When the conversation shifts to politics, I have nothing to say. When it’s about children and parenthood, I have zero experience to share. When it’s about soccer though—European football—I take my chances and participate with my controversial opinions on the latest sold players, especially the Brazilian ones, and why I believe Real Madrid will destroy its opponents in the next Champions League.
I get a few surprised stares. George laughs. “Blimey! You know more about football than me, Sol. Not that I care one bit about it.”
“My dad is a big fan of European football,” I tell them, trying not to sound too proud or apologetic. “It’s a passion we’ve shared.”
Simon, a fervent Real Madrid supporter, gives me a high-five, and Lars lifts his pint for a “Skål!”
“We also love Brazilian football,” I say. “The best of all.” I sip my beer. I need to loosen up more. I’m at my best socially when I’m not one hundred percent sober.
“Some of the best players, for sure,” Lars agrees. I spend a few minutes discussing soccer with him, and I discover that he knows quite a lot about Palmeiras, the team I’ve supported since I was a child—again, thanks to my dad.
When we are all full of tapas and more than a bit tipsy, Ellen announces that she got married last week. A round of cheers shakes the table. We toast and congratulate her. George then says he will propose to his boyfriend soon and asks for our advice on how to do it in the most romantic way.
“George, Ellen, you need to introduce your partners to us,” Lars says when the brainstorming for George’s marriage proposal is getting private-jet extravagant.
Ellen has very fair skin, and her cheeks are red in the heat of the restaurant, matching her fiery curls. “I would love you all to meet Mads,” she says.
“And how’s your wife, Simon?” Lars asks. “Is she still working at that design bureau?”
“Yes, she’s very happy there,” Simon answers, a smile buried under his respectable mustache.
“What about you, Chiara?” Lars turns to her. “Any special one?”
“I have a girlfriend. We’ve been together for eight months.”
“Wonderful. We look forward to meeting her!”
Soon it’ll be my turn to be under the spotlight. I’m sitting between Lars and Astrid, who is sitting next to Martin. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants.
“What about you, Martin? Tell us all about the current status of your heart!” George follows the trail led by Lars.
“I’m a happy single!” Martin lifts his glass.
“Cheers!” says Astrid. “Me too!”
This would be my cue to join them. But I’m stuck. I just look at Martin and Astrid’s smiling faces as a hole grows in my stomach, sucking in all my air.
Why does being a “happy single” like Martin make me want to poke my eyes out? Why do I feel like I’m joining the loser line by being on equal terms with my rival when everyone else is happily in love? I can’t even call myself a happy single. That’s not a word you can use to describe someone who cries at the end of rom-coms out of pure jealousy.
The more I realize how much behind the others I am in every aspect, the more breathless I feel. The thought that I’m not at all like them makes me dizzy.
I drink a good mouthful of beer until I realize I’ve emptied my glass. My second glass. The dizziness intensifies.
“Sol, darling, I won’t believe it if no one has snatched up your heart yet,” George says.
I laugh, hoping the conversation will go in another direction before I can answer.
Lars looks at me expectantly. He was radiant to hear about Ellen, George, and Chiara.
I remember what Erik said, about Lars liking people who are in serious relationships. People who want children, who have stable lives and plan to grow old in Copenhagen.
I’m the one who has just arrived. The one with no ties to the country. The one most likely to leave on a whim...
“I have a Danish boyfriend,” I hear myself say.
And then it’s too late. I can’t take it back. Oh gosh.
All the blood in my body rises to my face, burning my cheeks, and I feel like I’ll throw up the two pints I’ve gulped down.
“Ooooh,” they say, and I stop listening, panicking as I do whenever I tell a lie.
Odin’s beard! Why did I do that?
Oh jeez. Ugh.
“Tell us more!”
“How long have you been together?”
“That’s wonderful, Sol!”
The last comment is from Lars. I think. My head is spinning as I look from one face to another. I feel as overwhelmed as when the women at my mom’s salon all started talking about Erik at the same time.
Oh my goodness—it hits me again. I didn’t tell a random guy in a bar that I have a boyfriend so he can leave me alone. I lied to my boss. The person I want to trust me.
What have you done, Sol?
To my relief, the waiter chooses this moment to ask if we need anything else. Some people order more beer and tapas, and I seize the opportunity to breathe and clear my thoughts.
