“He’s not,” I counter. “He’s a good guy. When he visits next semester, you all can meet him and see for yourselves.”

“Looking forward to it.” Salvatore takes a sip of whiskey. “He’ll love me. I have the best first impressions.”

Tess snorts. “Yeah, it’s your second and third impressions you need to work on.”

Salvatore smiles but nudges my shoulder when he sees I’m not doing the same. He grabs a couple of the pork scratchings and places them on a napkin in front of me. “Give us your Pennsylvania-Maine opinion.”

“Whoa! YEAH!” A drunk college student starts screaming at the bar. “Chug! Chug!”

Bodies begin shifting and three people knock into our table. I’m not fast enough this time. The pitcher collapses sideways, and I jump up before beer soaks me.

These assholes don’t apologize. Instead they face the bar, their bodies still close enough to ram into the table again.

“Hey! Watch where your arses are bumpin’ into.” Sheetal snaps at the rowdy guys.

They turn on her in an instant, and I just barely make out one of them say, “Daft twit.”

“Hey.” Salvatore walks in front of them. “Back off.”

Tess tosses napkins on the spill, and I walk around the table to stand beside Salvatore. “Just give us some space,” I tell the guys. I’m pretty nice about it, so I don’t really expect their response.

“Just give us some space.” The taller one with blond curly hair mimics my American accent, only he over-emphasizes it like I’m an airhead.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Salvatore says.

“Wankers!” Sheetal yells at them.

Salvatore sighs heavily, but he’s smiling up at the ceiling.

Tess laughs.

I’m trying my best not to grin. Lips pressed tightly together. Curly Blond pins his glare on me, as though my effort to suppress laughter is the serious crime.

Salvatore slides closer to me, and then puts an arm around my shoulder. It’s sudden and all for show, but it still causes me to solidify to utter stone.

“I said back off,” Salvatore tells him.

Sheetal eagle-eyes the Curly Blond and mumbles into her beer. “What a divvy.”

He’s about to reply when a server walks over. “We got a problem here, mates?” He looks between our group and the asshole, but unlike the four of us, all of the asshole’s friends have left him and migrated back to the bar.

Curly Blond grinds on his teeth. “No. I was just leaving.” He steps back.

The server sees the empty pitcher, plus the sopping wet napkins, and he gives us an apologetic look. “I’ll grab some towels and bring you lads another round on the house.”

He leaves and we all look between each other, seconds away from breaking into laughter.

Barnaby’s is our spot. Officially.

And then it hits me. It was a silly, normal argument. That guy didn’t recognize me. Didn’t start a fight because he hated my brother. Didn’t call me names because of my relation to the Calloway sisters. London and Wakefield are bringing me this overwhelming sense of normalcy, and I don’t want to let it go.