Chapter Two
Wednesday
Joshua:
"I'm telling you," I hear my best friend Ewan’s voice. "It won't work."
"You don't think it's weird that he's so against getting to know girls?" His girlfriend, Brooke, replies. "That he's so closed off? Do you even know if he's slept with someone?"
Ewan laughs. "Josh has no issue sleeping with girls. It's the speaking to them where he draws the line."
They're right outside my bedroom; not using their inside voices, might I add. I step closer to the door, even when I know I’m going to hate whatever is said.
"Oh yeah," Brooke scoffs, "because that doesn't make him sound like a sexist pig."
"How's it sexist?" Ewan fires back. "He's upfront and honest with the girls he sleeps with. If they get notions, that's on them."
"Ewan!"
"What? Don't act like he's the only man who fucks around."
"That's all he does—fuck around!"
No. I don't.
I don't talk about my sex life, so people assume I'm the worst kind of man. Have I kissed a few girls on nights out? Sure. Has anything ever gone further than that? Also yes. But only twice.
Listen, if people want to paint me as this stud who's had endless sex with hordes of beautiful women, why on Earth would I waste time correcting them? Let them believe what they want. I know the truth. And that's all that matters.
"Just ask him if he wants to come for coffee," Brooke hisses. "Do not tell him that I've invited a friend."
"You're not going to set him up, babe," Ewan’s got that voice on where he knows he’s right but also knows his girlfriend well enough to not put up too much of a fight. "He won't fall for it. He doesn't speak to girls. He doesn't care to."
Wrong again.
I'm a human, not the unfeeling robot everyone seems to think I am.
I never express things well. I haven't since I was a kid.
It means people can't get a good read on me, and because most people, like me, are riddled with self-loathing and insecurities, they assume my silence means I don't like them.
Any girl I've ever liked has taken my aloofness as either a challenge or a turn-off and if Bonnie Scott hadn't smashed my heart to smithereens, I might be a bit more receptive to generally getting to know people.
"Is she pretty?" Ewan questions, as if that’s an important factor here.
Being pretty doesn’t help me speak any easier. Looks have fuck all to do with a person’s goodness. Bonnie is proof of that.
"She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen," Brooke whispers, still loud enough to hear through the door. "She's his type too. Slim, brunette, golden brown skin, green eyes. She looks like a model."
Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I need. Brooke bringing around a model-looking stranger for me to awkwardly not speak to.
They don’t understand why I can’t just move on. Why I’m not normal.
This is Brooke’s ninth attempt to set me up with someone in the last year.
You’d think that I bother her and Ewan to an almost pathological degree with how eager she is to hitch me to anyone who looks my way.
I think she’d auction me off to her mother if she thought it would help cement a relationship for me, and Mrs Grant is loud enough that I’d probably hear the bidding from Louth.
I ache when I think about the fact this wouldn’t have been an issue for her if she met me three years ago.
“What is this weird thing you’ve got about getting him in a relationship?” My best friend presses.
“I don’t know, Ewie. He just seems so lonely.”
She pities me.
“I assure you, Josh is fine as he is.”
Brooke nosily huffs. “If that was the case then meeting one singular girl wouldn’t be met with such resistance, would it?”
“He’s not going to like this.”
“I don’t care. We’re not going to give him a choice.”
Better get it over with.
With a long sigh, I swing my bedroom door back.
Ewan jumps like I've thrown a bomb; Brooke slaps a hand to her chest.
"Jesus, Josh," Ewan looks at me with bug-eyes. I’ve made lots of jokes about him being a ginger Tom Hardy, but that seems particularly true with his new haircut. It’s almost a buzzcut, but not quite.
His coat collar is folded over on one side, his black t-shirt long on him, covering the top of his grey jeans. "Announce yourself next time!"
"You're standing outside my room," I reply flatly, glancing between them. "Why would I announce myself?"
Brooke smooths one hand over her long, dark curls, even though there isn’t a hair out of place. “We—um—we were just—”
"Talking about me?" I offer, stepping into the doorway and leaning against the frame, using my height to my advantage. Brooke grimaces, and Ewan winces beside her.
"We weren't saying anything bad," she rushes to defend, her beige trench coat swishing as she shifts uncomfortably.
"That's debatable," I deadpan.
Ewan elbows her. "Told you he'd hear."
She glares at him. "Well, maybe if someone didn't talk at full volume—"
I hold up a hand. "Can the domestic wait? I'm assuming you want something?”
"Coffee." She instantly brightens, turning away from her boyfriend. "Come for coffee with us?"
I stare at her. Then at Ewan. Then back at her. "Who's the friend you're trying to set me up with?"
Her mouth falls open. "I—I'm not—"
"Brooke," Ewan is resigned, "he knows."
"No,” I sneer but there’s no real bite in it. I know Brooke means well, she’s just a meddlesome busybody. “I overheard. Who is she?"
She doesn’t bother to lie. "Fine. Yes. I invited someone. But she's lovely, and you'll get on with her."
I fold my arms. "Why would you assume that?"
"Because you need friends, Josh."
"I have friends."
"You have Ewan."
"Exactly," Ewan puffs his chest, proud for some reason. “I’m good enough.”
"She's not a setup," Brooke quickly pushes on, nervously checking her watch. "Not like that. I... thought you two might click."
This is my fault for opening the door. If I'd waited another few minutes, they'd have walked away, and I could've pretended I didn't hear and knew nothing about any of this.
Ewan claps me on the shoulder. He's the biggest guy I know. He's got the width; I've got the height. He's ginger; I'm dark-haired. How he landed Brooke—pint-sized, long chocolate-brown curls falling down her back, angelic face, dazzling brown eyes, and flawless dark skin—I will never understand.
"Come on," Ewan coaxes. "Let's get some air, some caffeine, and some sunlight."
"I'm not a fucking house plant, Ewie."
Brooke looks a mixture of sceptical and unimpressed. "Could've fooled me. You look like you haven't left this building in three days."
"It's been one," I correct, slightly brattish. I've no real reason to be this annoyed but I don't like being ambushed.
Brooke waggles a delicate finger at me. "That's not better, Joshua."
I pull in a breath, but it’s shallow and sour. “Do I really have to come?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you can’t take someone else?”
“No. I’m not leaving until you’re ready to come with us.”
My gut spirals, but Brooke is stubborn and I know she means it.
Resigned, and feeling a little bit like I’m being held at gunpoint, I grumble out.
“Hang on, let me get my shit.” I grab my blue hoodie from the back of my desk chair, shrugging into it.
Keys. Phone. Wallet. "Where are we going? " I mutter, locking my door.
"The tiny café on campus," Brooke informs me, giddy now that she’s got me to relent. I note that she’s wearing a different ring on every finger, and four silver bracelets on her left wrist. "The one with the good brownies."
"And the cute barista," Ewan adds breezily.
Brooke smacks his arm. "We're not there for the barista."
"You're not," Ewan shoots out. “Josh might be.”
I make a show of sharply breathing out my nose. Loudly. They ignore me.
We start walking down the corridor, Brooke practically bouncing beside Ewan, hand linked with his. I trail behind them a few steps because walking in a tight group makes my skin itch. Ewan glances back every few seconds to make sure I'm still there, like a child on a leash.
We walk for five minutes before Brooke makes a noise that sounds like a delighted gasp. "Oh my God. There she is. She actually came!”
I follow her gaze automatically. She's looking at a girl leaning against the wall outside the café. Her hands are wrapped around a takeaway cup, her dark, tight, curly hair falling over her shoulders. Slim frame. Light brown skin. Big hazel—not green—eyes scanning the courtyard.
Next to her is a tall guy, chatting to her in a low tone. He's angled towards her in a protective way jealous blokes do—shoulders turned, head dipped, making sure she can hear him.
Boyfriend? Brother? Bodyguard? No idea.
Brooke inhales sharply. "Right. Okay. Act normal."
Ewan snorts. "When do you ever act normal?"
Brooke elbows Ewan in the ribs, making him yelp before she fixes him with a warning look. “Ewie, behave. I actually want this girl to like me.”
“I always behave myself. I’m the most likeable one out of the three of us.”
“Not with that ego, you’re not.”
“Bollocks.”
I stay quiet, because I don't know what "normal" is supposed to look like in this situation. All I know is that the girl is pretty as hell.
As we get closer, I realise the guy she's talking to is Oscar Hollis, captain of the Firsts. I've got trials for the team later, so I've spent an embarrassing amount of time learning who's who over the summer.
My eyes flick between him and the girl beside him.
She isn't the one I'd seen plastered all over his Instagram. Unless he's somehow managed to replace his girlfriend in the last twelve hours, something isn’t adding up. Not that it is any of my business. I’m not about to introduce myself to university life by exposing a stranger's affair.
I hate cheaters, sure. But I’m not the cheating police. I’m minding my business on this one.
Brooke slows down the closer we get, her steps getting shorter in a comical way. By the time we reach the girl, she looks like she's debating turning around and pretending she never invited us all to gather here.
"H–Hi," Brooke stammers, voice slightly too high. "Ruby!"