I comment. It probably seems random to him, but after the night I've had I feel like deserve to insert at least some of reality into this fictional conversation. It's strangely comforting to know that I can. Not that it will change the outcome of the dream.
"Don't worry," he replies. "I don't plan to."
I nod with satisfaction. No matter that I know it's a lie. It makes me feel better for a fleeting moment.
"It's kind of loud, do you want to get out of here?" Connor asks.
I feel my mouth open. I try to stop the words. But they have a mind of their own.
"My place is empty."