The Baby Brother Blunder

There’s something weirdly nostalgic about going home, isn’t there? You regress about ten years the second you step through your parents’ front door. Mum still tells you to put on a jumper even though you’re 30 and have your own thermostat. Dad’s still got that look in his eye that says don’t even think about borrowing my car.

So, when I went home for a visit, I wasn’t expecting to suddenly be fifteen again – emotionally, hormonally, and, apparently, morally. But fate (and gin) had other plans.

It all began with an invite to my old school friend’s 30th birthday party. You know the type – big milestone, big house, big plans. Her family always lived in one of those grand old country mansions that smells like old wood and inherited wealth. We’d been friends since we were teenagers, so of course I said yes. And because I’m a responsible adult (sometimes), I asked my dad to drop me off so I could enjoy a few drinks without worrying about driving.

Big mistake.

A “few” drinks turned into a few more. Then a couple of shots. Then the kind of fuzzy, tequila-laced haze where everything is hilarious, and everyone is fit. Proper beer goggles – the sort where even time, space, and age become loose suggestions rather than hard facts.

I remember clocking her three brothers early on in the evening. It was like some kind of genetically-blessed conveyor belt of blonde, chiselled cheekbones and smug grins. Each one slightly more handsome than the last, like a messed-up Russian nesting doll of heartbreakers.

And somewhere between my third glass of wine and my fifth bad decision, I apparently got with the youngest one.

Her 18-year-old brother.

Let that sink in.

I’m 30. That’s a 12-year age gap. A full Zodiac cycle. He was three when I first started hanging out with his sister. Three. I remember him toddling around the garden in a Spiderman costume. Now, apparently, I’ve snogged him. In a toilet. At his parents’ house. In full view of half the party.

My last memory of the night is a hazy blur of me clocking the headlights of my dad’s car like some kind of divine intervention. I launched myself into the back seat and passed out, dramatically and ungracefully.

The next morning, the parental disappointment was so thick it could’ve been spread on toast. You know when they don’t even yell? They just look at you like you’ve personally let down Queen and country. That.

But things got even more mortifying a couple of nights later when I met up with my friend for dinner. She was weirdly calm, which instantly made me anxious. Like, too calm.

“Do you remember what happened at the party?” she asked.

Spoiler: I did not.

She proceeded to fill in the blanks like a Netflix true crime docuseries. Apparently, I hit on everyone. I made a pass at the middle brother (more age appropriate, less traumatising), and possibly even flirted with her fiancé. Somewhere in the chaos, I mistook the youngest brother – the baby of the family – for one of the older ones. Next thing, we disappeared into the bathroom. No one’s sure what happened in there (least of all me), but we re-emerged to the entire party watching like it was a reality show finale. His parents just shrugged and said, “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Bound. To. Happen. Sooner. Or. Later.

What am I, a cautionary tale?

When my friend said she thinks I genuinely mistook him for the older one, I nearly dissolved into the carpet. It was the final punch in the cringe-comedy of my life.

She forgave me, bless her, and we’ve moved on. But every now and again, I’ll be doing something completely innocent – like brushing my teeth or buying hummus – and the memory will smack me in the face like a cold fish. And all I can do is scream internally.

So here’s some advice: no matter how good-looking someone is, no matter how charming the party, and especially no matter how strong the gin – always ask, “How old are you?”

Because otherwise, you might just end up in a bathroom with someone you once babysat through a glass of squash and an episode of Postman Pat.

Until next time, kids. May your beer goggles be weak and your shame easily erasable.