Chapter 1

I wear sweaters in the summer. Not because I'm some poor, depressed kid who occasionally slits his wrists, but because I'm a winter person. In general, I'm cold, I flourish in cold environments. That's probably why I loved it in Austria, but also why I hated it, I mean, there's only so much snow you can see when it all becomes this brown coloured sludge messing up your school shoes. So, when I show up at Leah's apartment wearing a dress shirt with a sweater over it, she gives me the look. I've gotten the look various times from many individuals about my attire. I never know what to wear, I'm either overdressed, or underdressed. Michelle Abrahams gives me the same look, except she does it less subtly than Leah did, she gives me a full-on, eyebrow arched up, mouth twitched to the side stare. And I'm used to it, so I smile politely as she engulfs me in the ever-awkward hug. Dinner parties have never been my forte or my idea of fun, keeping a conversation for more than five minutes was never my forte either. I've only been to three "dinner parties", the first was with Kat's parents in Texas when her mother walked in on us kissing, the second was when Rei dragged me along to his parents and announced he was bisexual – and well, his mother cried or something – and the third was that one summer in Italy when Marco's mum decided to cook a three course meal at three in the morning when all of us came home half sozzled. Leah and Michelle talk about their wedding whilst Amanda and I exchange awkward glares over the mediocre wine and the okay pasta. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some connoisseur, but Leah's not exactly an expert either, it half just tastes like something you'd get out of a bargain bin. The only reason I can even classify as a pseudo-expert on wine was because we spent practically every summer after Kat dumped me on Marco's father's farm, helping him pick grapes and binge drinking all the failed bottles. Amanda gives me this look as if she wants me to contribute to the conversation but I don't know what to say, Leah and Michelle are in depth conversation about the colour scheme and probably what kind of flowers they want at their wedding. Save me from that, thank you very much. If Amanda wants to contribute she can really be my guest, but I'm not particularly interested in wedding flowers. Amanda and I exchange one last look before I take up everyone's plates and routinely move to the kitchen to wash up. I don't know if it's etiquette or something but I will always end up doing the dishes in the company of others. Leah practically jumps up and runs after me.

"No, no, no, nein, you are not doing the dishes," Leah stands in front of me, barely able to meet my eyes, "this is my house."

"You know I don't mind," I look down at her, Leah reaches a solid five-foot-three, staring straight at the coils of my sweater.

"I do," she argues, holding her hands out, and I figure if she's insisting maybe I'll let her, so I hand her the plates. I do end up helping her with the dishes anyway.

Later Amanda offers me another glass of wine, while we watch the Viennese night owls crawl out of their burrows.

"What are we drinking to then?" I ask while watching a group of girls giggle down the street.

"Terrible pasta." Amanda laughs.

"Mediocre wine." I add, laughing along while raising my glass.

"Sexually active lesbians." She quips, causing me to laugh again.

"Divine company." I reply with a grin, her cheeks radiate pink at the mention of this.

"I'll drink to that." She says and we clink our glasses together, taking a sip. It still kind of tastes like cardboard, but somehow in the right company even the cheapest wine can taste good.

"So, now that we're acquainted with a glass of wine, maybe we should actually get acquainted with each other." I suggest in some stupid attempt to keep our conversation going. Amanda looks like she has dimension, like she has a story to tell and I am dying to hear it.

"Why do guys always ask that, like it's going to help when they're trying to get into my pants." She takes a long swig of wine, and fills up her glass once again.

"Woah," I say, "I'm not trying to get in your pants. I'm just figuring you have a story to tell and I'd like to hear it."

"Damn it," she says, laughing, "that was smooth, like seriously smooth."

"Thanks?" I ask, "I wasn't really trying to be, it's just I'm prone to reading people and that's why I said it, because your body language was insinuating it."

"So, he's scientific and romantic?" She laughs.

"And he's sentimental when he's drunk." I add, laughing sheepishly.

"That's a nice little factoid, I get super touchy-feely when I'm wasted. It's kind of gross." She replies, shrugging.

"See, now you're telling a story," I smile, eyes practically lighting up at the little bit of information, "what's your story anyway?"

She gives me a knowing smile, like she knows what I'm thinking, "well, I'm Amanda Stone, I work in advertising, and all my friends are lesbians, even though I'm not a lesbian myself. I also have a dangerous addiction to chai tea and I haven't emotionally committed to anything in a while." She smiles, taking another sip. This little tid-bit of information only intrigues me more, but I can't just ask. I'm greedy when it comes to knowledge, I used to devour books and movies when I was younger, like my knowledge would deteriorate if I didn't read enough. So, I simply look at her with a thoughtful smile, awaiting her answer.

"And you, what's you story? You're majorly introverted and a genius, you talk like you know everything, and you're gorgeous." She says, laughing.

"Thanks, I guess, I mean, I'm in some sense considered a genius and stuff." Now I'm bashful. Shit.

"And stuff," she mocks me, "you're flustered, how adorable." She laughs, and I join her with a sardonic laugh.

"Alright, I'm Insley Aulte and I'm Leah's older brother. I have an IQ of about 180 but before you stretch your mouth and go; "wow!" I have an EQ of about minus 4. Which means I'll struggle greatly to identify emotionally, or understand if you start crying. I'm an application engineer and a sort of hipster. I'm also apparently gorgeous." I reply and that little pink tinge returns to her cheeks.

"You forgot to add that you're super smooth." Amanda says, downplaying her bashfulness. Our playful banter continues all night, until we've finished our second bottle of wine and the noise from next door calms down. I can safely say that by now, I can feel the alcohol practically taking over my body and by the way Amanda moves closer to me every now and then, I'm sure she's feeling it too. We've moved into the living room with some awkward Netflix movie playing in the background while Amanda literally plays with my hair. It all feels like some scene from some low budget romantic comedy. On screen the guy gets down on his knees, professing his love.

"Called it." I say, Amanda's head turns to me, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Damn it." She laughs.

"She's going to die next." I answer.

"You're morbid." She almost looks like she's pouting.

"No, I've just seen way too many generic romantic comedies. My brother practically lives off these things." I say monotonously.

"Your brother sounds like he's got his head in the clouds." She says, her voice sounds faraway, almost like she's falling asleep. When I look up again and her eyes are closed, I mutter a stupid yeah and close mine as well. Although we didn't share our life stories with each other, I still feel good about hearing a bit of hers. I fall asleep with a smile, but as always I'm greedy to know more...