The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files) (27 page)

“Yep, there are some definite flaws coming to light,” Meredith whispers in my ear.

“What? He is just holding my bag to help me out,” I explain.

“So why are you grinning like a buffoon?”

“Bugger off!”

“I rest my case.”

2.00 p.m.

Thank goodness that is over. We have been let go and have all dashed to freedom like our lives depend on it.

“Do you guys fancy a drink?” Ben asks as we wander away from the museum.

I nearly fall over the pavement. I am about to make up an excuse when Meredith beats me to it.

“That sounds like a great idea, Ben. Come on, let's go,” she singsongs, grabbing hold of my arm and wrapping hers around it as if she thinks I might bolt at any moment.

I give her a small shrug and shake of my head when he is not looking. She just grins and shrugs back.

I have a very bad feeling about this.

Eventually, after twenty minutes of wandering aimlessly about, we find a suitable pub. By suitable, I mean it ticks all my and Ben’s criteria for the perfect pub.

It is full of old people who are ‘day drunk’.

It has a random dog, which later on we will decide is our best friend.

It does not sell food, only crisps and nuts, and it smells of old farts.

Meredith looks about in disgust as we come through the door. She, like Tristan, is more into sleek sterile wine bars. Ben and I used to tease them that their drinking habits had no soul, and they used to say that ours were insanitary and unhealthy. That seems like a lifetime ago now.

“Pint, Lilah?” he asks.

I should say ‘No’. So of course I say ‘Yes’.

Meredith nods as well. This is really not good. Meredith cannot drink pints to save her life.

5.00 p.m.

I am right. It is not good. Meredith is completely off her trolley and has just been sick in the toilet. Unfortunately, not in the toilet itself. We have had to call Tristan to come and escort her home. I should probably go home, too.

7.00 p.m.

Yep, I should have gone home.

I cannot see through both eyes anymore. I think Ben might be suffering with a similar vision impairment. Every time we turn to talk to one another we each have one eye closed, squinting through the open one.

We have given up talking for a while, and are just sitting in the dodgy old-man pub alongside each other. I have my head on his shoulder—mainly because I am having problems keeping it upright—and he is drawing patterns in the palm of my right hand.

7.15 p.m.

“So what do you want to do, Delilah?”

“Um, what?”

I think I may have dosed off. The pattern tracing is
very
relaxing.

“What do you want to do when Uni is finished?”

Oh, god! It’s that question.

“I have no idea,” I say.

“What? No idea at all? I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what I want to do in two years’ time. I can’t even see further than three months away at the moment.”

This is what I think I am saying. It could be completely different.

“Why can’t you see any further than three months away?”

His lips are close to my ear, sending shivers down my arm despite my many blue layers. I say the words before I can stop them. The moment they are out I want to grab them and shove them back in my mouth.

“Because you will not be here.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me through one blue eye.

“I’ll get another drink,” is all he finally says in response as he pushes up away from the bench we are sitting on. I should stop him. I have had too much already. I don’t.

9.00 p.m.

“Weesh shoulds shgo home.”

“Yesh, weesh shoulds.”

Black Cab Home

Snow whands in shnaughty shplaces. Snow cwazy snoggering. No snakeds.

5th March

10.50 a.m.

Professor Johnson is glaring at me again. I think I can safely say that this man is not a big fan of mine.

I do have my head on the table during his lecture and I may be involuntarily groaning, but, hey, at least I am here.

There was a knock on my door this morning. I had still been in my drunken stupor, thinking it was Meredith coming to blame me for allowing her to puke on a pub carpet. I had shouted out, "Come in."

Imagine my complete surprise when Ben entered, all fresh and showered. Unlike my own sad self who was still lying in bed, sweating out yesterday’s beer.

He put a cup of coffee down on the bedside table grinning like a nut case. “Thought you may need this.” He smirked.

“Go away, you annoying morning person,” I retorted from under the safety of my duvet.

Last night on our cab journey home I sat with my head resting on his chest as his arms circled me tight. I listened to his heartbeat the whole way.

Outside my door, he leant in and kissed me on the cheek. “I can’t give up on you, Lilah,” he whispered, one hand sliding through my hair and lingering along my jaw.

I wanted him to kiss me so bad.

I don’t know what he meant. I thought we had given up, or at least he had on me. Now I don’t know what to think about, well, anything.

Professor Johnson’s Big Bombshell

11.25 a.m.

“Right, then. Everyone, wake up!” Professor Johnson shouts as he jumps off a table at the end of the classroom.

Good God. What is happening?

I have been asleep, and can't imagine why he is standing on the table in first place.

“So I will number you all, one or two, and then you will pair up with your nearest matching number,” he announces.

He then starts to bounce around the room wildly slapping everyone on the head whilst shouting a number at them.

I turn in confusion to Meredith, who looks back at me blankly and offers me a shrug. What on earth have I missed? I can hear Ben chuckling behind, so I spin around to him. Barbie is back in her seat beside him, but I just ignore her on a continuous basis. I have even become bored with giving her evil looks.

“What’s going on?” I hiss at Ben.

The blues dance as he watches me panic.

I glare at him until he leans forward.

“Johnson is making us do project work and is pairing us up. We are either number one or two and have to pair up accordingly.”

Just as he finishes speaking, Crazy Johnson veers towards me.

“Awake, Delilah, at last? How lovely of you to join us this morning.”

I go bright red and mumble something intelligible back.

“Number one,” he says to me, patting a trifle hard on my head. “Number two,” he says to Meredith, who still looks rather confused.

Oh no! This means that Meredith and I cannot pair up.

It is in this moment I realise that Ben and Barbie are next. There are only two of them, and they will be either one or the other.

Oh please, don’t let me get partnered with Barbie. I would rather have my legs chopped off.

Johnson’s hand hesitates over Ben’s head—like he cannot quite remember what number is next—before coming down in slow motion.

“Number one.” He pats his head gently, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I keep my eyes down, not wanting to meet Ben’s gaze, although I know it is intense. Same as I also know, without looking, that his cocky smirk is lingering on his lips.

The nutty professor makes it back to the front of the class and turns his quick gaze on his room of captured students.

“Okay, everyone, move to your nearest matching number.”

We all groan and make a big deal of rustling papers and picking up pens. Meredith has finally cottoned on and quickly gathers her stuff. I wonder why she is moving so fast but then watch in amazement as she steps right up to Barbie’s desk and says, “Hi, Becky, I guess we should work together.”

Why would she do that when she knows I hate Barbie? She is my Arch Nemesis of Black Underwear.

Exactly two seconds later, I realise why she did the fast manoeuvre, as Ben slides into Meredith’s vacated seat. I will love her forever for this. The table automatically shrinks as his long leg presses against mine.

“Hi, Lilah. I guess
we
should work together,” he says, and the blues twinkle.

“Hi, Ben, I guess
we
should.”

I try not to giggle but fail. I'm not sure what his game is, but after last night, and the look on his face now, I would say he is definitely up to something.

Professor Johnson then launches into a long spiel about what the group work should be about. I do not hear a damn word he says. I just zone out completely and concentrate instead on Ben’s leg pressing against mine.

The Library

12.30 a.m.

“So what do you think?” Ben asks me.

I am not sure how to tell him that I haven't got the first clue what the guidelines are for the project, let alone subject matter.

Ben waited for me after class, and for the first time in weeks he walked inside the library doors with me. We stood at the little café and got coffee mostly in silence, because, for my part, I am still hanging like a dog. I am not quite as certain regarding the cause of his quiet contemplations. With coffee fuel in hand, we head towards the stairs.

Oh god! The stairs! Thankfully, though, they are slightly less torturous since I restarted my fitness regime, but I am never going to be the sort of person to approach the prospect of four flights of stairs with anything like zestful enthusiasm.

“Uh, I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, I quite liked his first idea. Did you prefer his second?”

“Um . . .”

“You weren’t listening, were you?”

“Sorry. Not really,” I confess sheepishly.

“What were you doing instead?”

I was concentrating on the electric feel of your long lithe leg against mine.

“Sorry, Ben. I have such a headache, it was hard to take anything in.”

He smiles at me, but I’m not sure whether he believes me or not.

“It was a bit of a heavy night last night.”

The blues gaze at me, trying to read something.

“Yeah it was. I think I should lay off the beer for a while,” I say with a punctuating grimace.

“Oh, but you are so funny on beer, Lilah.”

My name trips off his tongue like a soft caress. I try desperately to ignore my stomach flipping over.

In protest, my stomach decides to use this lull in conversation to rumble very loudly.
Very nice. Thank you.

“Have you eaten?”

“Nope. You saw me this morning. Food was the last thing on my mind.”

“What was the first thing on your mind?” he asks with intensity.

You.

“Not being sick.”

He chuckles at this. “You really are a delight, Delilah.”

“That’s me. I am a treat.”

I give his shoulder, which is close to mine, a nudge. We are both squished into one of the study booths together. These desks are not made for two.

“Do you fancy going for something to eat?”

“What? You and me?”

“Well, unless you can think of anyone else you would rather go with.”

Nope. Not really. Oh, what’s the point?

“Nope, not really.”

I am rewarded with a fabulous flash of blue and a dazzling white smile. He packs up our things and we head back down the stairs at a far quicker pace than we made it up them.

Dinner

7.30 a.m.

I thought he would cook, but apparently we are going out. His treat. I have been told to go and get ready. Ready for what?

Now what to wear? I have tried on every item of clothing that I own trying to find the perfect outfit. Do I go casual, or do I make an effort at something nicer? If I make an effort, he may think I am reading too much into the situation.

(Let’s be honest. I don’t know what to read into anything.)

For the last three weeks, we have been practically ignoring each other. Last night we got drunk together on a ‘friends only’ basis. Today we are going out for dinner. What does this mean?

No time to think about it now. He is knocking on my door and I am going to go and find out.

6th March

Ben’s idea was to go for a curry. There was a minor moment of embarrassment when the staff at my friendly Indian welcomed me by my first name.

“Leelah!” they call with open arms. “It’s been too long, where have you been?”

Ben just throws his head back and laughs, giving my hand a tug as my ‘friends’ navigate us to a table in the middle of the restaurant, where they can watch me all evening.

It’s all really normal, which in itself makes it all very strange and well, (let’s be honest), not very normal at all.

It wasn’t a date. But it was more than friends.