Chapter 30
Mia
I’m in such a rush to get over to the theatre when my renaissance drama tutorial finally lets out, I can’t quite believe it when I see Oliver casually waiting for me outside my tutor’s office.
‘Hi?’
I reach up to my hair, yanking out of the claw clip and attempting to push it into some sort of acceptable shape.
This was not part of this evening’s plan.
He was supposed to be getting dinner with the others.
I was supposed to have five minutes to fix myself up before seeing him.
Unless I forgot something? Or missed a message? Or—
‘Hi, yourself.’
He’s leaning against the wall, lithe and long-legged, in his regular uniform of loose-fitting jeans and Chuck Taylors. Today’s shirt looks like something from the Seventies, off-white with a black ring around the collar, peeking out from under his leather jacket.
‘I thought you were getting dinner with Alice and the others?’ I’m trying to tuck my hair behind my ear but after a full day in the claw clip, it does not feel like following orders.
‘That was the plan. Unfortunately, I had a last-minute meeting with our mutual friend, Dr Quinn.’
He raises a questioning eyebrow when I laugh.
‘Our Mutual Friend,’ I say back to him. ‘Like the book?’
When Oliver’s grim expression doesn’t change, I suck in my cheeks, wondering if anyone invented a time machine while I was learning about Hieronimo, the Marshall of Spain.
‘How come you had to see Dr Quinn?’ I ask as he starts walking, me quickly following him down the hall.
‘It’s nothing. I was vaguely interested in one of his courses for next term but it’s oversubscribed already. I thought he might be able to squeeze me in but apparently not. I swear, he’s got it in for me. Probably something to do with my dad.’
‘They know each other?’
He nods. ‘Quinn’s been here forever. That’s probably what’s up his arse. Still stuck in the same shitty teaching job while his students go off and do amazing things. I’m a living reminder of his failure.’
Teaching at Hemden doesn’t seem like a shitty job to me, but I know better than to argue with a man in a bad mood.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say instead, attempting to soothe his mood with failures of my own. ‘Maybe that’s why he was so harsh on my essay.’
It was the right thing to say. Oliver’s scowl softens at once. ‘Like his opinion matters anyway,’ he replies. ‘Who gives a shit what an irrelevant fossil like him thinks?’
It’s almost sacrilegious. My stomach churns at the thought of anyone hearing him because I, in fact, give several thousand fucks about what Dr Quinn thinks.
Surreptitiously pulling a lip balm out of my bag, I turn my head away and swipe it on my lips, hoping I didn’t miss my mouth as I palm it into my back pocket.
The irresistible sleepy smile that knocked me off my feet on the first day, metaphorically, as opposed to Bryn’s tote bag, appears on his face as he holds open the door, guiding me out of the Lawton building and into the early evening.
Dusk is settling around campus, people pulling on jackets as they leave their seminars and tutorials, lights in the windows shining behind us.
‘I love this time of day,’ I tell him, yanking a cardigan out of my tote bag and slipping my arms into the sleeves. ‘All the buildings lighting up like that, glowing against the sunset. Isn’t it magical?’
‘It’s easy to romanticize Hemden when you haven’t been here very long,’ he replies, a wash of regret flushing his cheeks as soon as he speaks.
‘Sorry, that was a shitty thing to say. Quinn always puts me in a bad mood, it’s hardly your fault.
And yes, you’re right, dusk is magical. There’s an H.
G. Wells quote I love, something like “that pause that comes upon things before the dusk, an air of expectation about the evening stillness”. ’
‘You’re amazing.’ I dig my teeth into my bottom lip so hard it hurts, eyes flaring wide.
‘I mean, it’s amazing that you’re able to remember a quote like that.
I’m so bad at it. I write lines down all the time but I can never remember anything.
Unless it’s song lyrics, I know a million song lyrics, and I’m rambling. ’
‘You’re not rambling, you’re passionate.
’ He gives me such a sweet look that his rant against Quinn is completely forgotten.
‘I’ve always said if the great poets were alive today, they’d be writing songs instead of poems. Two hundred years from now, English students will be studying lyrics.
It’s the same thing, words from the heart.
Probably even more difficult since you have to have the musical talent as well as the lyrical.
No one wants to admit that because there’s so much shit music out there but it’s true. ’
‘Well, you would know, you’re the songwriter.’
The sides of our hands brush together as we walk, and I have to bite back a smile.
‘You liked my song?’ he asks and it’s definitely not a lie when I nod because I did like the song. I liked that he took the time and effort to write and record something, just for me, even if it isn’t exactly the first thing I would choose to listen to on an average day. Or any day. Ever.
‘I’m so glad,’ he says quietly. ‘It was stuck in my brain for weeks. You know when you’re trying to think of a word but it’s just out of reach?
Writing a song can be like that. It pops into your consciousness, completely perfect, and my job as a writer is to get it out in one piece.
But it’s fragile. Sometimes it breaks and I have to put it back together. ’
‘That’s really beautiful.’
The building behind us lights him up, his dark blond hair glowing like a halo, and I can’t help but think about the song some more. Not that I’m arguing with his creative experience, but it didn’t seem very fragile to me. Kind of the opposite. More solid. Sturdy even. And loud. Incredibly loud.
‘I’d love to see the lyrics,’ I tell him, quickly adding, ‘because it’s a poem, right? Like you said. Not that I didn’t appreciate listening to them, but I’d love to see it written down.’
Oliver immediately shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe in writing my lyrics down.
Words are wild, living things. Putting them on paper would be like putting them in a cage.
Once the song is done, it has to go free.
Every listener has their own interpretation, it’s not up to me to tell people how to feel about my art. ’
‘Oh. That makes sense. I guess.’
Only it doesn’t, at least not to me, but I’m not a poet or a lyricist or even a writer.
I watch him as we walk, tall and confident, and try to imagine what it must feel like, to be so sure of your place in the world.
One less than stellar grade from Dr Quinn and I was a snivelling mess.
Not Oliver. He’s already moved on, walking around, quoting H.
G. Wells, sharing his personal philosophies with me.
Who gave him the right? When I got my acceptance letter from Hemden, I wrote a list of everything I wanted in a man, and when I look at Oliver, I wonder if the TikTok witch was right and you truly can manifest something into your life if you want it badly enough.
He’s so close to the man I fantasized about, it’s almost as though I created him myself.
Meyer-stein’s monster. If only he would make a move.
‘I hear your football friend is joining us tonight.’
His hand jerks away from mine and a flash of last night in Ethan’s room almost sends me stumbling into a tree.
‘Turns out he’s a big classical music guy,’ I say weakly as I right myself. ‘Who knew?’
‘Classical? That one? I assumed it was some sort of care in the community thing.’ He glances my way, and all my words disappear. ‘He fancies you, you know?’
‘What?’
My voice is so shrill, I swear a flock of birds fly out from a nearby tree at the sound of it.
‘You’re way off base,’ I insist, pushing all thoughts of last night way, way down. ‘Back home, Ethan is a huge deal. He didn’t even know I existed until we got here, he literally didn’t even know my name.’
‘He knows it now. I can tell by the way he looks at you.’
‘He doesn’t look at me,’ I argue. ‘Not unless I’m the only person in the room.’ I think back to Alice’s advice, about how some men need it all spelled out for them, then add, ‘It wouldn’t matter anyway, he’s not the guy I fancy.’
Oliver’s hand brushes against mine again and this time he doesn’t pull it away. Instead, his little finger locks around mine and just like that, we’re together. No one around us seems to notice this seismic change in our relationship, but all at once, I can’t quite breathe.
‘I’ve never understood people like that, the ones who live for school,’ he says as I steal a sideways glance at him. ‘Fine, you’re popular now, kicking your little ball around, but what happens after university? What are you going to do when the rest of your life is an anticlimax?’
‘Maybe,’ I semi-agree, momentarily debating with myself before jumping to Ethan’s defence.
‘I know people assume athletes aren’t intelligent but he’s smarter than people give him credit for. He’s doing great in his psych classes, he got a 72 on his first paper today.’
‘The first essay doesn’t mean anything. You failed yours.’
It’s almost like a slap. My fingers flex and Oliver’s hand slips out of my grip.
‘Not that failing an essay is a big deal,’ he adds as I blink myself back into the moment.
‘I’ve failed so many classes. It shows independent thinking, that’s what my dad says.
Schools like this, they’re all about structure and rules.
Someone has to be the first person to challenge the status quo.
Failing that essay means you’re pushing his boundaries, I meant it as a good thing. ’
A warm grip takes my clammy palm, and this time when Oliver holds my hand, he really holds it.