1
I scrolled through the comments on the post I submitted to Lygon University Love Letters. The social media page primarily functioned as a place for students to submit their love letters—things like, I saw you across the law library wearing a green jumper, are you single? But the page also accepted submissions that ranged from funny stories to students asking for advice.
I shouldn’t have expected much from a bunch of random strangers on the internet, especially when the only thing in common I had with them was that they went to the same university as me. But neither the laughing-face reactions nor the comments were helpful. No one had actually given me any advice, except for vague suggestions alluding to corn videos. I wasn’t sure what a vegetable had to do with my dilemma.
The front door to the apartment opened, and Elena walked in with hands full of groceries. She was tall, just an inch shorter than me, and had the same auburn red hair.
“Don’t you have a jaffy party to go to?” she asked as she dumped a grocery bag on the kitchen bench. Jaffy was short for ‘just another fucking first year’, and Elena relished using the term despite the fact she had been a jaffy just last year.
“Mrgghh,” I replied.
She started sorting through the groceries. She lived in student accommodation last year, but now that I’d moved to Melbourne for university, it was more practical for us to rent a two-bedroom apartment close to campus. “Well?” she asked, taking out a bag of coffee beans for our espresso machine. I was aware most university students didn’t own a massive stainless steel coffee machine, but our parents were… well, comfortable. Which is code for rich. I’ve never been a big fan of euphemisms.
“I know, I should.” I’d bought the ticket and everything. The party was hosted by the student union and was celebrating the beginning of semester two, which had started earlier this week. “I don’t feel like it, though.”
She looked at me lying on the couch. “Because your phone is so much more riveting?”
“Because I’m sad.”
“Because that girl broke up with you?”
I’d told Elena that Sophie had ended things, but I hadn’t told her the details why. I didn’t want to give Elena an opportunity to complain about how annoying I’d been when we were kids, stealing all of her blankets and kicking her off the bed.
“It’s a hit to my self-esteem.”
“Then fix it,” Elena said. “Go to the party, meet a girl, and make her fall in love with you. Self-esteem fixed.”
“Or,” I said, “I could just stay in.”
She shot me a severe look. “Don’t do that.”
“ You do that,” I countered. “I doubt you’ve gone to a party once during your time at university.”
“That’s because I hate people,” she said. “But you are not me, so as your infinitely wiser older sister, do as I say and go to the party.”
I was tempted to not go, just so I wouldn’t be giving in and taking her advice, but I knew she was right. It would be good for me to socialise, and besides, lying on my couch, reading the unhelpful comments on my LULL post wasn’t very much fun.
“Fine,” I said, getting up from the couch. “Time to party.”
The Henderson was massive. The ground floor was crowded with dancing bodies and people squeezed around the bar, waiting to order. Behind the bartenders were shelves of liquor and multicoloured lights that made them look like vials of magical potions.
The group I was with—a bunch of guys from the science department I’d met during orientation week—swept me towards the bar. My friend’s faces were illuminated with excitement because alcohol . Sure, I enjoyed drinking as much as everyone else, but the ridiculous prices made me baulk. Yes, my dad gave me a generous allowance, but that wasn’t an excuse to support a business that blatantly ripped off students.
In the end, I purchased a gin and tonic. The bartender made the drink in about 0.3 seconds, arms moving in a blur, and the efficient movements were almost impressive enough to make me not cringe at the price.
Once I had my drink, my friends and I crowded into a booth that surrounded a round, sticky table. I took a big sip of my drink and tried to immerse myself in the conversation.
“Tequila is rancid ,” someone said.
“I can drink it just fine,” someone else replied.
“Then there’s clearly something wrong with your taste buds.”
I stopped paying attention and instead focused on sipping my G and T, because the quicker I got tipsy, the faster I’d enjoy myself.
Sitting at the next table, right in my line of vision, was a group of people who looked strangely classy. My friends were slapping the table and leaning over to point into each other’s faces as they argued that they were right and the other person was wrong, but at this table, everyone leaned back in their seats with easy elegance.
A girl rose and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Look after my drink,” she told her friend, a handsome brown-haired guy who nodded. He pulled the pink cocktail towards himself and rested a hand casually over the top of the glass. The guy who sat beside him started talking, and the handsome guy listened but didn’t look particularly interested. In fact, his expression hadn’t changed in all the time I’d been looking at him.
His eyes shifted from his friend to me, and I quickly looked away, embarrassed at being caught. I focused on finishing my drink and made more of an effort to get involved in the conversation, arguing that yes, it was possible to listen to lecture recordings on two-times speed and still retain all the information and no, Melbourne’s beaches weren’t overrated.
The night passed quickly. I found myself on the dance floor, trying not to feel self-conscious even after the drinks I’d had. Then I was at the bar, and then later in the bathroom, trying to piss while two boys made out right next to me.
Sometime after midnight, tired of dancing, I walked up to the top floor of the club, searching for some fresh air. I found myself on a rooftop garden, and the breeze was refreshingly cool compared to the sticky heat inside that came from the crush of bodies.
There were only a few people around, scattered in small groups. I walked to the railing that looked over a small slice of the city—traffic lights, industrial warehouses, skyscrapers in the distance.
“You alright, man?”
I turned to see a pale-haired guy holding a purple vape, looking at me with what appeared to be genuine concern. Sitting beside him was the handsome guy from before, who regarded me with a blank expression. They sat on a wooden bench that jutted out of a garden bed, which was filled with flowers. In the centre of the garden grew an olive tree.
“Oh,” I said, realising they were talking to me. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You looked like you were having an existential crisis or something,” said Vape Guy.
“I wasn’t,” I said.
“You depressed or something?”
I was pretty sure normal people didn’t go around asking people if they were depressed, but we were at a club, and Vape Guy probably had alcohol in his system.
“No,” I said. Then, “This girl ended things with me.”
“Damn,” said Vape Guy. “Sorry to hear that, man.”
His friend simply looked at me, his mouth a flat line, revealing nothing.
I shrugged. “She said she didn’t like sleeping with me.”
That, at least, provoked a flicker of emotion in the handsome guy. His reaction paled in comparison to his friend’s, though, who lowered his vape and stared, eyes big. “Shit. That’s rough. She just said that to you, straight up?”
I nodded.
“Listen, don’t get upset about it,” he replied. “Most guys suck. All you need is practise.”
“How can I possibly practise?” I said. “I can’t help myself. It’s unconscious.”
For the first time, the handsome guy made a noise, a pfffttt that was hastily suppressed.
His friend punched his arm. “Stop it, Nick,” he said. “Not everyone can be like you.”
That earned him a glare.
I straightened up. “What do you mean, like him?”
“Let’s just say the ladies have told me he’s real good.” Vape Guy smiled a little smugly, like it was his own accomplishment he was talking about.
“Shut up,” Nick hissed.
“And there he goes, being humble.”
“It’s not humility, I just prefer you don’t blurt out details about my personal life to total strangers,” he said.
“Okay, sorry,” Vape Guy said. “But those girls didn’t care about sharing all the intimate details.”
“It’s humiliating,” Nick said.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Vape Guy slung an arm around his shoulders. “They didn’t tell the whole world. It’s just girl talk.”
“They told you .”
“That’s because I’m gay and, therefore, one of the girls.”
The handsome guy made a grandfatherly-sounding harrumph .
“Anyway,” said Vape Guy, turning his attention to me. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get good with time. I promise.”
He couldn’t promise that, but it was nice of him to say so nonetheless. “Thanks,” I said.
He nodded, took another puff of his vape, and exhaled a white, sickly sweet cloud, then jumped up to his feet. “Well, I reckon it’s time to get back to dancing. Nick?”
“I’m gonna stay out here,” Nick replied.
“Suit yourself. Bye, dude,” the vaper said to me, then headed off, already swaying his hips as if he could hear the music.
Once he was gone, I said, “Your friend is nice.”
Nick just nodded and pulled out his phone. The screen cast a blue glow on the lower planes of his face, making the sharp cut of his cheekbones even more pronounced.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at his phone, so I turned my gaze back around to the city so I wouldn’t be staring at him like a creeper.
To be honest, I wasn’t heartbroken over Sophie—not that I knew what being heartbroken felt like, but I assumed you knew it when you felt it.
It was more like I’d failed an exam. And I never failed exams. It wasn’t my heart that hurt. It was my ego.
“Fuck.”
The mutter made me turn around. Nick was staring into the shadowy garden bed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He didn’t look at me. “I lost my key.”
“In the garden?” I asked.
“I hope so. I don’t want to search through the whole club.” He swore under his breath.
I walked over, taking out my phone and tapping on the torch button, casting light over the flowers and tree roots. Nick did the same.
“You don’t have to help me,” he said, moving his torch over the garden. Now that I was standing beside him, I could see he was about ten or so centimetres shorter than me.
“I don’t mind,” I said. “What does your key look like?”
“Like any other key,” he said. “It’s silver, metal, about this size.” He showed me with his thumb and forefinger.
“Is there a keychain?”
“No.”
“You should get a keychain. They’re not just for decoration, they make keys easier to find.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said curtly. “I was planning to.”
I knelt on the wooden bench he was sitting on so I could lean over the garden more easily. Even with our phone torches, it was difficult to see. Everything was washed out under the sterile white light, and I had to lower my head down to peer through the shrubbery.
After several more minutes of searching, Nick swore under his breath.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Why, exactly, is it okay?” he snapped.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘It’s okay’ was the default thing to say in these kinds of situations. “Well, it’s just a key,” I tried.
“Yeah, to my home.”
“Do you have a spare?”
“No.”
“Do you live with anyone? Maybe they’ll have a copy—”
“I don’t.”
I moved my torchlight off the garden bed to the surrounding area. There were a few empty glasses, gum wrappers and cigarette butts but no key.
“Are you sure it’s here?” I asked. “Not somewhere else in the club?”
“I swear I had it just before, when I was sitting here with Tyler,” he said.
“If you can’t find it,” I began, hesitant, “maybe the building manager has a spare? Or a master key?”
He looked at me. “Building manager?”
“If you live in an apartment, there’s usually a building manager,” I explained.
“I live in student accommodation,” he said.
“That’s even better. They’ll definitely have a copy.”
He fixed me with a level look. “The lockout charge is seventy dollars. The cost to replace the key is twenty dollars.”
“What? Why is it so expensive?”
“They claim it’s to deter people from losing their keys, but really they just want to suck money out of students.” He returned his focus back to the garden, now using his hands to aggressively peel through stems and leaves.
“Okay, ninety dollars is expensive,” I admitted, “but it’s cheaper than a hotel room for a night. Or several nights.”
“I’m not paying almost a hundred dollars just because I didn’t search hard enough,” Nick said.
“It’d be easier in the daylight,” I said.
“Yeah, but I have to find it now, otherwise I won’t have anywhere to sleep.”
“I understand,” I said. “I was just saying.”
He gave me a look, which wasn’t mean, exactly, just… flat. “You really don’t have to help me. I know I’m a stranger.”
“Like I said before, I don’t mind. It’s the decent thing to do.”
I might’ve been imagining it, but his expression softened. Then he turned his attention back to the garden.
After a few more minutes of searching, during which I moved around the circular garden bed, he muttered, “I swear to god, if I have to pay ninety dollars—”
“Oh!” I leaned over the garden because right in the centre, near the trunk of the tree, something glinted. It could’ve been a trick of the light, but as I moved closer, having to kneel into the flowers to do so, I realised it was a key—small and silver, with jagged teeth.
I picked it up and held it out. “Is this it?”
Nick froze, then snatched it from my hands. “Thank god,” he said, then frowned at the tree trunk. “How the fuck did it get there?”
I shrugged, stepping out of the garden and dusting myself off.
Nick cast his torchlight down the length of my body, pausing at my knees. “You got your pants dirty,” he said.
I looked down at the patches of brown and green on my jeans. “Whoops,” I said. “I should’ve been more careful.”
He gave me an unreadable look as his hand clenched around his key. It was hard not to meet his gaze, even if his expression wasn’t particularly pleasant. It was something about the planes of his face, or maybe the set of his arched brows over eagle-like eyes.
“Thank you,” he said eventually.
I waved a hand. “It’s nothing.”
“No, seriously,” He looked suddenly impatient. “thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done…”
I gave him an awkward smile because it was kind of uncomfortable receiving thanks, especially from someone who clearly didn’t enjoy thanking people. “You’re welcome.”
“Um.” Suddenly, he looked unsure. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you want me to buy you a drink?”
“Nah, I think I’ll head back home anyway.”
“Do you want me to get you an Uber ride?”
“I’m planning to walk. I live close by.”
He frowned.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I tried to reassure him. “I’m happy you found your key.” I looked down at my hands. They’d gotten a bit dusty, and I needed to wash them.
“Are you sure?” he said. “It was nice of you to help, especially because I know I can be—” he cut himself off, brow creased. “Is there anything I can do?”
Why was he so adamant? All I did was help him find his key. I’d grown up in a small country town where everyone helped each other out, but maybe he was one of those cold city people I’d heard about who wouldn’t help a crying child on the street, and so that’s why he was so shocked by what I’d done. Or maybe he just didn’t like to feel indebted to someone. That was probably it, because rather than looking like he wanted to do something kind in return, he looked frustrated.
“Well?” he said when I hadn’t responded.
“There’s not really anything,” I said, then cracked a smile. “I mean… unless you want to teach me how to be good in bed?”