Take It Slow

Christmas came and went with almost no excitement on my behalf. I stayed with Bryony’s family at their home in Hull, which was nice enough but just wasn’t what I was used to. I missed my parents, missed my sisters, even missed my stupid cat. Nothing felt right, and I was feeling quite low by the time I made it back to Bolton three weeks before classes were set to start again.

Campus was grey and quiet when I moved back in. It was the day before New Year’s Eve; most students were still at home. I, on the other hand, had gotten special permission to move back into my dorm early. I told the accommodation department I wanted to come back to have access to the library (I still hadn’t made much progress on my dissertation), but really it was because I felt like I was intruding on Bryony and her family. The feeling of displacement that I was feeling around the holidays soured my mood something terrible. I was cranky and tired all the time, and I just wanted to be alone. So, once accommodation got back to me with a “go ahead”, I packed my bags with enough tea and prepackaged meals to last me until the semester started and caught a bus back to Bolton.

Bryony planned to come back to school a week after I did, and I reveled in the idea of having the entire flat to myself for such a long period of time. It wasn’t until my second night back (New Year’s Eve, coincidentally) that I realized, fuck, living alone can get lonely. I drank tea and curled into a nest of blankets on my bed, my research notes scattered around me, my laptop open to a document that I still hadn’t done much work to. I watched the cursor blinking at the end of my last typed line and thought about how I was going to survive the next week by myself.

Half an hour went by and I was weepy, thinking about how I missed home, and about how I missed Bryony, and how I hadn’t heard from Oliver since Christmas. Another half hour went by and I drained my tea and went to make another cup. Still another half hour later, I had snapped myself out of my mood and was typing furiously at my dissertation, willing myself to focus on nothing but working out complicated, interlocking sentences about sex and history. At ten PM, I realized I needed to pee. I stood up and stretched, saved my document (which I had added another fifteen pages to), and padded off down the hall to the bathroom. Everything was eerily quiet, and I made a conscious effort not to let the lonely feeling sneak up on me again.

My body was tired but my brain wasn’t. I made myself another cup of tea, then stood staring out the window, watching revelers stumble by on the street below. I halfway wondered if I should have been down there with them, if maybe it would make me feel a little less pathetic to be drunk and silly with some strangers or whatever acquaintances might still be lingering around Bolton or Manchester. I was just deciding that I would much rather just silently toast in the new year with a glass of wine and my bunny slippers when my phone buzzed harshly on the kitchen counter.

I went over to pick it up, curious because it was still a little early for the constant stream of “Happy New Year” texts that I’m pretty sure everyone on the planet gets on New Year’s Eve.

‘Where are you?’ Was all it said, and I smiled a little because it was Oliver. Again, I was reassured that he hadn’t lost interest yet, that at least some part of him still wanted to talk to me.

I hadn’t seen him since the ugly sweater party. I’d left almost immediately after our steamy session in the coat room, mostly to escape my own desire to track him down again and finish what we’d started. I’d made my way back to Bolton alone; Bryony didn’t come back until the next morning. She’d insisted that she hadn’t spent the night with James, but then refused to tell me who she had spent the night with. There had been a minute or two of panic during which I’d thought, Fuck, it was Oliver. Bryony fucked Oliver, that’s why she won’t tell me. Fuck, he likes her better. It’s over. Fuck.

She must’ve sensed what I was thinking because she’d assured me that it wasn’t Oliver, that he wasn’t her type, and that I should’ve trusted her better. Shame on me for assuming the worst about the man I seemed to be developing slightly complicated feelings for, and about my roommate who was kind of slutty without actually being a slut. I was somewhat ashamed, but still didn’t doubt the validity of my concern.

I came back to the present, realizing the screen of my phone had gone dark in the minute it took me to reminisce. I tried to think of something clever to say.

Bolton. You?

Damn.

I wondered if he was going to ask me to come out and meet him in Manchester, and then wondered if I was going to accept the offer if he did. I then started thinking about what I should wear, and then about how I should do my hair, and about how I hadn’t shaved my legs in more than a week and how I should probably do that before seeing him, just in case we decided to ring in the New Year with a proper reunion shag. And then I stopped. I could almost hear the screeching of my mental brakes as I realized what I was doing to myself. Here I was, actually planning to leave my half-done, fifty page dissertation –which, for the record, was due in four days – to take a shower, shave my legs, make the hike to Manchester or wherever, wander the city alone, in the cold, on New Year’s Eve, to see a boy.

What was I doing?!

It hit me hard, just then. I realized how silly and desperate it made me look, how silly and desperate it made me feel. Since when had a stupid guy been more important than my own dignity, than my own stupid schoolwork?

So I made the decision that I would not go out to meet Oliver if he asked (even though I may or may not have desperately wanted to), because I needed to give myself a lesson in discipline. I marched myself back into my room, closed the door (against what, I didn’t know), sat myself on my bed with my laptop, and ignored my phone when it buzzed three more times. I wrote another four pages before midnight.

At eleven-fifty-six, my phone buzzed for a fourth time. I wasn’t planning on checking it, but it continued to make noise, and I realized someone was actually calling me. Curious, I got up to check it. It was Oliver. Sighing, I picked it up and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Milo.” He said. I was surprised to hear the quiet behind his voice. It was not the sound of a bar on New Year’s Eve.

“Oliver.” I said back, hoping I didn’t sound like a bitch. I really was just curious.

“Why haven’t you responded to me all night?” He said. To my relief, he sounded amused.

“Oh, ah. I’m…” I stuttered, chewing my nails. “I’m working on my dissertation. Didn’t hear it ring.”

“You’re working on your dissertation?” He said slowly.

“Yes.” I said.

“On New Year’s Eve?”

“Yes.” I huffed, getting impatient.

“Just to clarify, you’re doing schoolwork on New Year’s Eve?”

“Why are you calling?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Because, in case you didn’t know, it’s nearly the New Year. I wanted to be the first to wish you well and all that.” He said.

“Well, thanks. I’m sure you’ve got some big party to get back to, and I – ” I began, sort of wondering why I was so annoyed with him. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, per se. If anything, I should’ve been annoyed with myself. Oliver interrupted my statement and my train of thought.

“And I was kind of hoping you’d come open the door for me.” He said.

“I… ah, what?”

“I’m freezing my balls off out here, so maybe you can come down and let me in?” He said nonchalantly.

“Sorry, where are you?” I asked, stepping into my slippers and struggling into the cardigan I’d left draped on the back of my desk chair earlier that day.

“You know, Facebook is really great for finding out exactly where someone lives. I’m outside your hall. The Hollins, isn’t it?”

I was halfway out my flat door before I spoke again. “If you’re joking and I just left my room for nothing, I swear…”

“Calm down. I’ll see you when you get here.”

The line disconnected and I burst through the last set of doors before the main lobby. I squinted through the glass of the lobby, searching the dark outside, ignoring the “Hello?” from the security desk around the corner. Sure enough, there he was, grinning up at me from the bottom step of the entrance stairs. I couldn’t help but smile back as I pushed open the doors and went outside to meet him on the landing.

“How did you get here?” I hissed excitedly. “How did you know where to go? What are you doing here?”

He planted a kiss on my smiling mouth and looked sort of pleased with himself.

“Well, I knew you weren’t out tonight. I thought I’d bring New Year’s to you.” He motioned to the paper grocery bag he had cradled in his left arm. I hadn’t noticed it.

“You’re something else.” I said, smiling and blushing a little because Oliver Phelps was standing on my front step on New Year’s Eve, looking dapper in an untucked shirt and tie, blazer, and jeans. I stood there and ogled him for a minute or two.

“Milo, can we go in? It’s cold.” He finally said.

“Fuck me, sorry. I didn’t realize… How long have you been out here?” I hastily grabbed his free hand and pulled him toward the door. “Actually, don’t answer that. I’m not supposed to have guests. Hold on a second.”

He didn’t say a word as I snuck him through the lobby and into the stairwell, tiptoeing past the hallway where the security guard was reclining at his desk with a cup of tea and a soccer game on his too-small TV. He called out another “Hello?” as the stairwell door closed behind us, and Oliver and I dashed up the stairs, both giggling stupidly and tripping over our own feet, feeling like outlaws even though I knew the security guard wouldn’t bother coming after us. We were breathless by the time we made it back to my flat.

“How long were you out there?” I asked again, and Oliver started to unload the contents of the paper bag onto the counter.

“Only a minute or two.” He said.

“Why are you here? Don’t you have a party to go to or something?” I asked. “It’s not like this is the most exciting New Year’s Eve party spot.” I motioned around me at the bare-looking room, at the tiny kitchen he and I were standing in, and then at myself. I was suddenly terrified of what I looked like.

“I’ve been to New Year’s parties every year since I was fifteen. It gets a bit old after a while.” He said. “Plus, I thought you might need some distraction. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Distraction from what?”

“That paper you were working on. Fifty pages, was it?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” I said, finally looking at the things he’d spread out on the single expanse of counter space the kitchen had to offer.

There was a bottle of champagne, a box of pasta, a bunch of tomatoes, a block of parmesan cheese, and a few other odds and ends of the grocery variety that I didn’t quite recognize. He must’ve seen me looking at them because he cleared his throat.

“I’m no chef, but I can throw together a good pasta. And the champagne was for a midnight toast, although we are – ” He paused and looked at his watch. “Six minutes late. Bollocks.”

“No time to waste, then.” I giggled. “Let me get the fine stemware.”

A few minutes later, we were sipping champagne out of red plastic Solo cups, and he was searching through all of the kitchen cabinets for pots and dishes and things I hadn’t used a single time in my time there. He paused a few times to kiss me, sometimes on the side of my neck, sometimes on my cheek, mostly on my lips.

“So, be honest,” I said later when we were sitting cross-legged with our plates of pasta at the living room coffee table which was, incidentally, the only table in the room. “Why are you here?”

“Such gratitude.” He chuckled. “I’m here because I wanted to see you.”

I thought for a minute, chewing slowly on my food and washing it down with another sip of champagne. I studied him without really realizing it. He was lounging back against the arm of the couch. His left leg was splayed out in front of him, his right knee was up. His right elbow was resting against his knee and his cup of champagne dangled from his fingers. It wasn’t until my eyes traveled to his face that I realized he was watching me, too. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, questioning me without saying anything. I shook my head.

“I guess I just don’t get it.” I said. He looked like he was going to respond, so I kept talking. “You could be anywhere. Anywhere. But you’re here. In the fucking Hollins. With me. Me! And I look like this!” I gestured pointedly to the enormous mound of hair piled atop my head in a pathetic excuse for a bun.

“You underestimate yourself.” He said.

I snorted, draining the rest of my champagne and standing up to clear away my empty dish. Oliver did the same, looking for all the world like he thought I was insane. I marched to the sink and started washing, ignoring him standing half a foot behind me without changing his expression.

“Milo.” He finally said.

“Hm?” I didn’t turn around.

“Milo!”

“What, Oliver?!” I said, turning off the water more harshly than I intended. Something in me was bubbling up, screaming to get out. Maybe it was all my nerves over this whole stupid thing. Maybe it was all the thoughts and reservations and hopes and lusty little thoughts I’d had those last few months that I hadn’t been able to share because I’d been afraid. Maybe it was just champagne hiccups, I don’t know. But I do know that I was kind of laughing and crying at the same time because I couldn’t even figure out what I wanted to say.

I felt like the biggest nutcase on the planet. I felt insignificant and silly, but so, so passionate. I thought I should have felt bigger and better than that. I should’ve been this strong, powerhouse female who didn’t give a shit about boys, and who understood why someone would want to do something nice for her on New Year’s Eve. But I wasn’t. It bothered me, I couldn’t understand it.

“We’re not even fucking!” I said finally with an odd little chuckle. “Is that why you’re here? Just to get back into my panties? Because it’s working and it’s making me feel shitty.”

“Have you even considered the idea that I actually like you?” He said and I stopped my craziness for a minute to consider.

“Milo, you’re fucking mad. Absolutely mental.” He laughed, leaning back against the counter opposite the sink with his arms crossed. “I knew it the minute I met you.”

“I sometimes give people that impression.” I said, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“You’re also completely brilliant.”

“You’ve lost me again.”

“I don’t need to explain myself.” He said.

We stood there staring at each other, probably both bewildered by the sudden arrival and departure of the only pseudo-argument that we had ever had. Oliver laughed first. I occurred to me that it was nearly three in the morning and I hadn’t slept in a very long while. Perhaps that was the reason I’d gone temporarily more insane than usual.

“I’m sorry. I need some sleep.” I said.

“No worries. I should probably go, anyway. Trains’ve stopped running by now.”

He strolled out of the kitchen in search of his discarded blazer and I followed him, dishes left forgotten in the sink.

“Wait.” I said, biting my lip. “You could, ah, stay.”

“No, no.” He said airily, waving his hand. He took his blazer off the back of the couch and shrugged into it, then came to stand in front of me. His hands were on my waist, pulling me close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my clothes.

“Clearly I’m not here because I want to be. I’ve obviously got some other motive – getting into your knickers, perhaps.” His lips were drawing closer to mine. “I’ll just see myself out.”

He pulled away abruptly. I felt myself sway slightly on my feet.

“Fuck you, don’t go.” I said, grabbing his hand in both of mine. He laughed out loud.

“Craziest girl I know.” He said, coming back around to face me.

“I know.” I hung my head.

“Good thing it’s okay with me. Do you want me to stay?”

“Please.”

I tugged his hand, leading him out of the living room and into my bedroom. My notes were still scattered around, my laptop still open, although it was sleeping and silent. The fairy lights hung around the ceiling bathed the room in a yellow glow, and I liked the way Oliver looked standing there. He shrugged out of his blazer again and I loosened his tie. Our lust-heavy eyes met at the same time and I realized, again, how stupid everything was.

“I haven’t shaved my legs.” I said. He chuckled, backing me toward my bed. We both shuffled awkwardly, removing papers and candy bar wrappers and my laptop and an old teddy bear.

“Don’t care.” He said simply.

And then we toppled together, down on top of the mussed sheets of my too-small bed. Our clothes were off in record time, and I guess he really didn’t care about my legs because he didn’t say a single thing about them. Not even when he placed a string of kisses from my ankle to my hip bone.

And I just sort of went with it, letting whatever happened happen. There were two primary reasons I did this, the first being that I really, really goddamn wanted it. The second being that if a guy shows up at your shitty college dorm on New Year’s Eve wearing a blazer and tie, and then proceeds to construct you an elaborate feast and tell you that maybe he likes your craziness, I’m about 98 percent sure you’re supposed to have sex with him. It might even be some kind of rule.

And it was when he whispered the word “beautiful” into my ear that I realized I didn’t care how complicated things got, anymore. Oliver Phelps was a keeper, and I figured it would’ve been a hell of a lot more stupid to let him go than to let myself feel what I wanted to.

And that’s when life got quite a bit more complicated.