Loveless (Osemanverse #10)(45)

‘Lloyd hates Sunil,’ said Jess, as Sunil rejoined his conversation with the group of freshers. ‘So, that’s a bit of a thing there.’

‘Drama?’ I asked.

Jess nodded. ‘Drama.’

For some reason – pity, or genuine kindness, I wasn’t sure – I ended up sitting next to Sunil at his table throughout the dinner. By eight o’clock, the room was packed and lively, and waiters were serving drinks and starters.

Between courses Sunil made an effort to move around the room and talk to people on every table, especially the freshers. The newbies seemed genuinely excited to meet him. It was sort of wonderful to watch.

I managed to chat a little to the other people on my table, but I was relieved when Sunil returned for dessert, and I could get to talk to him properly. He told me that he was studying music, which he thought was probably a mistake, but he was enjoying it. He was from Birmingham, which explained the very slight tinge in his accent, which I hadn’t been able to place. He had no idea what he was doing after Durham yet, despite this being the final year of his degree.

I told him about our Shakespeare Society and how it was probably going to be a disaster.

‘I did a little bit of acting when I was at school,’ said Sunil when I told him about us needing a fifth member. He launched into a story of the time he played a minor role in a school production of Wicked, and concluded it by saying, ‘Maybe I could be in your play. I do miss the theatre.’

I told him that would be amazing.

‘I’m so busy, though,’ he said. ‘I just … have a lot on all of the time.’ And judging by the tired expression on his face, he wasn’t exaggerating, so I told him it’d be OK if he couldn’t.

But he said he’d think about it.

I hadn’t met a lot of openly queer people before. There’d been a crowd of people at school who Pip hung out with from time to time, but there could only have been about seven or eight of them, max. I don’t know what I expected. There was no particular type of person, no particular style or look. But they were all so friendly. There were a few obvious friendship groups, but mostly, people were happy to chat to whoever.

They were all just themselves.

I don’t know how to explain it.

There was no pretending. No hiding. No faking.

In this little restaurant hidden away in the old streets of Durham, a bunch of queer people could all show up and just be.

I don’t think I’d understood what that was like until that moment.

After dessert, tables were moved to the side and the real mingling began. The lights were dimmed and the music was turned up, and almost everyone was standing, chatting, laughing and drinking. I quickly realised my socialising reserves had been utterly depleted by what had honestly felt like the longest day of my life, and I’d also drunk enough alcohol to be in that weird space where everything feels like a dream, so I found an empty seat in a corner and huddled there with my phone and a glass of wine for half an hour, scrolling through Twitter and Instagram.

‘Hiding in the corner, college child?’

I raised my head, startled, but it was only Sunil, a glass of lemonade in hand. He looked like a celebrity in his tux, his hair pushed neatly back. I supposed he was a celebrity here.

He sat down in the chair next to me. ‘How are you doing?’

I nodded at him. ‘Fine! Yeah. This has been really nice.’

He smiled and gazed out at the room. Happy people having fun. ‘Yes. It’s been a success.’

‘Have you organised anything like this before?’

‘Never. I was part of the society’s leadership team last year, but events like this weren’t my call. Last year it was literally all bar crawls and club nights.’

I grimaced. Sunil saw, and laughed. ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

‘Is it stressful? Being the president?’

‘Sometimes. But it’s worth it. Makes me feel that I’m doing something important. And that I’m part of something important.’ He let out a breath. ‘I … I did things on my own for a long time. I know how it feels to be totally alone. So now I’m trying to make sure … no queer person has to feel like that in this city.’

I nodded again. I could understand that.

‘I’m not a superhero, or anything. I don’t want to be. A lot of the freshers see me as this, like, queer angel sent down to fix all their problems, and I’m not, I’m really, really not. I’m just a person. But I like to think I’m making a positive impact, even if it’s a small one.’

I suddenly got the sense that Sunil had been through a lot before he’d become this person – confident, eloquent, wise. He hadn’t always been the self-assured president of a society. But whatever he’d been through, he’d done it. He’d survived. And he was making the world a better place.

‘But I’m very tired all the time,’ he said with a small chuckle. ‘I think sometimes I forget about … looking after myself. Just … bingeing a show or, I don’t know. Baking a cake. I hardly ever do stuff like that. Sometimes I wish I could spend a little more time just doing something utterly pointless.’ He met my eyes. ‘And now I’m oversharing!’

‘I don’t mind!’ I blurted. I really didn’t. I liked deep chats and I felt like I was getting to know Sunil properly. I knew that he, as my college parent, was supposed to be my mentor here at Durham, but I already wanted to know him better than that. I wanted us to be friends.