I snort. “Yeah, because that was totally my plan. Go to a foreign country and get arrested for drug use.”
“Welllll, you know, some drugs . . . ” Dad swallows the rest of that sentence with an innocent smile as Mom turns to whack him upside the head again.
I rest my hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll enjoy myself. Responsibly.”
“That’s all we ask.” Mom blows a kiss, and I say goodbye quickly before the conversation can delve into sappy territory.
As I turn off my webcam, though, I can’t help but find the timing of that call downright suspicious. A quick scan of my room ensures that there aren’t any hidden cameras installed (at least, none hidden so poorly that I can find them).
Maybe it’s fate throwing you a bone, I think. The universe cosmically yelling at me: Stop being a dumbass! Not everyone gets a chance like this, to live abroad and experience a whole new country. I need to live up to it.
Besides, it’s only 7:40 now. If the football match ends by nine or so, I can easily finish tidying up my notes and have something to submit to Kingston by the end of the night.
In a last nod toward productivity, I sweep the pile of notes into my purse, just in case I get inspired while I’m at the bar. Then I grab my keys, switch off the lights, and jog to catch up to my friends.
Jack
I’m not really in the mood for drinks, or even for a footie match. But Mindy and Drew practically begged me to come out. Drew especially, who didn’t want to be the only guy among Mindy’s circle of Latin grad student friends. He’s not a professor himself, but as he runs the grumpy old man bar closest to campus (aka the only one not perpetually flooded with “just turned eighteen” parties), 90 percent of his friends are professors like me.
As usual, Mindy doesn’t want to walk too far from the flat they share (which is probably why they end up throwing so many grad/undergrad mixed ragers like the Tarts and Vicars party last weekend), so they tell me to meet them at the corner bar.
As usual, the Eagle and Child is crammed with people. I sidestep through the narrow corridors of the pub, which has always reminded me of an odd melding of Victorian-era sitting rooms with the way I imagine the interior of a gentlemen’s club would look.
Not that I’d know. My father still holds to those kinds of outdated traditions, but I like to think we’ve moved beyond the need for expensively decorated private social clubs where we decide the future of the country with more than half of said country locked outside our closed doors.
I peer into the first couple of side rooms I pass. Lots of undergrads, and a few clusters of faculty that I duck my head to avoid. The last thing I want is to wind up trapped in a conversation with a huddle of deans in my present mood. I’d probably tell them to go stuff themselves.
Somehow, the much-needed release I found with Harper earlier has not helped me move the fuck on. In fact, it’s made me more obsessed than ever. Every flash of auburn hair I see, I’m picturing hers pulled around my fist. Every time I close my eyes, I can see her bent over in front of me, and hear her desperate moans. All I want is to get the fuck out of here so I can go home and relive that moment again in private, since it can never happen again in real life.
My hard-on is pretty pissed at me about that part. As far as it’s concerned, Harper and I need to reenact that in at least a dozen more positions, if possible.
Still desperately trying to redivert blood flow to my skull, I finally locate my friends in the very back of the pub, secluded in the room that, according to the bronze plaque on the door that I’ve long since memorized, used to be Tolkien and C. S. Lewis’s regular spot. Drew and Mindy are sitting with a handful of Mindy’s friends, most of whom I recognize from brunches we’ve gone out to. One of them, Sara, pats my knee the moment I slide into the booth across from her. She’s been doing that for months, anytime I’m around. I don’t know why she can never take a hint.
Even now, I jerk my leg away, and it only makes her wink at me.
Have a little dignity, I want to say. Instead, I slap Drew on the back. “How’s it going, mate?”
“’Bout as well as you can expect when we’re down two already and not even through the first half.” He points at the nearest TV screen.
“Bad luck,” I agree, though to be honest, I couldn’t care less. Newcastle’s my team, and we’ve been playing even worse than Oxford this year, so he can cry me a river.
“Jack!” Mindy squeals, only just now noticing me. She reaches across to squeeze my hand. Mindy’s French on her mother’s side, which shows in how often she’s always touching and hugging people. Nothing sexual, just her exuberant personality. “Where’s your other half?”