He loops his arm around my waist. “I know you hate this course, but I’ve got you, I promise.”
I rest my cheek on his head as we walk. “I know you do. Thank you.”
Emory spends the evening figuring out two revision timetables. One for the two of us and one for Casey, which takes all his swimming practice and competitions into account. I’m convinced that Emory is the most organised man on the planet. The most organised and the most brilliant. Whoever he ends up working for after graduation is going to be damned lucky. The same goes for Casey. His passion for swimming makes my heart race.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what Casey said at the forest lodge. That I have found my thing in cooking. So while Emory puts his elite organisational skills to work, I look into possible summer jobs. Six weeks until exams means eight weeks until the summer holiday. We break up at the end of the third week of June and don’t come back until the first week of October. If I still love cooking after three months of working in a kitchen, I’ll know I’ve found my thing.
The trouble is, I have no experience. I wasn’t even allowed to take food tech at GCSE or A level, even though I told my parents I wanted to. I’m not going to let that deter me. I make a long list of restaurants in Leeds and write emails to them, explaining I’m looking for summer work.
By the time Casey comes home from practice, Emory has finished the timetables, and I’ve emailed a dozen restaurants. As always, Casey is tired, so the three of us snuggle in bed while Emory regales us with his awesome planning skills, and I tell them how I’ve spent my evening. We listen to the highs and lows of Casey’s training session and then convince each other to get up and do our bedtime jobs before falling into bed and each other’s arms and drifting off to sleep.
Our revision schedules start the next day. Emory has planned it so we’re only doing a small amount each day for the first couple of weeks, so we can all keep on top of the new work our lecturers throw at us. He declares that Sunday will be our day off every week except the team championship weekend, which is the penultimate week of May. Okay, that will still be a day off studying and revising, but we’ll be in Sheffield, supporting our talented boyfriend.
It’s Saturday at the end of the first week of our third term. We’re sitting around the dining room table, diligently studying. Well, Emory is being diligent. Casey mostly is but sometimes stares out the patio doors as if he’s dreaming of swimming, and I keep distracting them both. Every time I do, Emory gives me an amused look and then taps my book.
My thoughts wander to dinner. Is it too early to cook? I’ve already prepared a pomodoro sauce, so it will only take a few minutes to boil some pasta to go with it.
The doorbell rings.
“Expecting someone?” Casey asks.
“No. It’s probably a canvasser or something. I’ll get rid of them.” I stand, but the moment I look through the arch, into the sitting room, and out the window, I see Dad’s car parked on the drive outside. “Fuck.”
Casey and Emory stare at me.
“What is it?” Emory asks.
“Dad. What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Did he tell you he was coming?”
I shake my head. The doorbell rings again.
“Wait here. I’ll get rid of him.”
Emory laces his fingers through mine. “You don’t have to get rid of him. Tell him we’re here for a study session.”
I look at them and at the piles of books and revision cards. They’re all white. I was so disappointed in Emory. I had expected rainbow revision cards. Emory did provide us with a bumper packet of highlighters each, which redeemed him a little bit. Dad probably isn’t going to question their presence when it’s so obvious that we are, in fact, studying. It might even make him happy.
“I’ll go and see what he wants,” I amend. Tension coils through my muscles as I walk to the front door and open it. “Dad, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I thought I should come and talk to you face to face, seeing as phone calls obviously aren’t working.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Can I come in?”
I stand aside, letting him walk past me into the hall. While I shut the door, he strides into the lounge.
“I didn’t know you had company,” he says in a stiff voice.
“We’re revising. We have exams at the end of the term. Meet Emory and Casey.” I gesture to them as I say their names.
Revealing they’re my boyfriends is on the tip of my tongue, but I know Dad won’t understand or approve, so I keep the words trapped inside, even though it makes my heart hurt.
Emory stands, approaches Dad, and holds his hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Cunningham.”
Dad accepts his hand.
