‘Not even Chappell?’ I mutter to myself. ‘Boo.’
The playlists he showed me are easy enough to find. I do as I was told, starting with number one, not allowing myself to overthink it when I slip his earbuds into my ears, because only a loser would get excited about using a guy’s earbuds. Placing the iPod on my pillow, I close my eyes and listen, determined to lose myself in the music. The first song is kind of angsty, a gruff-voiced male singer with just an acoustic guitar. Not exactly a party tune. The next is more promising, opening with bright strings then a plaintive-voiced British singer, a rock band coming in to support as it goes on. I like it. After a dozen more songs, more male singers, more rock music, weirdly a lot more strings, I pick the iPod up and scroll through until I find a name I know. It takes a while. Luckily, my dad is a huge fan of the classics and even though I don’t know thesong, I do recognize the name of a band about halfway through the first playlist. Fleetwood Mac, ‘Silver Springs’. I press play and let it wash over me, a gentle piano, a wistful guitar, the powerful woman’s voice I remember from riding in the back of my dad’s car, fighting with my brother on our annual trip to Carowinds. I lie still for the whole song, letting the lyrics settle around me like poetry. By the end, I’m hypnotized, my heart breaking for the woman at the centre of it all and, honestly, worrying just a little for whichever guy inspired such an epic break-up anthem. It’s a wonder men ever date women songwriters, it simply can’t be worth this kind of risk.
The moment the song is over, I start it again, springing to my feet to strip off my bar clothes, carefully removing my T-shirt without pulling out the earbuds, feeding the iPod through the neck of the shirt and sliding it over my head. Once I’ve shimmied out of my jeans, I’m singing along with my new favourite song, pulling off one sock, then the other, shooting them across the room like little white basketballs. Between ‘Silver Springs’, my interaction with Oliver, and my successful first shift, I could run through a wall.
By the time I’ve listened to the song three times through, a yawn takes me by surprise and when I check the time on my watch I’m surprised to see it’s almost midnight. I’ve been listening to Oliver’s music for hours and I’m suddenly exhausted. I move around my room to ‘Silver Springs’ one more time, readying my bag for my nine a.m. history of English lecture, resenting the fact I still have to clean my teeth and wash my face. I’ve always loved my skincare regimen, a throwback to sitting in my mom’s bathroom, watching her take off her face at the end of the day, but tonight, I’m almost too tired to care. Or at least I am until I catch sight of my racoon eyes and reach right for my eye makeup remover. Damn it, why didn’t Alice tell me they were this bad?
‘Because she’s your friend,’ I tell my reflection. ‘She probably didn’t want you to stress about it.’
Ethan could’ve mentioned something, but since when did guys notice things like smudged eyeliner?
And I’m doing great, I think, as I squeeze toothpaste onto my electric toothbrush. I’ve made friends, I have a job, I’m ready for classes to begin, and there’s even a guy. So far, everything is going exactly how I hoped it would, better even. The only bump in the road is eating some disgusting instant noodle meal in the room next door. I feel a tiny pang when I hold my hair back to spit, remember how eager he was when I opened the door tonight. I catalogue it next to the stormy look on his face when he walked out of the meeting this morning, expressions I’d never seen on Ethan Taylor before. Curiosity gets the better of me as I rinse off my toothbrush and close the door to my tiny bathroom.
My phone is waiting for me in my desk drawer, fully charged and useless, and it’s only been a day but I really haven’t missed it at all. Not having it in my hand was strange at first but after the first couple of hours, I kind of liked it. Without a phone, people have to stick to their plans. Without a phone, I have more time to read, talk, take in everything around me. But that doesn’t mean I’m above a little online research right now.
Ethan and I don’t follow each other on Instagram but I find his profile fast enough. Exactly what I expected, cutesy couple pictures of him and his alleged ex, shirtless summer pics with his bros on the Outer Banks, winter skiing in Vermont with his richy-rich family, action shots from soccer games. And in every single photograph, Ethan Taylor is smiling like the sun revolves around him. I go back to the top of the page to examine the most recent photo, hunting for evidence of his Hemden acceptance. I hardly ever post, I amway more of a social media lurker, but even I considered moving to another country main-grid worthy.
But Ethan didn’t.
Ethan, who posted his new car, his family dog, the end of the school year, the first day of summer training camp, Breanna’s birthday, the anniversary of their first dateandtheir first kiss, has not posted a word about Hemden. Not even a single post about leaving the US. I click on his most recent post, an inoffensive candid of him, Breanna and someone who has to be his brother. Same black hair and green eyes, just as handsome but younger, with less well-defined features, jawline not so chiselled, cheekbones not so sharp. The three of them are hanging out on a boat at some lake and it’s dated July 4. But there’s no caption and the comments are turned off. In fact, the comments are turned off on all his posts. Moving Oliver’s iPod from the bed to my nightstand, I pull on my PJs and climb into bed to inspect Ethan’s Instagram again. It doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone post almost every single day then stop completely?
Since I’m not about to knock on his door and ask, I swipe over to my messages, expecting the untended inbox to be full of junk as usual, and it is, but there are also a bunch of DMs from names I recognize. People from school, not necessarily friends but kids I know well enough to say hi to. I open the top one from Heidi, a girl from my modernist literature sophomore study group.
Hi Mia! How’s jolly old England? Is it true Ethan Taylor is over there too??
Hmm.
When I tap on the other messages, they’re all variations on thesame theme. Hi, how are you, is Ethan in the UK? Actually, that’s not true, most of them don’t bother to ask how I am. There’s only one that catches my attention, a DM from Kylie Preiss, one of Breanna’s friends, someone I haven’t exchanged more than a dozen words with in two years.
Hey, I heard you’re at Hemden with Ethan. This is so random, but do you know why he’s there? Bre won’t talk about it.
Okay, this is weird. I stare at the message for way too long, hoping it might make some kind of sense, like one of those magic eye pictures, if I look at it for long enough.
But I’ve got nothing.
‘Sorry, Kylie,’ I say through a yawn. ‘Can’t help you.’
But when I turn out the lights, her message plays over and over in my mind, and I cannot stop wondering what the answer might be.
14
Mia
Oliver was not messing around. Dr Quinn’s lecture was fascinating and terrifying. When class selections came around, I chose his Dickens module because what kind of English major goes to actual England to study literature and doesn’t take a class on Dickens when it’s offered? It turns out a super smart English major, or at least one who thought to research the course before she signed up. If I could get online, I’m certain I’d be doomscrolling through a million Reddit comments about Dr Quinn and his nightmare class.
There was no welcome to the wonderful world of Dickens, no introductory lecture. Nope, Dr Quinn pushed us right in the deep end. One week to write a paper on the autobiographical nature ofDavid Copperfieldand Dickens’s concept of the hero in the context of the novel. A book I’ve studied before. All words I understood. And I’m still sitting here shaking, staring at an almost blank page of my notebook. The name of the class and the date written at the top in my looping cursive, a few cursory sentences from the beginning of Quinn’s spiel and then nothing. Blank space to match my blank brain. The whole thing sailed over my head while everyone around me scribbled down insight after insight, nodding along with the Santa Claus lookalike at the front of the room as he destroyed my entire sense of self in under sixty minutes. It felt like I’d walked in midway through someone’s personal chat, crashing a conversationI was never meant to be a part of, rather than the first lecture in a semester-long class on an author I’ve been reading since I was old enough to seek out the source material ofThe Muppet Christmas Carol.
And to make matters worse, there isn’t even enough time for me to panic in private. If I could run to the library or even lock myself in my room, power through a couple of chapters, I might feel better. But no. According to the clock above the counter, it is six o’clock, the exact time I’d agreed on with Oliver. Not that he is here yet. Which is fine because who is ever exactly on time? Besides me. And Alice. And Dr Quinn.
Before the world’s worst class completely ruined my day, I’d already managed to create a thousand different nightmare scenarios for this not-a-date. Every item of clothing in my closet is currently on my bed, tried on and tossed aside, too tight, too baggy, too short, too long, too preppy, too conservative or just plain wrong. I’d settled on jeans and a white T-shirt with my favourite cream-coloured cardigan over the top, simple and classic, nothing too loud or statement-y. But sitting on the sofa in The Snug, surrounded by a bunch of students in their cool, put-together outfits, I feel basic and forgettable, like I don’t know what my style is. That checks out because I don’t. A sense of style is something else I’ve been planning to pick up in England, along with friends, a transatlantic accent and a tumultuous love life full of torrid affairs. And having a silent meltdown in a coffee shop because you should’ve picked a cooler shirt when you got dressed this morning does not count as tumultuous.
I watch the second hand of the clock tick all the way around, my palms starting to sweat as it moves. One minute after six. Two minutes. Three. Checking around the room, I make sure he hasn’t somehow managed to slip in without me seeing him and settlesomewhere else. Nope. Then I twist all the way around to peer through the steamed-up windows. We didn’t say exactly where we’d meet, he could be outside. What if he’s out there in the cold, waiting for me? Only there’s no one out there. If this were any other day, any other place, I’d have already sent a text to let Oliver know exactly where I’d be and when but not at Hemden, oh no. That phone-free-campus thing I was so excited about is really biting me in the ass right now.
The clock keeps ticking and I’m second-guessing my choice of seating arrangement. It’s not the most obvious spot in the whole place, kind of tucked away in a corner, but the sofa by the fireplace felt too much and the huge wingback chairs look cosy but kind of formal. Everything else was taken, leaving this sofa and armchair set-up, a low wooden coffee table between them. I took the sofa so I could see the door but should I have sat in the armchair? If I’m on the sofa when Oliver walks in, he has to decide whether to sit next to me or take the chair. I mean, it’s not even an official date, he’s probably going to take the chair. But maybe I should take the chair so he doesn’t have to make the decision. My fingers flutter to my silver bracelet, cool against my warm skin, and I try to shut out all the noise in my head. He’s only five minutes late. It’s just a chair. None of this means that much, it’s not as though my entire life and future happiness depends on what happens in the next sixty minutes. Except maybe it does? Every love story starts somewhere.
Crossing my legs and tapping my foot, I lean forward for the mocha I ordered when I got here, almost twenty minutes ago. It’s still warm, the liquid silky and sweet as it slips down my throat, calming my nerves even as the caffeine jolts me awake and the door to The Snug swings all the way open as someone strides inside. It isn’t Oliver. In fact, it’s the anti-Oliver. Ethan. I quickly duckmy head before he sees me, hiding behind my long bangs and digging into my bag for something, anything. That’s when I see the uncapped pen at the bottom of my tote and reach in to fix it, only to find my fingers covered in blue ink when I pull my hand away. Perfect. The handful of napkins I picked up with my mocha to help with any possible drink spillage aren’t much use and I’m so upset and so mad at myself and so … blue, I don’t even notice the person standing in front of me until he clears his throat.
‘Mia?’
