Before I can even formulate a response, Fake Grohl shouts into his mic, “Let’s start off with a song I know you all know the lyrics to! Here’s ‘Mr. Brightside’!”

I groan and cover my face with my hands. A burst of laughter escapes from Celeste. I look up in time to see a small, knowing smile flash across her face before it disappears. She must remember how much I hate this song—because it’s so overplayed, no real offense to the Killers.

Drunken cheers fill the pub as the band plays the all-too-familiar opening riff. People start bouncing up and down, belting the lyrics and rendering all conversation impossible. A single song has somehow unified everyone at the Irishman’s Jig. Once-strangers now have their arms around each other’s shoulders as they scream-sing in unison.

As much as I hate “Mr. Brightside,” in this moment, I’m grateful for the song, because I have no idea how to answer Celeste’s question. We’re not “good,” but we’re no longer “bad,” either. My emotions were already a jumbled mess after the last several weeks. And our conversation only made things worse.

Celeste orders another round for us, and we both down our drinks. Before I even know what’s happening, she has her arm around my shoulders, loudly singing the chorus along with the rest of the pub. I roll my eyes, but I join in anyway, because of course, I’ve heard “Mr. Brightside” enough times to know all the lyrics. Even though I prefer “Somebody Told Me” over it any day.

The small building shakes from all the yelling. Celeste and I laugh as one drunk woman tries to stand up on one of the tables, only to be waved off by a waiter.

We get a few more songs and drinks in when suddenly, my stomach lurches. The ground spins beneath my feet, and I sit back down.

“I think I need to head home,” I hear myself saying. My own voice sounds far away, like it’s on the other side of a tunnel.

Celeste takes the beer glass from my hand and sets it down on the table.

“Okay,” she says, “let’s get you home. Where do you live?”

Even in my drunken state, I panic, realizing that if I tell her my current address, there’s a good chance that she and my friends will cross paths. Which is something I can’t deal with right now.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

Celeste’s eyes widen in concern. “You must be more drunk than I thought.”

Trying to tell her I’m fine, I get out of my seat and stand up, only for the ground to come rushing toward me.