You Haven't Changed A Bit

I slowly sip my gin and tonic, the cool liquid a welcome sensation on this unusually warm Friday evening in April.

I’m having drinks with my oldest friends - Caitlin, blonde waves perfectly styled, nursing a glass of cold white wine. Josh, who has come straight from the office, shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Aiden, who always takes joy in ordering the most ridiculous cocktail he can find, drinking a neon blue concoction served in some sort of chemistry flask. And finally, Liana, dressed in one of her long vintage dresses, high-pitched laugh reverberating through the air.

We don’t much of each other these days, but we were all best friends once - we lived together for two years as students at the University of Exeter, and we were pretty much inseparable. My parents moved to Spain when they retired, and I’m an only child, so once I found my group, they became like a family to me.

“How’s wedding planning going?” Caitlin asks Josh. He chuckles.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Jenna is doing most of it. I just pay for it.”

Caitlin rolls her eyes. “Well, we’re all really looking forward to the big day. You know, when I got married…”

She burbles away about venues and menus and flower arrangements, while Josh nods along, distracted by the football match showing on the television above the bar. Aiden, Liana and I share a secret smile. We’re all sort of looking forward to the big day. Quite honestly, Jenna is a huge bridezilla and I’m sure there’s going to be endless rules we’ll have to follow on the day - a strict dress code, no phones, hundreds of posed photographs. But I’ll admit weddings have their uses, primarily getting to see old friends and acquaintances, and secondly, they usually have an open bar.

“Have you and Ryan thought about getting married?” Josh asks Aiden, keen to get the attention off his upcoming nuptials.

“We haven’t really talked about it,” Aiden replies, flicking through the cocktail menu. “It’s still fairly early days.”

Caitlin narrows her eyes slightly. We used to be so close, but I feel like I barely know her anymore. She's always busy with her family and work. I look closely at her and notice for the first time how tired she looks, dark circles under her eyes. I miss her, and I miss what our friendship used to be. It’s clear that she sees Josh as the most ‘on her level’, because he has a corporate job and is soon-to-be married. Aiden gets a pass for at least having a serious relationship, and Liana, though single, is a successful artist. But me? She doesn't say it out loud, but I can’t help but feel like Caitlin looks down on me for my mediocre career, my lack of a love life, my rented flat.

“Let’s get shots!” I exclaim, trying to bring up the mood.

“Tequila?” Aiden asks hopefully.

“Not tequila,” Josh groans.

I laugh gleefully. “Remember the time we stayed up doing tequila shots until five in the morning, and you had a seminar at eight? I don’t know how you made it, you were in such a state.”

“You looked like a re-animated corpse,” Aiden adds.

“It wasn’t a seminar, it was a presentation.” Josh says. “It was like, half of my overall grade. I have no idea how I passed. Anyway, never again.” He flags down a server and orders a round of lemon drop shots.

We all knock back the shots, except for Caitlin, who claims she’s driving (I end up doing the extra shot), and then I convince Liana to take advantage of the two-for-one cocktail offer and buy us both Cosmopolitans. I’m getting quite drunk by this point, and the desire to tell people I love them for no reason at all is bubbling up in my throat like a bad case of acid reflux.

“Iloveyouguyssoooomuch,” I slur.

Josh breaks into a peal of laughter. “Sadie, you really haven’t changed a bit.”

“I have!” I cry. “I’m way more mature now.”

“You’re less of a liability,” Aiden says. “You used to be a nightmare.”

“God, wasn’t she?” Liana agrees. “Remember when she tried dancing on a table one night and broke her foot?”

“Oh, shhh,” I say. “Anyway, remember the time Josh-”

Caitlin looks irritated. “Do we always have to talk about this stuff?” She interrupts. “It’s so boring.”

“How is it boring?” I argue.

“It’s just… we were at university over fifteen years ago. Don’t you think it’s time to move on? You’re obsessed with the past, Sadie.”

“Come on, Cait,” Josh jumps in. “We’re just reminiscing. It’s no big deal.”

Liana fidgets in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the tension brewing. “We can talk about something else. How are the girls?” She asks. Caitlin launches into a monologue about her seven-year-old twins, telling us about their ballet classes and swimming lessons and school trips. We listen politely, and I plaster a bright smile on my face, but deep down, I’m hurt. I usually love meeting up with my friends and talking about the old days. Now I just feel stupid, like someone who can’t let go of their youth.

Caitlin leaves early, and the rest of us go onto another bar, one with louder music and cheaper drinks. While I’m standing in the smoking area with Aiden, I privately ask if he thinks I talk about the past too much.

He pauses, puffing on his vape. “You’re kind of a nostalgic person,” He says carefully. “But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. We all miss those days - even Cait, though she'll never admit it. Look, forget it. Let’s go and dance.”

I let him grab my hand and lead me back inside, the bass echoing in my chest. I dance and drink and chat with strangers, and I feel a little better. I’m still young and fun. I’m just enjoying my life!

Screw Caitlin.

***

My throat feels like something has crawled into it and died.

It is nine-thirty am, and I have just woken up. My head is throbbing, and a patch of dried drool stands out on my pillowcase. Gross. Back in the day, I could stay up all night, down an energy drink, and then head to class or an early shift at my part-time job without a care in the world - but hangovers in your thirties are no joke.

As I slowly rise from my bed like Dracula from his coffin, I realise in horror that I can see. I’ve worn glasses since I was seven, so having perfect vision first thing in the morning means something is definitely wrong. I slept in my contact lenses, and now they’re stuck to my eyeballs, which feel crusty and sore. After dousing my eyes with saline drops, I lie back on the bed and wait for them to moisten enough to be able to take my contacts out.

While I wait, I think about last night. Me, getting a bit too drunk. Caitlin, accusing me of living in the past, of not growing up. The others, clearly torn between trying to defend me and trying to keep the peace. Or maybe they secretly agree with her? I don’t know. We’ve drifted apart somewhat throughout the years, but I still consider her one of my best friends. Now I’m stuck wondering if she even likes me at all.

I’m surprised and embarrassed to find myself crying, tears flowing down my face and mingling with the eye drops. I do talk about the past a lot. I think about the past almost constantly.

The truth is, I miss those days terribly. I miss my youth. I miss the sense of freedom and excitement. I miss feeling like my life had just begun. I miss kissing strangers. I miss fun. I miss myself, the glow I had.

My eyes are feeling slightly more human. I swap my old contacts out for a pair of glasses, and after a strong coffee, manage to find the strength to dress myself in a pair of jeans and a grey sweatshirt. I need a change of scenery. I grab my car keys, not having any idea of where I’ll go, I just want to take a drive, clear my head.

Once I’ve put on my seatbelt and switched on my headlights, it hits me - I’ll go to Exeter! It’s less than two hours away, and I haven’t been back since our ten year reunion. It’ll cheer me up to be in our university city, to walk the streets where I used to rush to my lectures or walk arm in arm with my friends, gossiping and giggling.

As I hurtle down the motorway in my crappy car that’s old enough to be at university itself, I curse Caitlin in my head.

She was so harsh last night. I’m not obsessed with the past, I just like to reminisce. What’s so bad about that? Not everyone wants the white picket fence life she has.

Half way through my journey, my petrol light starts flashing at me, so I pull over at the next service station to fill up my tank.

The cashier is a bored-looking girl in her early-twenties, sitting behind the counter picking at the chipped black polish on her fingernails.

“Pump number four, please,” I tell her. I pause. “And a pack of Marlboro Reds, please.”

I haven’t smoked in forever, but if we’re going down memory lane, why not make a day of it?

***

Our favourite place to drink back in the day was a bar called Liminal. It wasn’t a big place - just a small dancefloor with a bar either side, a smoking area out back - but its cheap drinks and loud music made it popular among students, so it was always absolutely packed. Just getting from one side of the room to the other could take ten minutes, pushing through the warm, sweaty bodies to find your friends, trying hard not to spill your drink in the process. Liminal was like a second home to me. I met my first university boyfriend there (and later broke up with him there, when I found him kissing someone else on the dancefloor). After only knowing Caitlin for two weeks, I stood in Liminal’s toilets holding back her hair while she threw up, and I knew then we’d be lifelong friends. It was like that old American show, Cheers. You know, sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. At Liminal, I was always bumping into people I knew. It felt like a place where anything could happen, even though it was just a shitty little bar. I could meet the love of my life tonight. I could make a whole new bunch of friends tonight. It was a place for fun, for dancing, for making mistakes.

I drive around in circles, getting lost. I used to know this area like the back of my hand, but it all looks so different now. Liminal was sandwiched between a burger restaurant and an office building. The restaurant shut down just after I graduated, but I’m sure the office is still there. It was an insurance company, or an accountant’s, something like that. One more loop around the block and then I’m going home. I’m looking for something that might not even exist anymore. Where the hell is it? I peer out the window, creeping along at barely three miles per hour, and a faded vinyl sign catches my eye.

Jones & Miller Accountancy Services, it reads. I found it! I pull over and turn the engine off, grabbing the cigarettes I bought earlier. My heart sinks as I get out of the car.

Sure enough, Liminal isn’t there anymore - it’s been replaced with a coffee shop, the trendy kind, with a sage green and light brown colour scheme and houseplants everywhere. It looks cozy and inviting, and I’m exhausted after my drive, so I put my disappointment to one side and push the door open.

The barista has sandy hair and warm brown eyes. I catch his eye and smile. He returns the gesture, but it is polite, a customer service smile only. I feel like people used to smile at me in a different way - like they were drawn to me, like they wanted to find out more about me. An ache in my stomach forms as I realise I can’t remember the last time anyone smiled at me like that.

“What can I get you?” He says as I approach the counter.

“Oh, um… a flat white, please,” I reply. He busies himself with brewing the coffee. I look around the room, a little heartbroken that the place where I made so many memories has disappeared.

“Hey, how long has this place been a coffee shop?” I ask the barista.

“A few years,” he answers. “It’s my uncle’s place. It was a nail salon before, I think.”

“It wasn’t a bar?”

“A bar?” He looks surprised. “No, I don’t think so. If it was, that must have been forever ago.” He pushes my coffee across the counter. “One flat white. Can I get you anything else?”

I smile sadly, feeling haunted by the ghosts of my youth that linger in the exposed-brick walls of this building.

“No, thank you. Have a good evening.”

***

I seat myself on one of the black metal tables outside the coffee shop and light a cigarette.

A group of women in their early twenties walk past me, dressed up for a night out in shimmery halter tops and mini skirts. On their feet are shabby trainers. Trainers, for a night out? I think back to nights getting ready with the girls, Caitlin putting on her highest stilettos, her feet always shredded to bits by the time we eventually stumbled back home. One of the young women has gems stuck to her face. She is looking down at her phone, texting furiously, and almost walks into me.

“Hey, careful,” I say. She barely glances at me, as though I am not worth looking at.

“Sorry,” She mutters. “I didn’t see you.”

I’m one of you! I want to yell. This day has been extremely trying, and I’m almost in tears. Where did the time go? When did my youth slip out of my fingers? It feels like yesterday that I was twenty years old, and now I’ve turned into a ghost overnight. It’s not your turn anymore, society tells me. It feels like a knife to the stomach. It’s a deep form of grief that is unexplainable, unavoidable, and shameful.

The sky is growing darker, the streetlamps lit up. Groups of students are pouring into pubs to start their evenings, laughing and shouting to one another happily. A strange urge builds up inside me, an urge to shake them and tell them they don’t know how good they’ve got it, to enjoy it while it lasts. Obviously, that would make me look crazy, so I don’t do that. Instead, I sip my coffee and think about how many times I’ve stood on this very pavement, smoking like I am now. I remember turning heads. I remember people looking at me, talking to me, whether they knew me or not. Asking me for a light, just to make conversation.

It hurts knowing I will never be that person again. I will never be in my early twenties, with all the freedom and drama and exhilaration and adventure and challenges. I knew I would get older - I just didn’t realise how quickly it would happen. Life feels quiet now - like I was the lead actress in a play, and now I’m backstage helping with the lighting. Why can’t I stay centre stage?

I stub out my cigarette and head back to my car. Once inside, I pull down my sun visor and look in the tiny mirror. A not quite young, not quite middle-aged woman stares back at me. I don’t recognise her, but maybe it’s time I got to know her properly.

I start the car and drive away, leaving Exeter behind.