Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(25)

“It gets dark stupid early here in the fall,” David said. “Especially when it’s overcast. Which is a lot of the time.”

London’s street layout was like the web of a drunk spider. Some streets curved and ended abruptly; some were honeycombed with passages and mews. Alleys wove the baffling structure together. Words on the street reminded idiot Americans like herself which way the traffic was coming from, and every time they went to cross one, she turned the wrong way.

“You have to choose your pub wisely,” David went on. “This one has the best drink specials, the best music, and they look the other way when we bring in food from other places. The others like these weird-ass nachos from the place on the corner . . .”

He indicated a place called Se?or Sam’s.

“. . . but English nachos are very bad. Do not eat English nachos. I swear to God I’ve seen them put baked beans on them. Fish and chips, however, are very good. That’s not a stereotype. That’s fact. And that’s what we are getting.”

They entered an inauspicious place called Mr. Chips: a pocket-sized place, painted stark white, with just three small tables that no one sat at. There was a menu on the wall that was perplexing. Stevie understood the component words, but they were in combinations that seemed to have a magical significance that she wasn’t getting.

“I can order for us,” David said. “I’ll get a mix of stuff. My treat! Two regular cod and chips, two regular haddock and chips, a scampi and chips . . .”

“A battered burger?” Nate said, a certain amount of awe in his voice.

“Go for it,” David said. “Arteries are for losers.”

Several items were dumped into deep fat fryers, a rich, unhealthy smell filled the air, and they soon were back out into the evening holding a stack of Styrofoam boxes.

The pub was called the Seven Bishops, and it looked more like what Stevie was expecting—something cheerfully Dickensian, painted shiny black with gold lettering and a sign with a picture of a miter on it. The dark facade was broken by a chessboard of windows, and a cheering warm light glowed from within. Inside, there was a wooden bar, studded with tap handles. There were wooden booths with high walls, making cozy chambers for people to gather in. A few of these were still empty.

“We got here just in time,” David said, staking one of these with the pile of food. “Drinks! What does everyone want?”

“Like, drinks, drinks?” Vi replied.

“Whatever you want.”

Janelle had turned eighteen in October, and Nate followed in early November. Stevie, however, would not turn until December, and Vi until February. They had all discussed what they were going to do once they got here. They had planned on this—but being in the pub still felt, well, foreign.

“Stop worrying,” David said. “See this?” He pointed to the pile of food in front of them. “This is a meal. You’re allowed to have drinks with a meal when you’re sixteen.”

“Seriously?” Janelle said. “What a weird law.”

“Welcome to the home of the weird law. Here’s another one I learned in my introduction to UK and international law lecture—the Salmon Act 1986. It’s illegal to handle salmon in a suspicious manner. I’ll be watching. Now, drinks. Come on. What do you want?”

“What’s good?” Vi said. “I want something that’s right for here. A pint of something? You pick it out.”

David nodded and looked to Janelle, who was eyeing the bar curiously.

“I don’t like beer,” Janelle said. “Is there something else?”

“There’s cider,” David offered. “It’s a little sweeter.”

Janelle accepted this. Nate stuck with Coke.

David turned to Stevie.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess . . .”

She felt stupid saying pint. She wanted to do the things—all the things. She just didn’t know how.

“I guess . . .”

Someone walked by with a wineglass. She’d had wine before—champagne, actually—warm, in a mug, sitting on the bathroom floor with Element Walker on her first day at Ellingham. That felt right—a toast to Ellie.

“Do you want one of those?” he asked, following her gaze. “A white wine?”

“Sure?”

They settled into the padded green booth and looked out the many panes of the leaded window.

“Well,” Nate said, flipping open one of the containers and taking out a fry. “We made it, and nothing weird has happened yet.”

“Why would you even say that?” Janelle replied, examining the large pieces of fried fish and delicately removing one.

“I’m saying shit follows us around. I give it three days.”

The fries were thick and hot as the tears of the sun, and the fish was every bit as good as David had promised. Overhead, Harry Styles sang out over the noise of the crowd, suggesting treating people with kindness. David returned with the drinks and slid in beside Stevie and slipped his arm over her shoulders, naturally. Stevie sipped at the white wine. It had a friendly taste and filled her head with a happy warmth.

They were all together again. All her friends. David. David so close that she could push her face into the curve of his neck. She had to restrain herself. She wanted to do much more.