Gary stood in the bathroom again, staring at his reflection like they were meeting for the first time.

He looked worse. That much was undeniable. His face was puffier on one side, his eyes tired, his hair doing something that suggested surrender rather than style. But there was something else there too. Determination. Or possibly irritation. It was hard to tell under the lighting.

“You’ve done worse,” he told the mirror quietly.

The mirror did not respond, which Gary took as agreement.

He splashed some water on his face, careful around the sore side, and dabbed his mouth with a towel. The pain flared briefly, then settled back into its steady rhythm, like a metronome set to poor decision-making.

What was the plan here? He wasn’t entirely sure. Apologise? Explain? Pretend he’d just popped out for fresh air and come back dramatically improved? None of these felt convincing, but conviction had never really been his thing.

He grabbed his jacket and paused at the door, one hand resting on the handle.

This could go badly. Worse than before. He could embarrass himself properly this time. Publicly. Thoroughly.

But lying in bed feeling sorry for himself had already proven ineffective.

Gary opened the door and stepped out into the night.

Head back toward the pub → Page 43