“Does the pub stream live rugby games? Do they have quiz nights? Do they serve food?”
She sighs. “There isn’t a pub, exactly.”
“No pub?”
“Unfortunately, no. But there is a small community centre where they hold events, which is kind of the same thing.”
The pressure eases from my chest. “Not the same thing.”
“Matt, let me be frank with you for a second. Why do you even need a pub? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re the least social client I’ve ever worked with, and a pub is a social hub. An informal community centre, if you will.”
I take my eyes off the road for two seconds to glance in the mirror embedded in the sun visor. Sim’s right; I am antisocial. I keep myself to myself.
It’s not that I don’t want to have friends or be social, it’s just that . . . well, I don’t really know how. I’m autistic, awkward, introverted, have weird interests, say weird things at the wrong moments, and I never have anything of value—of substance—to add to the conversation because neurotypical types do not value random semi-relative facts, and that’s all I have. Plus my social battery is microscopic and inconsistently drains itself at inconvenient times.
People want to get to know me until they know me, and then suddenly they don’t want that any more. They realise if they initiate a conversation, it’ll be themselves doing all the heavy lifting. Or they’ll ask me a question and my answer is either too dull or too weird—not somewhere in between and never interesting—and I’ll lose them.
I can usually pinpoint the exact moment. Being the silent, observant type, I’ve catalogued all the indicators.
It’s in the narrowed gaze. In arms folding across chests, shutting me out. In the feet—the furthest parts of the body from the brain, and therefore the ones it has the least control over—pointing towards the exits as if readying to run.
If you want to know what a person’s really thinking, look at their feet, but do it at your own peril. You might see something you wish you could unsee.
Add all that to the fact I actually don’t like most people, and I have myself a solid reason to never bother trying to make friends.
I’m not lonely, not by any means—I love my own company—but sometimes I just don’t want to bealone.I get FOMO. Like really bad. But I also have SOJI.
Scared of joining in.
Which is why a pub is so essential to my everyday life. But how can I explain that to Simone?
“If I go into a community centre, I’ll be expected to make conversation. To like, be part of the community. They’d look at me sideways if I go into a community centre and sit in the corner, but doing just that in a pub is completely normal. I can sit there with my pie and my pint and I can quietly watch the game whilst being surrounded by people who are also enjoying the thing I’m enjoying, and most of the time I’m not expected to communicate.”
The annoying part about Owen Bosley’s pub is that I’d already scoped out where I would sit and brood. This perfect little table nestled right back in the far corner between the stupidly massive fireplace and the cold, limewashed wall. Away from the people but still with them, and with an excellent view towards the wall-mounted TV. The table itself looked rickety as fuck, with an entire hardback book wedged under one of its spindly legs, but it only had one chair tucked against it.
A perfect little Mathias spot.
“And I don’t like cooking. I’m bad at it, so I need somewhere close by I can grab lunch or tea. And I like pub quizzes because it’s something I can participate in without having to think up interesting things to say, or embarrassing myself in front of strangers who think because I play international rugby I must be a really exciting person to be around.”
Wow. I breathe. I did not mean to lay all that out in front Sim.
She’s quiet for a few beats. Understandable. “Sorry, Matt, the line’s terrible. Can you say that again? I caught the words ‘pub quizzes’ and ‘international rugby’ and that’s aboutit.”
“It’s not important,” I say, thankful she didn’t hear my mini “woe is me” speech.
“Okay, no community centres.” Her voice is soft, her pen scratches over paper, there’s no sign of signal disruption. She heard me, I realise, and she’s pretending she didn’t to save me from my own cringe yet again. “I’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks.” I purse my lips and puff out all my breath slowly so Sim can’t hear my relief.
Even though I know how in demand my agent’s time is, she spends the rest of the journey back to Mudford-upon-Hooke chatting to me about my first day of training and how welcoming the lads were . . . “Told you they were a lovely bunch.”
By the time I’m pulling into the drive of Fernbank Cottage, I’m feeling decidedlymeh.Which, as a base emotion, is heaps better than miserable as fuck.
I spend the rest of the evening doing what I’ve done every night since arriving here. Watching YouTubes of tech reviews with my living room—and later bedroom—curtains open, ignoring Owen’s pub but stealing glances now and then.
It’s only Fernbank Cottage and The Little Thatch on this stretch of road, yet the pub patrons are surprisingly quiet and respectful as they leave after kick-out. Not that I’m spying or anything, but I begin to recognise faces. There’s an older woman with a ginger bob cut, and a man who is almost always wearing a football shirt. A gay couple who’ve visited three times this week—on Sunday they had two youngish kids with them—and there’s a butch woman in her fifties who drives a Porsch and has an Irish setter dog.
Sunday was manic. There was a constant stream of people coming and going, and the scent of roasted meats drifting over on the breeze was almost enough to drag me in. I resisted, and instead hauled myself into Hookborough to find something to eat. The only place with availability was a pizza restaurant, Pizza di Zia, which okay, fine, cool, whatever. I like pizza, but I’d beendreaming about roast potatoes. I ordered a side of fries with my calzone to curb the craving.
