Loveless (Osemanverse #10)(19)

How could she do in one single hour what I was unable to force myself to do in my whole teenage life?

I hated her. I wanted to be her. I hated myself.

It all hit me then, suddenly. The music was so loud I felt like my vision was blurring. I shoved through people to get to the edge of the room, only to find myself pressed up against the wall, which was wet with condensation. I looked wildly around for the door, then started barging my way towards it, and out, into the chilly, empty October air.

I breathed.

I wasn’t going to cry.

Three of the John’s third years were having a conversation in the smoking area, leaning against the wall, including, to my surprise, Sunil.

He was my college parent – I knew he’d help me. I could ask him to walk me back. But as I stepped forward, I felt embarrassed. I was an absolute failure. A child. Sunil turned, glanced at me curiously and I willed him to ask me if I wanted to go back to college and whether I wanted him to walk back with me. But he didn’t say anything. So I just left.

After a couple of hours in the noisy club, the high street’s silence felt like it was echoing around me. I could barely remember the way back to college because I’d been so stressed on the way here that I hadn’t been paying attention to where we’d been walking, but thankfully, I found myself on the cobbled path and walking back up the hill, past the castle, then the cathedral, and then I could see the stone steps of St John’s College.

‘There’s something wrong with you,’ I said under my breath. Then I shook my head, trying to get the thought out. That was a bad thought. There was nothing wrong with me. This was just who I was. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about any of it.

I could message Pip and – what would I even tell her? That I was terrible at clubbing? That I could have tried to kiss someone but decided not to? That I was utterly failing at my new start? Pathetic. There was nothing to even tell her.

I could talk about it with Jason, but he’d probably just tell me I was being silly. Because I was. I knew this whole thing was ridiculous.

So I just walked. I kept my head down. I didn’t even know what was wrong. Everything. Myself. I didn’t know. How come everyone else could function and I couldn’t? How could everyone live properly yet I had some sort of error in my programming?

I thought about all the people I’d met in the past few days. Hundreds of people my age, all genders, appearances, personalities.

I couldn’t think of a single one I was attracted to.

I opened the door to college so loudly that the man in the little office gave me a stern look. I suppose he thought I was a drunk fresher. God, I wished I was. I looked down at my dress, the one Mum had seen in River Island and said, Oh, isn’t that perfect? And I’d agreed, and she’d bought it for me, so I could look nice and feel nice during Freshers’ Week. I started to well up. God, not yet, please not yet.

My room was empty – of course it was. Rooney was out there living her life and having experiences. I grabbed my washbag and pyjamas, went straight to the bathroom, got in the shower and had a cry.





‘So you have very high standards,’ Rooney said to me the next morning while I was eating a bagel in bed and she was doing her make-up in front of her mirror.

We would have talked about it last night, but I fell asleep in the middle of reading a Steve/Bucky Regency Era AU fic, only to wake up a few hours later to find Rooney returned, fast asleep, her make-up still on and her boots discarded in the middle of the aqua rug.

‘That’s … accurate,’ I confirmed. I did have high standards. I wasn’t sure what exactly my standards were, but they were undoubtedly very high.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, seemingly unfazed. ‘We’ve got loads more chances to find you someone. It won’t be that hard.’

‘Won’t it?’

‘Nope.’ Her mouth dropped open as she did her mascara. ‘Loads of people are looking to hook up this week. There are so many opportunities for you to meet people. It won’t take us that long to find you someone you like.’

‘OK.’

‘You’ll see.’

‘OK.’

‘What’s your type?’ Rooney asked at lunch.

Lunch at college was just like lunch at school – cafeteria food and sitting round tables and benches – but ten times worse due to the added pressure of socialising with a bunch of people I didn’t know very well. As irritating as I found Rooney’s effortless ability to thrive at university, I was actually very glad to have her in situations like this.

Thankfully, however, this was the first meal that Rooney and I had showed up to in which we didn’t spot anyone Rooney knew, so we were able to sit just us.

‘Type?’ I asked, my mind immediately going to Pokémon types, and then wondering whether it was a food question of some sort and looked down at my pasta.

‘Type of guy,’ said Rooney, mouth full.

‘Oh.’ I shrugged and speared a piece of pasta. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘Come on. You must have some idea. Like, what sort of guys do you find yourself liking?’

None of them, is what I probably should have said. I never like anyone.

‘No type in particular,’ is what I actually said.

‘Tall? Nerdy? Sporty? Musicians? Tattoos? Long hair? Boys who look like pirates?’