Chapter 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 of David Copperfield and 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 conversation I 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 of The 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 settle somewhere 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 duck my 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?’
‘Oliver,’ I reply, wad of paper scrunched up in my fist.
‘Is this a bad time?’
Amusement plays on his beautiful lips, but it’s a struggle to reciprocate.
‘Broken pen.’
I hold up the offending article, the deep blue tint of my skin all the more obvious under the low-hanging coffee shop lights. Oliver sucks the air in through his teeth and winces.
‘That happened to me in the middle of an exam last year. Only, I’d brought a red pen for underlining the text. It looked like I’d tried to sacrifice a goat to get a better grade.’
The tightness in my chest eases slightly with his easy grin. It’s just a leaky pen.
‘Do you want anything?’ He cocks his head back towards the counter. ‘Coffee? Tea?’
‘No, thanks, I’m good.’
I point at my mocha with one cerulean finger and the corners of his mouth slant upwards again as he saunters across the room, comfortably slipping around furniture like he’s moving around his own home.
‘Yo, Meyers.’
Ethan bounds over, an iced coffee in one hand, a pastry bag in the other.
‘What the hell, my dude,’ he says, cheerfully pointing at my hand with the pastry bag. ‘Been jerking off a Smurf?’
‘Yes,’ I reply smoothly. ‘He told me he loved me.’
When he throws his head back with laughter, I can’t help but smirk a little, but now isn’t the time for roommate bonding. Something he clearly doesn’t realize as he slumps comfortably onto the arm of the chair beside me.
‘Today was a crazy day. Practice, lectures, seminars.’
He starts talking without asking if it’s okay to stay and I hold my breath as Oliver approaches the front of the line to put in his order.
‘This school does not let up. How’d your second day go?’
‘Um, this isn’t a great time,’ I tell him, still watching Oliver, hands in his back pockets as he studies the menu. ‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Ohhhh.’ Ethan grins and raises his coffee in my direction. ‘Hot date? You’re a fast worker, I’m impressed.’
‘It’s not like that,’ I say but isn’t it? Or at least, isn’t that what I wish it was?
‘Nah, no need to explain.’ He stands gracefully, strong legs lifting him upright in one smooth move. ‘The heart wants what the heart wants, baby. Just hope Papa Smurf doesn’t get jealous.’
He gives me a wink and I’m surprised when I laugh, shaking my head when he strolls over to an empty armchair and takes a seat to annihilate the rest of his pastry.
Over at the counter, I watch Oliver make small talk with the girl taking orders, tensing up as they chat.
I straighten the neckline of my shirt underneath my cardigan, then take the cardigan off, before putting it straight back on.
It’s not warm in here, I don’t need to spend the next hour worrying about gooseflesh or whether or not the lining of my bra is succeeding at its one job.
He moves along the line and picks up a steaming hot mug, bypassing the creamer and sugar station, and making a beeline straight back to me.
‘Never used to be much of a coffee drinker,’ he says, setting the mug on the table before pulling the strap of a beat-up messenger bag over his shoulder and dropping it on the floor. ‘Grew up on tea. But ever since I got to uni, I haven’t been able to survive without it.’
‘I started way too young,’ I reply as he removes the leather blazer I’d had draped around my shoulders the night before, and runs a hand through his hair.
Be still my beating heart. Or at least slow down so I can pick up my mocha without spilling it all over myself.
‘Mom used to say too much caffeine would stunt my growth but if that’s true, explain why it’s so hard to find jeans with a long enough inside leg? ’