British Guys Aren't Cute

British Guys Aren't Cute - Chapter Thirty-One

‘The English are not a very spiritual people, so they invented cricket to give them some idea of eternity,’

George Bernard Shaw

Chapter Thirty-One

Milo looked around the gazebo, watching the people walk about with the big fake smiles on their face, greeting people as if they were old friends, when in reality they had never met that person in their life, merely heard the gossip that floated around. He let out a little laugh at the people, before downing the rest of the whisky he had in his hand, and turning around for another. 

He was at an opening. He wasn’t quiet sure what for - a hospital or something useless like that, hell, Milo didn’t even know what day of the week it was. All he knew that it was eight days since she left, since a giant crater had been left in his heart. Milo couldn’t even barely to say her name in his head, let alone out loud. 

“Another please,” He ordered, looking at the bar tender who stood behind the bar. The bartender quickly shook his head, fear washing over his face.

“Your mother, she told me not to give you more than one drink in an hour,” the bartender explained, “She said she would cut my head off,” Milo laughed at her mother’s threat, imagining in his head what the scene must of been like. 

Milo quickly placed his empty glass on the bar, before storming off to find his mother. He pushed pass people, spreading a fake smile on his face while apologizing for pushing past. He needed another drink, he couldn’t stay sober - not with her 400 miles away. Milo eventually spotted his mother standing with his father. They were talking to a lord, laughing away at some joke. He quickly walked over, a smile forming on his face.

“Mum, can I please talk to you for a second,” Milo asked, interrupting the conversation. The gaze of the group floated over to Milo. He could see the sympathy in his father’s eyes, the sadness they held for his poor broken hearted son, Milo just ignored it, not wanting any sympathy from anyone about the break-up. The queen looked a Milo, raising an eyebrow at her son before realising why he had walked over to speak to him.

“I’m not telling the waiter to give you another drink,”

“That’s not why I came to talk to you,” Milo replied, lying through his teeth. He refused to give up on the subject, he would get his next drink. The queen looked at her son, trying to figure out what he was thinking so she could get back to her conversation. They hadn’t been talking all week. The queen was disappointed with her son because he was arrested, while he was avoiding her so he wouldn’t have to discuss why she hadn’t been around. The queen eventually gave up on reading her sons’s thought. She quickly excused herself from the conversation, before walking off with her son, wondering what he wanted to talk to her about. 

“What’s wrong?” She questioned, her green eyes staring into Milo’s dull blue eyes. They had lost their colour, almost faded as he grew more and more depressed. 

“I need a drink,” Milo stated, looking over at his mother. She rolled her eyes before turning to walk away.

“I’m not lifting the ban, Milo! You’ve not be sober for eight bloody days!” she hissed. Milo grabbed her arm, stopping her from turning away.

“Please! Just one more!” he pleaded, the colour in his eyes growing darker and dimmer.

“No, Milo! Jesus christ! What is wrong with you! You’ve never been like this!” the queen replied, turning around to see her son again. “Where’s Nora?” Milo’s heart broke as the illusion was shattered. Her name flowed through his mind, reminding him of the heart he was trying to glue back together with whisky and vodka.