The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files)

by Bloom, Anna

  Last night on our cab journey home I sat with my head resting on his chest as his arms circled me tight. I listened to his heartbeat the whole way.

  Outside my door, he leant in and kissed me on the cheek. “I can’t give up on you, Lilah,” he whispered, one hand sliding through my hair and lingering along my jaw.

  I wanted him to kiss me so bad.

  I don’t know what he meant. I thought we had given up, or at least he had on me. Now I don’t know what to think about, well, anything.

  Professor Johnson’s Big Bombshell

  11.25 a.m.

  “Right, then. Everyone, wake up!” Professor Johnson shouts as he jumps off a table at the end of the classroom.

  Good God. What is happening?

  I have been asleep, and can't imagine why he is standing on the table in first place.

  “So I will number you all, one or two, and then you will pair up with your nearest matching number,” he announces.

  He then starts to bounce around the room wildly slapping everyone on the head whilst shouting a number at them.

  I turn in confusion to Meredith, who looks back at me blankly and offers me a shrug. What on earth have I missed? I can hear Ben chuckling behind, so I spin around to him. Barbie is back in her seat beside him, but I just ignore her on a continuous basis. I have even become bored with giving her evil looks.

  “What’s going on?” I hiss at Ben.

  The blues dance as he watches me panic.

  I glare at him until he leans forward.

  “Johnson is making us do project work and is pairing us up. We are either number one or two and have to pair up accordingly.”

  Just as he finishes speaking, Crazy Johnson veers towards me.

  “Awake, Delilah, at last? How lovely of you to join us this morning.”

  I go bright red and mumble something intelligible back.

  “Number one,” he says to me, patting a trifle hard on my head. “Number two,” he says to Meredith, who still looks rather confused.

  Oh no! This means that Meredith and I cannot pair up.

  It is in this moment I realise that Ben and Barbie are next. There are only two of them, and they will be either one or the other.

  Oh please, don’t let me get partnered with Barbie. I would rather have my legs chopped off.

  Johnson’s hand hesitates over Ben’s head—like he cannot quite remember what number is next—before coming down in slow motion.

  “Number one.” He pats his head gently, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I keep my eyes down, not wanting to meet Ben’s gaze, although I know it is intense. Same as I also know, without looking, that his cocky smirk is lingering on his lips.

  The nutty professor makes it back to the front of the class and turns his quick gaze on his room of captured students.

  “Okay, everyone, move to your nearest matching number.”

  We all groan and make a big deal of rustling papers and picking up pens. Meredith has finally cottoned on and quickly gathers her stuff. I wonder why she is moving so fast but then watch in amazement as she steps right up to Barbie’s desk and says, “Hi, Becky, I guess we should work together.”

  Why would she do that when she knows I hate Barbie? She is my Arch Nemesis of Black Underwear.

  Exactly two seconds later, I realise why she did the fast manoeuvre, as Ben slides into Meredith’s vacated seat. I will love her forever for this. The table automatically shrinks as his long leg presses against mine.

  “Hi, Lilah. I guess we should work together,” he says, and the blues twinkle.

  “Hi, Ben, I guess we should.”

  I try not to giggle but fail. I'm not sure what his game is, but after last night, and the look on his face now, I would say he is definitely up to something.

  Professor Johnson then launches into a long spiel about what the group work should be about. I do not hear a damn word he says. I just zone out completely and concentrate instead on Ben’s leg pressing against mine.

  The Library

  12.30 a.m.

  “So what do you think?” Ben asks me.

  I am not sure how to tell him that I haven't got the first clue what the guidelines are for the project, let alone subject matter.

  Ben waited for me after class, and for the first time in weeks he walked inside the library doors with me. We stood at the little café and got coffee mostly in silence, because, for my part, I am still hanging like a dog. I am not quite as certain regarding the cause of his quiet contemplations. With coffee fuel in hand, we head towards the stairs.

  Oh god! The stairs! Thankfully, though, they are slightly less torturous since I restarted my fitness regime, but I am never going to be the sort of person to approach the prospect of four flights of stairs with anything like zestful enthusiasm.

  “Uh, I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Well, I quite liked his first idea. Did you prefer his second?”

  “Um . . .”

  “You weren’t listening, were you?”

  “Sorry. Not really,” I confess sheepishly.

  “What were you doing instead?”

  I was concentrating on the electric feel of your long lithe leg against mine.

  “Sorry, Ben. I have such a headache, it was hard to take anything in.”

  He smiles at me, but I’m not sure whether he believes me or not.

  “It was a bit of a heavy night last night.”

  The blues gaze at me, trying to read something.

  “Yeah it was. I think I should lay off the beer for a while,” I say with a punctuating grimace.

  “Oh, but you are so funny on beer, Lilah.”

  My name trips off his tongue like a soft caress. I try desperately to ignore my stomach flipping over.

  In protest, my stomach decides to use this lull in conversation to rumble very loudly. Very nice. Thank you.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Nope. You saw me this morning. Food was the last thing on my mind.”

  “What was the first thing on your mind?” he asks with intensity.

  You.

  “Not being sick.”

  He chuckles at this. “You really are a delight, Delilah.”

  “That’s me. I am a treat.”

  I give his shoulder, which is close to mine, a nudge. We are both squished into one of the study booths together. These desks are not made for two.

  “Do you fancy going for something to eat?”

  “What? You and me?”

  “Well, unless you can think of anyone else you would rather go with.”

  Nope. Not really. Oh, what’s the point?

  “Nope, not really.”

  I am rewarded with a fabulous flash of blue and a dazzling white smile. He packs up our things and we head back down the stairs at a far quicker pace than we made it up them.

  Dinner

  7.30 a.m.

  I thought he would cook, but apparently we are going out. His treat. I have been told to go and get ready. Ready for what?

  Now what to wear? I have tried on every item of clothing that I own trying to find the perfect outfit. Do I go casual, or do I make an effort at something nicer? If I make an effort, he may think I am reading too much into the situation.

  (Let’s be honest. I don’t know what to read into anything.)

  For the last three weeks, we have been practically ignoring each other. Last night we got drunk together on a ‘friends only’ basis. Today we are going out for dinner. What does this mean?

  No time to think about it now. He is knocking on my door and I am going to go and find out.

  6th March

  Ben’s idea was to go for a curry. There was a minor mo
ment of embarrassment when the staff at my friendly Indian welcomed me by my first name.

  “Leelah!” they call with open arms. “It’s been too long, where have you been?”

  Ben just throws his head back and laughs, giving my hand a tug as my ‘friends’ navigate us to a table in the middle of the restaurant, where they can watch me all evening.

  It’s all really normal, which in itself makes it all very strange and well, (let’s be honest), not very normal at all.

  It wasn’t a date. But it was more than friends.

  While we enjoyed the poppadum’s, we laugh over the notion that we have never actually been out to eat in a restaurant together before. Not by ourselves, and not to a place predominantly selling food versus alcohol.

  “I only ever took you on two real dates,” Ben says while scooping some more lime pickle onto a triangle of poppadum.

  “Yeah, I know. The rest of the time you were either snogging me or shagging me,” I point out, laughing into my pint of Cobra.

  It is always worth saying things like this just to watch him blush a lovely radish shade of pink. For someone who has been in a band for the last ten years, he is incredibly gentlemanly. Well, apart from when he’s not got me backed up against a wall or tree, or undoing my jeans in black cabs.

  “I am sorry about the lack of real dates,” he offers once the pink begins to fade.

  “No need to be sorry. The two dates we did have were knock-out amazing, which more than makes up for any shortfalls in quantity.”

  I say this, but then I remember the fact that I completely ruined the second date by allowing the whole ‘best friend’ thing to escape my mouth. Now I am the one flushing.

  “Mum was asking after you the other day,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I think you made quite an impact.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Well, you are the only girl that I have ever taken home. I think she was worried that her and my dad had broken me somehow with all the stuff they went through.” He keeps his eyes on me as he takes a sip of drink.

  “I told her what was going on now,” he says.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, I told her that we were going to sort things out.”

  “Ben, you know we have been through this.”

  He just watches me for a moment. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  There is a piece of poppadum stuck in my throat and I can't come up with anything appropriate to say. Thankfully, the chicken tikka arrives as this point and I pretend to be suddenly ravenously hungry.

  “Lilah? Ben?”

  I look up from my studious cutting of meat to search for the voice I only vaguely recognise.

  Big Baz looms over our table. He claps a hand on my shoulder in greeting. His hand is so large, it nearly knocks me into my starter.

  “My favourite customer, and her favourite guitarist!” he booms to the entire restaurant.

  “Hey, Baz.” I smile sheepishly.

  He leans down and gives me a hug, and in a faux whisper asks, “Did the Gibson work, my love?”

  Ben raises an eyebrow then gets to his feet. “Hi. Ben Chambers,” he introduces himself, with a wink directed at Baz that I don’t understand.

  “Oh, I know who you are, son. How’s the band going?”

  Baz and his wife, who I have not seen until now as she has been blocked from view by his vast girth, are settled by the hovering staff at the table next to ours.

  “Oh, you know. Fine. We have a trip coming up soon, so we should get a good idea of what is going to happen.” Ben looks at me intently as he says this.

  I avoid eye contact.

  “Good, good,” booms Baz. “You will do well, I’m sure. How is the new guitar?” He gives a little wink at Ben.

  “Oh, she is fine.” Ben smiles.

  “She?” I ask, trying to fit some chicken in my mouth.

  “All guitars worth playing are female, young lady,” answers Baz with the reverence I would expect for a guitar that cost me over five grand.

  How I could do with that cash now. Still, I would never take away that memory of Ben opening his gift, nor would I take away the memory of how he showed his appreciation afterwards, or the memories of hearing him playing it through the wall every night.

  “Well, Baz, I am sad to say, I will not be purchasing another one of those anytime soon! The Lilah McCannon Bank is closed. So unless I get a job pronto, I will not be buying luxuries ever again."

  “I’ll give you a job, lovey.”

  Baz is not laughing even though I am.

  “Don’t be daft, Baz, I do not know anything about music or musical instruments.”

  Ben nods in agreement with me so I kick him hard under the table.

  “Not true, young lady, you knew that you had to buy the best you could, to achieve what you wanted. If you can make others do the same, then you can work for me.”

  “Oh? Thank you.”

  I want to cry with relief that I have a job, even if it is one I would never have expected.

  “When can you start?” he asks.

  “Easter holiday?” I reply hopefully. This is great! I will have a job and be so busy I will not be able to obsess about what Ben is up to in America.

  “Excellent! Come in and we will discuss terms.”

  He gives me a broad smile, and I know I have found a great boss and a friend.

  “This is good,” says Ben, “at least I will know where you are when I am away.” His hand slides over the table to mine.

  Baz is watching us. I don’t move, I just eat one-handed.

  Walking home later, after saying a slightly tiddly goodnight to my new boss, Ben and I troop up Upper Richmond Road. He reaches out and intertwines our fingers. We share the journey home with hands swinging together between us.

  “Is this okay?” he asks after a while, motioning to our hands.

  “Yeah, this is fine,” I tell him.

  And it is. It feels kind of good. I have a job, I might be crap at it, but it is a job all the same. And I have Ben, who, even when is just being my ‘best friend’, will walk home with me holding my hand.

  7th March

  Ben leaves in sixteen days. Not that I am counting. I know it is only for two weeks but there is a sense of doom hanging over it.

  The good news is I have a job, so will be able to afford to buy student essentials such as baked beans and wine. I should tell Tristan, and then he can breathe a sigh of relief that he will not have to support the entire house over the summer holidays, or the next two years, for that matter.

  I think perhaps I should try a bit harder looking for somewhere to live. I have been burying my head in the sand, but I need to wake up and realise that this is all going to happen. Things are not going to stay the way they are now.

  Change is coming, and I cannot stand in its way. Tristan and I are going to leave the flat we have shared for eight years. We are going to move out of the halls. Ben is just going to leave.

  After the last couple of nights, I can almost get used to the whole friends thing. If being friends means that I can still talk to him, and that we can still be together comfortably by ourselves without all that awkward tension hanging over us, then I can live with it. I would rather that, than nothing at all.

  Nothing would be unbearable, whereas I can just about cope with friends.

  Especially if friends means that we can still hold hands every so often, can still communicate just by standing there breathing each other in and our eyes can hold a conversation of their own.

  I can just about cope with this, and I can just about cope with the idea of letting him go if we are just this until he leaves.

  Right. I am going for a jog, where I shall think
up a super-duper brainy idea for our group project. Then I shall call the Estate Agent and beg them to find us a suitable home in which to live.

  My Major Brainwave

  As I jogged around the park, trying not to scare the crap out of the deer that always scatter as I approach—“Quick, guys! An escaped rhino from the zoo is charging us!"—I came up with a killer idea.

  I have been trying to come up with a concept for the group project. I want it to be something I can write passionately about without sitting there tapping my pen whilst drooling over Ben. The problem is that I do not really like the subject of war, much like I do not like watching the Remembrance Parade on Armistice Day. Not because I am ungrateful for the sacrifice made by soldiers. In fact, it is the opposite. It is the sheer scale of life lost that makes it unbearable for me. How do you move on from that, knowing that someone you love, be it son, father, brother, or anyone, has given their life in their belief in something far more important than their own being.

  I get emotional just thinking about it. I think this is what I want to write about, how nationally the idea of grief and loss is demonstrated. Then we could do a comparison between two nations, how they recognise the emotional side of war, how it is dealt with and how it is immortalised by the different cultures.

  I like this idea as I pound around the park. I hope Ben likes it. I’m not sure what else I can write on the subject. Guns, planes, and strategic warfare are not really my thing.

  The Concept

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a bloody genius! There I was thinking you were just listening to my conversations in class,” he admits with a chuckle.

  Cue me going bright red.

  “What sources are we going to use?” he asks.

  “Hold on! Bloody hell, I have only just come up with the idea. Give me a chance!”

  The blues are shining at me, and I hesitate to stay and loiter in his room. I know I should leave, and so I do.

  There you go! It is getting easier every day.

  Mr. Sleaze, the Estate Agent from Arsehole’s R’ Us

  “Yes, Lilah, I understand your concern, but we do still have time to find the perfect property for you.”