“My second year—it’s a cool place,” he replies. He sinks back so that he’s leaning against one of the sofas. For a moment, the world seems to fade except for his aquamarine eyes. It’s as if only Callum and I exist, locked in each other’s gaze, everything else in slow motion. It must have only been a split second, because suddenly colour rushes back in as one of the music students starts strumming a tune I recognize—“Elements,” straight off Noah’s last album.
That’s when it hits me. For the whole time (OK, the whole one minute) I’ve been talking to this guy, I haven’t thought about Noah at all. Everything feels electric—a feeling I thought I’d never get again, ever since Noah and I parted ways. I notice too that he has a camera slung over his shoulder on what looks like a customizable strap with stickers and scribbles in the leather. He smiles broadly as he spots me checking out his gear.
“It’s a nice camera, right? It’s vintage.” He swings it round his shoulder so I can get a better look. I ooh and aah approvingly.
“You must really know your stuff!” I say.
“I love photography, but, hey, only the best of us get to hang with François-Pierre Nouveau, right?” He jabs me lightly on my arm and I feel my face blush hot. He’s laughing, and I nervously join in. Why is Callum McCutie making me feel like this? It’s like I’m thirteen all over again. I mentally shake it off and try to be slightly cooler. I also feel Megan’s big toe press down firmly on mine, and I know it’s time to go.
“Anyway,” I say, “nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you around at some point. I’ll tell François-Pierre you say hi.” I turn on my heel and start walking away, grabbing Megan as I go.
Callum laughs and salutes us as we walk away from him.
Is going slightly jelly after meeting Callum a normal reaction? Maybe it’s a sign that deep down I’m starting to get over Noah? Maybe my heart is ready to be dusted off and get back out into the scary world of boys again?
There are a lot of maybes, but it’s better than the nevers that were there before.
Megan leads me through corridor after corridor, where we pass singing, art, and ballet classrooms. My jaw drops at just how much stuff they have access to. Practice rooms, musical instruments, studios, libraries. For all her bragging, Megan really has entered the big league now.
We cross the campus and she takes me inside her halls of residence. It’s not quite what I expected: it’s small and the ceilings are fairly low, making the light quite limited. Not good at all for photos. Megan is sharing her bathroom and kitchen space with two other girls. One, a dancer, is from Italy, and the other is from San Francisco, doing modern art.
She takes me through to her bedroom, which is in an even worse state than mine—clothes are tossed everywhere and theatre posters cover all the walls.
“Are your roommates nice? Do you get on with them?” I sit down on the end of Megan’s single bed, which is pressed up against her desk area. She pulls out her office chair and takes a seat next to me.
“Sure. I mean Mariella doesn’t speak a lot of English, so our conversations are a little more difficult. She studies interpretive dance, though, so I often just gesture what I’m trying to say by dancing, and I think that helps.”
Poor Mariella. I imagine Megan dancing in frustration, arms and legs akimbo while trying to offer Mariella a cup of tea, and I stifle a giggle.
Megan takes out her laptop and starts scrolling through her Facebook. “I don’t really see the other girl much. She’s very indie, hangs out in Shoreditch a lot, and her friends all have beards and man buns. I’m just not sure I like the whole man bun thing? What do they hide in there?”
“All their secrets?” I say peering over Megan’s screen. She’s hovering her mouse over her direct messages, although there are no new chat notifications. Odd. Normally Megan is buzzing from every device she owns. She senses me peering and slams her laptop shut.
“You know what? Let’s head back to the common room and grab some food and chill. There’s not much to do here; it’s too quiet.” She grabs her handbag and slings it over her shoulder then messes up her hair and applies more lipstick.
“OK,” I say. I’m surprised by the butterflies that flutter in my stomach at a single thought: Maybe Callum will still be there.
• • •
Back in the common room, it’s a hive of activity—but no hunky Scottish guy. Beautiful young people swarm round the table-football table, weirdly good at such a niche hobby, and there are two groups harmonizing a cappella songs back and forth like a scene out of Pitch Perfect. To say I’m out of my comfort zone is no exaggeration, and suddenly the sofa I’m sitting on feels like it’s sucking me into its pillowy depths.
I wonder if it’s too late to get out of there.
But then Callum walks back in, one of his friends in tow. His friend is also tall and attractive, with a head of thick curly dark hair, but he doesn’t have nearly the same magnetic pull for me that Callum does. I sit up a little straighter as he plonks himself down on the sofa next to me and his friend perches opposite, next to Megan.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.” He throws his bag off his shoulder and onto the coffee table in front of us, relaxing down into the seat. God, his accent is amazing. I want to pull out my phone and record it for Elliot, because I know he would go equally wild.