The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files) (25 page)

Not good thinking dirty thoughts in a packed bar.

He sits down, but not next to me, as if he doesn’t want to encroach on my space. He then joins in the conversation some of the guys are having with ease. This is the thing with Ben; he always finds it so easy to get on with everyone. Not like me, who gets all flustered and tongue-tied. It’s never a problem for him to slide himself in to whatever situation he finds himself. Look at him and my brother. How different could they be? Yet they are still friends. They will probably be friends longer than he and I will be.

After half an hour, I stand up and grab my cigarette packet, announcing that I am going out for air. Ben watches me but before he can say that he will come too, some other guy jumps to his feet and announces that he also fancies a smoke.

I can feel Ben’s eyes on me all the way to the door.

I spend an uncomfortable five minutes outside attempting to make small talk, which is not a forte of mine, unless I happen to be at the checkout of Asda with some guy called Richard, before dashing back in again. I don’t know why I am dashing anywhere, Ben and I are just ‘friends,’ which is what we agreed. It should not be a problem if I have a smoke with another guy. But I know I am talking bollocks to myself. It is going to be a long time, or perhaps never, until I am comfortable with hanging around having smoke breaks with anyone other than Ben.

He watches me sit back down through hooded eyes. I just ignore the butterflies in my stomach. Slowly, we all settle back into conversation. It is all mild stuff just joking at the lecturers, and everyone is getting a little tipsy.

Ben and I gradually gravitate towards each other. It is impossible for it not to happen. By the time another hour has passed we are sitting in deep conversation, knees touching, and hands sliding towards each other. It makes me think of our first visit to this bar and it makes me a little sad.

Once again, he has eclipsed everyone in the room. There is only him, and the blues.

When I go to the bar to get some more drinks, Trev gives me a knowing wink.

“Oh bugger off,” I tell him as I grab the drinks and head back over to our growing gathering, but to the only seat that I want to sit in. The seat next to Ben.

On the way back to the dorm, we walk along in silence, our fingers tips just occasionally brushing which we both pull away from.

“Goodnight, Lilah,” he says outside my door.

“Goodnight, Ben,” I whisper.

11.05 p.m.

Something does not feel right. Ben is playing the Gibson and I am lying on my bed listening to it. But something is definitely not right.

11.08 p.m.

Got it.

11.18 p.m.

I have moved my bed so that it is alongside the same wall as his. Now there is just a thin partition keeping us apart. Well, a thin partition wall and a sea of problems that will never be solved.

21st February

I think I might become a vegetarian. That way I won’t keep craving Ben’s crispy bacon sandwiches anymore.

Obviously, this is a very big decision.

There are pros and cons to carefully consider.

Pro: I will no longer have to whine at Ben to make me a snack and stand there like a pleb whilst he cooks.

Con: I might starve.

22nd February

2.00 p.m.

I have taken to singing. I categorically cannot sing. It makes all the local cats stand by the window and yowl.

However, it does seem to do a very good job of winding Ben up, which makes it a worthwhile pursuit.

I don’t know why I feel the need to wind him up. It’s just pissing me off that he seems to be dealing with the whole ‘friends’ thing more easily than me.

I have been putting in some Taylor time just to make my point clear. Ben banged on my wall until I stopped earlier today—when "Story of Us" was the song
du Jour
—which I thought was rather rude. I giggled away to myself afterwards pleased at the fact that I had clearly succeeded in irritating him, until I heard him playing the same song on his guitar back through the wall, making it sound much more tuneful than me. I’m not sure what point he was trying to make.

It could be read in two ways:

He took on board the comment I’d made in Lyme and has been trying to understand what I was very poorly attempting to explain to him.

He thinks my singing is truly awful (which it is) and is demonstrating in his frustratingly superior manner how much better he is at everything than I am. This only highlights for me the fact that we are better off only being friends.

I kind of really want it to be reason one, but I have the feeling that it is more than likely reason two.

He still waits for me after class, before giving me a cheery wave at the bottom of the stairs and heading off to meet his new friends. How come he managed to make new friends the other night at the bar? I just ended up talking to him and then obsessing about him even more afterwards. It seems unfair to me.

Maybe I should try to go out on a date or something?

Who is going to go out with me? It is quite clear that I am infatuated with Benjamin Chambers. It’s only been a few days since Valentine's. How is he finding it so easy to do the whole friends thing? I want to ask him. The idea’s making me cross.

We went from meeting his mum and sisters, and having mind-blowing "personal relations," to standing in the freezing cold, telling each other that we should just be friends.

Oh god, I know this is my fault. All he wanted was for me to commit to something, but as usual ‘Scaredy Pants Lilah’ was completely unable to commit to anything, and now he has decided that our little game is not worth playing anymore and he is moving on. I always knew that it was going to be over at some point. I just figured that maybe I would see a little more moping about. Or, better yet, he would be in a different country and I could just imagine that he was moping about, even if he wasn’t. This is worse. Far, far, worse.

Taylor is singing "Haunted." I would join in, but I would not want anyone to bang on the wall.

It is Saturday for goodness’ sake, and I am sitting on my bed like Billy No Mates with nothing to do.

I wonder if Meredith wants to do something.

2.15 p.m.

Damn it! She is not in. She must be out being all romantic with my brother.

I wonder if Jayne wants to do something.

2.17 p.m.

Bollocks. She also has a life. I think Goth Chick is here, but I am not sure I can cope with that. No offence to her, but I find her a little hard to communicate with, something to do with looking at that amount of makeup. It is like talking to someone wearing sunglasses.

2.20 p.m.

I think I might have a go at cooking something. I wonder what you need to make spaghetti Bolognese? I shall Google it and then attempt to create myself a gastronomic feast.

2.30 p.m.

Blimey! Apparently you need quite a lot of stuff.

Garlic

Onion

Mince

Celery? Why?

Carrot? Really?

It all looks a little complicated, but I shall resist the urge to buy a jar of sauce and will do it myself. Who knows? I could turn out to be a Bolognese whizz, and could get myself a job in an Italian restaurant to pay for my studies.

Asda or Waitrose?

Asda: More appropriate for my student budget.

Waitrose: A far nicer shopping experience.

Bugger it. I am going to Waitrose.

5.00 p.m.

Okay, that was more expensive than expected. I just spent a rather large sum of money on the makings of dinner for one. I did buy a case of wine, but that is to go in the sauce. Well, some of it is.

I may just have a small glass before I start chopping, just to make sure it is okay to go in the Bolognese.

6.00 p.m.

Mmm. That is good wine. I can completely see why it was ten pounds a bottle.

6.45 p.m.

Oops-a-daisy! I thought it was half price but checked the receipt and think that maybe it was twenty quid.

That’s quite funny. I just drank a twenty-pound bottle of wine by myself! Whilst singing Adele at the top of my lungs. I am sure "Someone Like You" was never meant to sound like that.

This is great, though. Here I am feeding myself, standing on my own two feet enjoying some quality Lilah time. Life doesn’t get much better than this!

Okay, I am going to go and cook and try not to drink anymore wine. I am supposed to be putting it in the sauce.

23rd February

9.00 a.m.

I have a red wine headache from hell.

I don’t think that any of the wine got in the sauce, but thankfully by the time we got around to eating, everyone had drunk so much of the outrageously expensive red they would not have noticed. It’s a fact: I will never be offered a job in an Italian restaurant unless it is working in the scullery washing up.

I sliced the top of my finger off, mistaking it for a carrot, which I was trying to julienne. Unfortunately, I do not have a clue what ‘julienne’ means, but I am pretty sure you are not supposed to do it to your finger. Then Ben walked in on my culinary crime scene.

Annoying much? Glug, glug, glug.

I downed half a glass of wine, trying to distract myself from the blood fountain when he came dashing up, grabbing my bleeding digit, and shoving it under the tap in the sink, which had made me go all weird and semi-pass out. This was embarrassing and not at all what I was aiming for when I had started my cooking endeavours.

I drank another half glass of wine to try and stop my pathetic heart palpitations caused by Ben holding my hand whilst bandaging the wound and then smoothing my hair whilst I tried not to pass out.

For future reference, squatting on the floor with my head between my knees is not a good look.

(Let’s be honest. By this point I was pretty tipsy.)

“What on earth are you doing, Lilah?

“Cooking.”

“Yes, I see that,” he says in a stern, disapproving voice. (Cue me drinking more wine.) “But what are you cooking? Maybe I could, you know, help. If you like?”

“Oh. Yes, if you like."

“I just asked if I could help.”

“Are you not out with your new super-duper very important new friends?”

This is met with a confused eyebrow raise.

“I have been at the library,” he says.

“What? For four hours?”

Stalker alert!

“There were some journals that I found interesting.”

“Really? You found some journals interesting?”

“Yes, Lilah. What are you cooking, and do you want my help?”

I should say ‘No’. But of course I say ‘Yes’.

“Spaghetti Bolognese,” I say with a sigh of resignation.

“You made this much mess for spaghetti Bolognese?”

“Look, Mr. Perfect, we can’t all be blessed with amazing culinary skills.”

“Well, that’s true,” he says with a sarcastic nod of the head.

I could fight it, but, really, what would be the point? Instead, I grab another glass and pour some wine for him—my one true culinary skill. He gives a small smirk when I hand him his drink. I think he almost says the thought out loud but holds himself in check.

I hop onto the counter determined to at least watch what he is doing so I can remember for next time. Next time, when he is not around to help me anymore, and is probably making spaghetti with some skinny blonde American who is clad only in black lacy underwear.

I do not watch him cook at all. Instead I observe his low slung jeans encase his mighty tidy bottom, and I watch his long fingers prepare the vegetables—without any blood loss.
Show off!
I also watch his mouth as he talks to me, and I watch his smile and the blues when he turns to me, occasionally giving me his killer grin with crinkles. The whole time he cooks and I sit perving, the conversation flows between us, not once edging near any sensitive subjects. I drink more and more of the ridiculously expensive wine and try to keep myself from launching off the counter and dry-humping his leg while he cooks.

So basically I learnt absolutely nothing about cooking spaghetti Bolognese. But I did learn the fact that I am still an outrageous Ben Chambers stalker.

And I most definitely am still completely in love with him.

Fuck.

Thankfully, Tristan and Meredith came home before we had to do the whole awkward sit down to eat together. Though I was slurring badly by the time we ate, the food was delicious, as was the company. It was a great evening, the four of us sitting there just laughing and giggling over our food and drink, much like we did before the whole underwear incident, and much like we did at Christmas, except Christmas had ended with us having amazing sex.

Last night ended with a hand squeeze in the hallway outside our doors.

A hand squeeze.

A frigging hand squeeze.

Now I am stuck in my room, with yet another hangover whilst trying to avoid the annoyingly sexy boy from next door.

I am proud of how far I have come in the last five months.

Not.