The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files) (3 page)

Ha ha! If I open both eyes there are two of him!

One eye, one singer. Two eyes, two singers. One eye, one singer. Two eyes, two singers.

I think he may be glancing in my direction, but cannot be sure. Maybe he is just working out if he needs to get someone to call an ambulance for me.

Oh no! I probably look like I am winking at him. I am such an idiot!

I decide to head back to the bar and get another bottle of water. Without a backwards glance at the stage—let’s be honest I am in no condition to be glancing anywhere—I make my way to the bar. Froebel college is an old mansion house made up of a rabbit warren of rooms that I stumble my way through until I find where they have hidden the bar. Once there, I attempt to communicate with the barman for a bottle of overpriced water.

Sipping my drink, I turn from the bar, but someone is blocking my path back to the exit. I look up and see a pair of blue eyes twinkling down at me.

Ah, pretty, blue sparkly eyes like the sky at midday. I appear to be completely at a loss for words.
Again.

A dark head lowers to examine me closer.

“Ben,” he introduces, holding his hand out to me, his blue eyes crinkling.

On closer inspection, I see they are surrounded by the cutest freckles I have ever seen.

“Lilah,” I respond, taking his hand. I don’t shake it, I just hold it.

That is so not cool.

I hope I am not still looking through just one eye. “You’re the singer guy, right?” At least my tongue still works.

He flashes me a wicked smirk. “Singer guy, I am,” he replies, his hand still holding mine.

I have no urge to move away.

“You’re the girl in the knock out white dress,” he adds.

I have nothing to say to this, but he laughs all the same.

“Would you like to go outside for some fresh air?” he asks, leaning forward slightly and talking right into my ear. His warm breath sends shivers down my arm and various other places.

“I should find my friends,” I say. I don’t want to. I want to follow the blues outside, but there is a teeny tiny part of my inebriated brain that knows this may be a bad idea.

“Come on, Lilah.” He tugs at my hand, and my willpower crumbles like a sandcastle in the tide and I follow him without a second thought.

I Will Not Talk to Boys
. . .
Much

Hold on a minute. It gets worse.

Outside, he takes a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket. I cannot help but focus on his hand sliding into the tight space of his dark blue jeans.

I am a dirty pervert.

He offers me one, and I automatically accept.

Well, that is a pile of Crap!

I have broken all four of my cardinal rules within twenty-four hours of starting Uni.

Well done, Delilah!
I offer myself an imaginary clap on the back.

“I wasn’t winking at you, by the way.” I assure him.

“What?”

“Um, nothing.”

“So you here as a guest or a student?” he asks, leaning in and lighting my ciggie for me.

“Student,” I reply, attempting not to slur.

He lifts an eyebrow at this.

“Yes, I know I am old!” I retort. I should just walk away but my legs are not responding to any command my brain makes. Apart from the one that instructs me to stand there like a dick.

“Hardly.” The blues hold mine.

“Twenty-five is pretty old compared to all the spring chickens in there.” I motion my head to the hall behind me full of dancing teenagers.

Motioning of head is not such a great idea. My vision is about 5 seconds behind.

“I’m twenty-five,” blue-eyed Ben informs me.

“Oh.”

“So what are you studying?”

He is standing really close, very close indeed. I seem to be staring at his lips as he speaks, they are all I can focus on. Everything else is blurred or doubled.

I take a long drag of my cigarette.

“History,” I tell him, waiting for the laugh. None comes. “So, have you been with the band long?”

“Ten years.”

“Wow! That’s a long time.” It really is.

“Yeah, I guess.” He throws his cigarette away and I follow suit. He still does not move away from me. This guy obviously does not follow the rules of etiquette regarding personal space.

“You don’t recognise me, do you?”

Of all the questions I am expecting, this one is not it. “No. Should I?”

“I played at a Christmas party last year. You were there.”

I stare at the blues as he speaks; they are a little mesmerising. Let’s just hope I have my mouth closed.

I remember the band now, and I vaguely remember him. Well, not him exactly, but something about the colour blue. John had been a complete arsehole that evening, not leaving me alone for a minute. It had been suffocating and in the end we had left early. The evening was so bad I have forced myself to never think about it again.

“Sorry,” I offer.
I kind of am.

“I think I prefer the white dress to the red.”

What?! He can remember the dress I was wearing nine months ago! I am about to say something . . . anything . . .

Then he is kissing me: his mouth warm and firm on mine.

WHAT ON EARTH AM I DOING?

It should be strange, but it is not as strange as you’d think. I automatically lean in and slide my hands into his black hair, pulling him down closer. His hand grazes down my back and over my left butt cheek. I am not complaining though.
Nope, no complaints here. None at all.

Just like that my knees start to go. His arms slide around me holding me up and I think he may be chuckling, but I am not sure. It is hard to hear anything above the roaring in my ears.

This is the point I realise I am going to be sick all over a complete stranger I have just snogged.

“I think I should help you home,” he says into my ear.

“What? No way! If you think I am going to let you take me home so I will have sex with you, you’re sorely mistaken! I am not some gir—” My words are cut off by his lips. I try to protest but soon give up. It is not the most convincing protest I have ever made. I have protested more over cold toast.

“I am not taking you home so I can take advantage of you,” he says after finally pulling away so I can gasp a breath.

“You are really rather drunk and I think you should let me help you home,” he continues, a smile playing on his lips. He is probably right.

I can barely stand up, though I am not sure if that is through lack of oxygen whilst kissing or from too much booze.

“Besides,” he says with a twinkle of blues, “when I
do
have sex with you, I would rather you were a little more sober.”

I start to protest again but his arms lift me up and throw me over his shoulder in a very unflattering fireman lift.

“Where do you live, Lilah?” he asks.

He is never going to know, so I tell him, just so he has to admit he does not have a clue.

To my immense surprise he just starts striding off across campus.

I try to think of ways to get down, but in the end just give up and stare at his rather tidy arse as my eyesight starts to go black.

This is all I remember.

So kill me now.

I can’t believe that I got drunk enough to snog a stranger, even a hot one. What a complete bloody idiot. I may never, ever leave this room again. Ever.

I am going back to sleep. Hopefully when I wake up I will realise that this has all been a hideous nightmare.

Bacon

8.30 a.m.

Shit.

I’ve come around again to the smell of bacon.

Mmm, bacon. I don’t care who is cooking I just need some of the crispy goodness. Easing out of bed with very little crying or moaning I fling on the first clothes to hand and creep down the hallway attempting to keep my head as still as possible. Actually I ache all over. What on earth was I doing last night?

Oh, yes, that’s right. Dancing, snogging, dying.

Lock me up now.

I shuffle into the kitchen. I don't think I have even been in this room yet, but that is not what stops me in my tracks.

"What the hell?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I wish I had, then I could turn away and do a high-speed shuffle to safety before being seen.

Standing at the cooker with his back to me is Ben the Singer Guy. I know who it is before he has even turned around.

He is just as tall as I remember, all long legs and defined back muscles, wearing jeans with bare feet, his T-shirt damp around the neck where his just-washed hair has been dripping as it dries. For the second time in twenty-four hours my brain fails to compute anything, anything at all.

He turns to face me and flashes me a cocky grin, one side of his smile lifting slightly higher than the other.

"Morning," he says, smooth as you like, sliding bacon out of a pan and onto a plate.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, but also really not wanting to know the answer. Did he sleep in one of the other girl’s bedrooms?
Good god, did he sleep in my bedroom?

He grabs another plate from a cupboard and dishes some more bacon onto it, then sets about buttering some toast.

"Making breakfast." He slides a plate towards me, which I automatically reach for.

Curse my stomach and its hunger pains.

"I see that, but why are you in my kitchen making breakfast?" I try not to make it sound accusatory but fail miserably.

"Technically, I think six people live here, of which you are one," he smarts back. “So I think only one sixth of the kitchen is yours. Which sixth would you like? The sink?"

Ha! Bloody ha in the morning.

"Actually, for your information"—I pause for effect—"Only five of us live here. Question is: Which room did you sleep in?" I sound like a nut case. He should just walk out and leave me to be crazy by myself.

Hopefully he will leave me with the bacon.

"Um, nope. There are six of us that live here."

His eyes, which really are an extraordinary blue, gaze on me as he observes me processing this information. It must be funny to watch, as by the time I have come to realise that the ‘us’ he is referring to means that he is going to be living here as well . . . in this flat . . . under the same roof . . . with me for the whole academic year . . . His lips are fighting the urge to break into a grin.

You have got to be kidding me!

I glare at him.
Go on, laugh
. "You know I think you’re a dick, right?"

He laughs out loud.

"Well, then my job here is done." He sniggers as he flicks on the kettle. “Coffee?" he asks, grabbing two mugs out of another mysterious cupboard.

How come he knows where everything is and I have not even been in the kitchen before? I can’t be bothered to ask though.

"White, two sugars, please," I say with a sigh as I slide my bum onto one of the stools under the counter. It's only when I feel the cool plastic material against my bare leg that I realise I am standing there with practically no clothes on.

Like nothing.

Just skimpy shorts made out of ridiculously miniscule scraps of material, not intended to cover essentials, and a camisole. No underwear or anything.

He’s still watching my face and I don’t want to look like a complete prude so I just sit there trying to cross my arms over my chest. It is a bit cold. There is sure to be nipple rise.

"So how's the hangover?" He smirks, and I can't really blame him. Last time he saw me I was passed out over his shoulder. I almost join in until I remember that I have not brushed my teeth yet.

God, I am such a treat!

"It's cracking actually." I end up smiling. I can't help it. He smiles, too, his blue eyes holding mine for the briefest moment, just long enough for my cheeks to warm up.

“What was with the kissing?”
Did I just say that?

The blues stare at me. “Seemed like a good idea.”

“Seemed like?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice.”

“Listen, Lilah. I saw you from across the room and recognised you from last year. I have been kind of trying to spot you again since then. I just grabbed my opportunity when it arose.”

I try to think of a suitable response, but the only thing I can come up with is, “Huh.”

Very clever.

“Well, now we live together, so I shall try not to kiss you again.” He smirks a little more, which just pisses me off. Like I would let him do that again.

“Should not be a problem. I won’t be getting that drunk again,” I retort, grabbing my plate and heading for the door.

Pissed off or not, there is no way I am not eating that bacon.

Fresher’s Ball Post-Mortem

5.00 p.m.

It is a well-known fact that whenever a group of girls go out for an evening, the next day must be spent analysing exactly what happened in the teeniest detail. Meredith and I have been doing this whilst vegetating on my bed eating through a party-sized pack of Doritos and a giant bar of Cadbury Whole Nut.

Meredith has given me the low down on what actually happened. As painfully clear as my recollections are, I am still missing huge chunks of the evening.

“So you were standing against that wall,” she says around a bite of chocolate.

“Yes, yes, I remember that bit.”

“Then you tottered off to that fit Aussie behind the bar, who, for the record, was seriously eyeing you up.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.

“Was not.”