He doesn’t sound angry or hurt. Because this is not a big deal to Ethan Taylor. This is just another Sunday night.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘Can you stop apologizing like you did something wrong?’
‘Sure. Sorry.’
I hear him chuckle as I open the door and slip out into the hallway. Tomorrow this will all be forgotten.
It’s just another Sunday night.
28
Ethan
This can’t be real.
I am holding, in my hands, a marking sheet attached to my first paper in health psychology with the number 72 scrawled on the front and circled in red pen.
‘You did good work there, Ethan,’ Dr Vine says when I make no attempt to leave her office after our tutorial. ‘I was particularly impressed with your research, it’s always clear to me when someone has put the hours in at the library.’
‘Thank you.’
Getting the words out is a struggle, I’m still staring at the number.
‘Keep it up and I’m excited to see where you get to by the end of the year.’ Dr Vine smiles at me from behind her desk, the office warm with the scent of her peppermint tea. ‘Perhaps you’ll be the first Premier League striker-slash-psychologist. If we can’t pry you away from sport and lure you over to the exciting world of research, that is.’
‘Hey, you never know.’ I turn the paper over, tugging at the stapled marking sheet. ‘You’re sure this is my paper?’
‘Positive. Is there something wrong?’
Only that I’ve never seen such a high score next to my name in my life.
‘Nothing, all good. All great. Thanks, Dr Vine.’
I stumble out of her office and into the hallway, heading straight for the closest set of double doors until I’m outside in daylight. It’s still a 72. It’s still a first. I’ve been satisfied to be a low B student my entire academic career. Good enough to keep me on the team without demanding too much effort. This is … unreal. All I want to do is text everyone I ever met and brag but I can’t. My brick of a phone is back in my room and even if I had it here, who would I message? It doesn’t matter because there’s only one person whose opinion counts right now and I know exactly where she is.
After Indiana Jones traded diamonds in Club Obi Wan but before she ran out of my room, Mia mentioned she was working the lunchtime shift at Members. According to my watch, it’s twelve-thirty p.m.. Definitely lunchtime. It’s an effort to remind myself that what happened last night was a mistake in her eyes, a one-time thing never to be repeated. I’ve thought about what she said, laid awake until the sun came up thinking about it, and I can live with it, as long as she stays in my life. What I cannot stand is the idea of losing her all together. Being just friends with Mia might be the death of me, but what a way to go.
I’m not the only one who decided to pay Mia a visit at work.
As I tear through the door of Members, she’s the first thing I see. The second is that floppy-haired, leather jacket-wearing asshat, Oliver.
‘Oh, hey.’ Mia looks startled when I come to a sudden halt like that cartoon roadrunner, a look of disdain frozen on my face. ‘Hi. Hello. You know Oliver?’
‘Yeah, we’ve met.’
I give him the dude’s nod, but all I get in return is a condescending smile.
‘Remind me of the name again? Steven, was it?’
‘Ethan,’ Mia says quickly. ‘It’s Ethan. Can I get you anything?’
‘Just a Coke,’ I tell her as I squeeze the straps of my backpack so tightly the leather cuts into my palms. ‘I have training this afternoon.’
Oliver swirls a pint glass filled with dark brown beer in circles on the bar, leaving a trail of condensation that Mia immediately moves to clean up. ‘What are you training for? Spelling bee?’
‘Football.’ It comes out through gritted teeth. ‘I’m on the football team.’
