It’s late on a Thursday afternoon and I’m headed to meet up with some English Society members at the pub. They’re a bit of an odd bunch—weirdly competitive and exclusive with an illusion of being cool—but it’s nice to have some course mates. It feels like the kind of thing I should have. I think my not-whiteness automatically made me sought after to the home counties Hannahs and Hughs. Before I’d hardly said two words, they were fawning over me to tell me I was “so cool.” But normalcy is something I have to work at and something they give me.
Luca’s just sent me off after a night at his. I already ache for more of him, but escaping the dingy den that is his third-year house is a bit of a relief. He’s living with four other boys from the football team. It’s about what you’d imagine a house of five twenty-year-old boys looks and smells like, strewn with dirty socks. Grim.
But not Luca. He’s wonderful. And although I fear my feelings for him risk tipping over into obsession, if I always listened to that pervasive fear that hums beneath my skin, I’d never do anything at all.
Luca’s attention is like the sun; it warms you to your bones. A smile from him can make anyone’s day, and people love him for it. He’s a bit of a big name on campus—the wonderkid with a hole in his heart who still manages to kick ass on the field—and I have to admit I like that. I like that cheeky grin, the warmth of his brown skin and the wicked glint in his eye. I even like the congenital heart defect. The promise of maybe being that thing to fill the tiny space in his chest.
I’m not sure if it was the attractiveness of Luca himself or the magnetic pull I could see he had on those around him that first piqued my interest. Perhaps it was a bit of both. I just remember being in the student union and Luca’s gaze floating over the shoulder of a girl desperately trying to get his attention. His eyes wouldn’t leave me, and it felt like a hook in my gut. I suppose I have a type. I want what other people want.
My phone. It’s ringing.
“Oh, hey,” I say.
“Nat, where are you? I’m almost at the pub and I don’t want to be alone with all your intense friends.”
I try not to snap back about how much more intense my sister’s drama school friends are. After all, she has come all this way on a stuffy National Express coach to see me. I should be looking after her better than this.
“I’m not far off,” I say. “Maybe twenty minutes? Emily will be there in five—chat to her.”
I’m certainly not winning any “sister of the year” points right now, I know that. And one might argue that a few clumsy shags on the still-damp patch in Luca’s bed from the night before aren’t worth keeping a sister waiting. It would probably be a fair argument, too. But like I say, Obsessed.
It’s been eight months, my longest relationship to date. Claire thinks it’s silly to be getting tied down in my third year of university, but when she meets Luca, which I hope she will tonight, she’ll get it. In fact, it’s this thought that allows me to smile so brazenly at her when I first appear, before the shame creeps in at the sight of her restlessness. Emily was not indeed “there in five.” I ought to have remembered her fondness for being loose with the truth when it came to ETAs.
“Hi, Care.”
“And what time d’you call this?” she says, instantly melting into a smile. The curls she prefers to leave wild, the chunky Doc Martens boots, the oversized hoodie. She is home to me.
We hug outside the red brick of the student pub. It’s built in the middle of campus, a heavy stream of student traffic flowing past it. I’m reminded of the way in which she attracts attention, her open smile an invitation for intrigue. While I’ve learned to cultivate a kind of friendliness, I’ve never had her natural warmth. I love this about her and am convinced this similarity she and Luca carry will make them firm friends.
“You should call Mom, you know. And don’t bite my head off,” she says, immediately catching the look in my eye. “I know how she is with you. Just…It’s been a while.”
“Sure.” My expression is as pinched as my voice. How very like our mother to use Claire to do her dirty work.
Eager to move past this, I take Claire’s hand and lead her inside. We weave our way through tables sticky with snakebite residue and shuffle over scuffed floors. The briny smell of the dubious-looking hot dogs behind the bar permeates the air. When we find my friends, they’re as fascinated by Claire as I imagined they would be.
“Gosh, I wish I’d chosen drama school instead; it must be so much fun! Not like slaving away in the library over these boring essays,” Rebecca says.
Claire catches the edge. I see a flash of anger in her eyes, her mouth opening to retort.
“It’s a lot of hard work,” I hop in. “And it’s not easy to get in.”
Claire gives me a knowing smirk. “Yes, I’m sure you could dazzle the admissions board with a sonnet or two.”
She returns to her pint. I’m relieved it’s a relatively mild response. Claire feels things keenly—it’s her superpower and her kryptonite. Rebecca seems to pick up on the returned sharpness nonetheless and her features take on that tight, alarmed smile middle-class people sometimes wear. Fortunately, she seems to land on the need to impress Claire rather than battle with her, and so the next few drinks are sunk without incident.
It’s wonderful seeing Claire in her element, masterfully navigating this group of could-be-awkward pre-adults who are still trying to figure out who they are. And it’s wonderful her seeing me in mine: confident, admired, powerful. Everything is going smoothly.
That changes when Emily arrives.
We were joined at the hip at school, so the first months we spent apart at uni felt like a punishment. She’s always been a little territorial when it comes to me. I’m sorry to say that I even took her repeated assertions that I should dump Marc as jealousy at first. The all-consumingkind that only lives inside teenage female friendships. I was too slow to see Marc for what he was.
So when she arrives—
“God, look at your phone sometimes, Nat.” Beat. “Hi, everyone. Emily.”
—she immediately takes against Rebecca. It might be Rebecca’s sycophantic hanging on my every word, or it might be her ability to hide an insult in the doughy wrapping of a sweet tone. Or it’s just Emily’s temper. Much like Claire’s, hers spikes at the smallest slight, and much like Claire, she doesn’t like to back down.
“I know it’s not your birthday until Sunday,” Rebecca begins—it’s the reason Claire and Emily are both down simultaneously. “But can I give you your present now?”
