25. Nineteen years old
Nineteen years old
Kath
“So… do you have siblings?” Cam asks, leaning his forearms on the sticky pub table.
It sounds like a question you’d see in First Dates for Dummies, and this isn’t even our first date. I paste on a smile. “One older brother, Tom. He’s a teacher, and is worryingly obsessed with making history jokes. What about you?”
Cam laughs. “I’ve got two sisters. The eldest communicates exclusively via photos of her house plants.”
“That’s a love language. Leafy hostage situations.”
He grins; it crinkles his whole face. He’s nice. He is. Tall-ish, kind eyes, rugby shoulders, dark hair. He studies engineering and feels like one of those constantly capable people. But… I just don’t think there’s anything here.
“So… med school,” he says. “Have you started placements?”
“Not yet. They save it for the end.”
He leans forwards conspiratorially. “Can I confess something wildly unpopular?”
“Go on.”
“I fainted the last time I gave blood.”
I laugh. “That’s not unpopular, that happens all the time. You wouldn’t believe how many six-foot blokes go sheet-white at the sight of a cannula.”
He winces and then, inevitably: “Do you… watch Grey’s Anatomy to study?”
I groan. “Strike one.”
“OK, OK,” he says quickly. “What do you do when you’re not dissecting stuff— actually don’t answer that. Hobbies?”
“Ummm, netball.” I twirl my straw. “I play with the uni team.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. I focus on the condensation sliding down my glass. It didn’t feel this hard talking to Cam last week, but maybe that was because we were out and about exploring the city, chatting about places we’d discovered on previous weekend trips.
“So—” we both start at the same time.
“Oh.” I laugh nervously. “Sorry.”
“No, you,” he says quickly, gesturing at me.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “And book club,” I add, “which is basically just arguing about plot twists and eating chocolate. Then just hanging out with friends… nothing super exciting.”
It feels stilted. I just can’t work out how to make this conversation flow smoothly, and I feel guilty about it because Cam's lovely and he’s obviously trying.
He smiles. “Sounds fun.”
“And I run sometimes.” I take a sip, nerves fizzing. “My best friend Sam swears by morning exercise—” I stop, heat pricking the back of my neck. Why am I bringing him up on a date? “—anyway. I’m not as committed as he is, given he’s a professional athlete so yeah…” I trail off.
“Sam?” Cam asks, mild as a cat in a sunbeam.
“An old friend,” I say lightly. “We grew up together. He lives abroad now.” I fold my napkin into a sharp little square. “So, ummm yeah, hobbies. That’s… most of them. What about you?”
He lists a stack of extracurriculars and a weekend trip he took with friends. Cam makes it sound so easy. An odd pang settles under my ribs. I don’t find it as easy as he makes it sound. Sometimes I feel like I’m spinning too many plates, and if I look away for a moment, one will drop and shatter.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. I wonder if it’s Sam. He had a race today, and I sent him my usual good luck text, but I haven’t had a chance to look at the results because I’ve attempted a date.
Cam’s telling a story about getting locked in the engineering lab after hours and eating a stale protein bar he found in his backpack. “Honestly it was like chewing chalk,” he says. “I thought my jaw was going to seize.”
As I zone back into the conversation I try to laugh at the right time.
I don’t want to be here anymore, but I don’t want to be rude.
There’s a lab report due soon, and I promised some friends we could drive out to Dartmoor tomorrow, so I need to finish it before then.
I try not to explore why I’m thinking about lab reports instead of my date in front of me.
He offers another round, and I check the time. If I leave now, I can still snag a table on level three of the library before the post-dinner migration. I hate hunting for plugs like a Victorian urchin, and that level has the best radiators too.
“I should probably head out. Early start. And… lab report.”
“Of course,” he says, easy about it. “Are you OK to get back or do you want company?”
“That’s kind, but I’m going to head to the library, so no worries.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Anytime.”
Outside, the cold bites at my cheeks. We do the awkward side-hug by the bike racks; he kisses my cheek. He smells like laundry and pale ale, which isn’t unpleasant, but there’s no spark, and I don’t want to try to make one.
On the walk away, I try to diagnose the feeling. Maybe he’s just… not my type. Although, I didn’t realise I had a type.
Blonds are your type.
No, they’re not. One blond is.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and aim for the library lights, telling myself I’m choosing work because I want to, not because I’m constantly panicking about falling behind.
I’ve found the step up to university work harder than I realised I would, but everyone else just seems to take it in their stride.
On the way up the hill, I fish my phone out. The message I ignored was from Flo, and I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment that it’s not from Sam.
Flo: How’s Cam? Don’t pretend you’re not on your phone.
I send back a photo of my nose going red in the cold and type: He’s nice! Then stare at the exclamation point like it’s the kiss of death. Nice is a terrible word. Nice is a tepid bath.
But, it isn't always a bad word. I always describe Sam as nice. But he’s nice like steady, like he remembers how I take my tea and knows exactly what song to play when I can’t find the words for how I’m feeling.
Nice like the hug you want at the end of a hard day.
Cam’s nice like polite, like a well-written email.
The library’s warm and smells faintly of dust. By some miracle, I find a fabled level three booth and spread out my stuff like a tiny empire: laptop, highlighters, a stack of papers with corners chewed by my backpack.
I set a timer for twenty-five minutes and open the document, but my heart’s not in it.
Do you have hobbies? Cam asked.
I imagine telling him the whole truth instead: Yes, I obsessively watch competitive swimming, including races that are going on in America.
Yes, hanging out with my best friend when he’s in the country.
Yes, sometimes my ‘hobby of the day’ amounts to the number of flashcards I can cram into a brain that’s starting to feel overfull.
Sam? Cam asked.
Yes, my best friend with hair the colour of honey and a life an ocean away. I miss him so much.
Timer: 11:36.
I shake myself out of the thought spiral. I can’t believe I’ve been staring into space for the last fourteen minutes.
I start formatting my document and get irrationally pleased when the columns line up properly.
I set another timer because the first one ended and I still haven’t finished this paper.
By the time the lights flicker, I’ve written the methods, half the results, and convinced myself I can be the kind of person who does everything. My eyes burn. I save the document three separate times because I don’t trust any of my devices or myself.
My phone buzzes as I’m zipping my bag.
Sam: If you’re still up, go to bed. Imagine how much of a gremlin you’ll be if you have less than 7 hours sleep.
I huff a laugh.
Me: Who told you I was still in the library?
Sam: Any good pirate knows.
Me: Bossy.
Sam: Got to make sure other pirates get enough sleep. Rule 76 of the pirate’s code.
I smile.
Me: Since when did the code gain 50 more rules? And where can I find an updated copy for my records? Though we both know it’s more of a guideline.
Sam: If I can get it through airport security, I’ll bring it to you the next time I see you. Night, KitKat.
Sam: Proud of you.
I stare at the screen a second longer than I should, warmth uncurling under my ribs.
Me: Night, Champ.
I open my calendar app on my phone and check the dates. Only a month until I see him again.