23 Attempts at Love

Chapter 8: The Housemate

We were mid-way through our first term of third year now, and we'd all agreed that third year was by far the most stressful year so far. I hadn't done very well in second year, which I blamed mostly on the breakup and how many lectures I'd missed. We stayed together in the same house for the next year, the 7 of us. We still had movie nights every week and encouraged each other to drink more than we should on a night out every Wednesday and Saturday. I was regularly found asleep on the sofa the morning after, usually accompanied by the thing I brought home every time I drank: the remains of a takeaway pizza, cheesy chips, or the occasional battered sausage.

Marcus had found himself a girlfriend, and Will was bouncing between different girls every week with varying success. Katy and her boyfriend were still loved up, and Sasha had a disastrous Tinder story to tell us every weekend. Robbie had decided he was swearing off dating and girls for the whole year to focus on his education and future career in investment banking (although this rule didn't count after 12am on a Wednesday night out when the cheerleading team were out). That left Alin and I, suddenly watching films on our own on Friday nights when the others were out on dates, or, in Will's case, studying. He even invited me out to join his boxing team on nights out, which was a pretty big thing. There I was in the middle of his "super-cool" friends he wouldn't introduce us to properly, dad-dancing with an alcopop in one hand and a pair of novelty sunglasses in the other.

The story with Alin is short: we got too drunk on a night out and danced a little too close. The previous few nights out we'd been dancing together anyway, but this time was more than friendly. We walked back home together like we would normally, and we suddenly felt very alone. The others had stayed home with their partners or to study, so it was just us two sitting alone in the kitchen stuffing our faces with cheesy chips (nothing sexier).

Honestly, I'm not sure why it happened. There is nothing sexy about a girl stuffing cheesy chips into her sweaty face at 3am, wearing a dress stained with sweat and spilled drinks, and one knee bleeding because I'd obviously fallen over on the way home (saved the chips though, don't worry). There's also nothing sexy about a man wearing a shirt stained with his friend's vomit, hair so sweaty it had been slicked back and spaced out eyes which couldn't actually focus on me throughout our entire conversation.

Our party didn't stop with the night out: we stayed up to watch a film, which ended with us crammed onto one of the small sofas we had in the kitchen, and finished with us in my bed. It was drunken and sweaty and we both smelled awful but there was something just so normal about it.

He went back to his own room afterwards. He knew I hated sharing a bed (yes, even with boyfriends) and we both wanted a good sleep because it was now nearly 5am and we both felt sorry for ourselves. But he left his socks in his room. I chucked them in my wardrobe in the morning, remembering what I'd done.

OH GOD WHAT HAD I DONE.

"So, how was last night?" Marcus asked the next day, stood next to Will and Robbie in the kitchen.

"Yeah, good," I said. My hangover had decided to stay for another night and I wanted to die. I was never drinking again. I'd had two showers and I was still smelling of alcohol sweat.

"Who did you come home with last night?" Marcus asked, with an odd expression on his face. I'd decided not to tell anyone about Alin. It was better just to pretend nothing happened. I was basically the born-again Virgin Mary as of last night, right?

"Just Alin. We met a few people out but he walked back with me and some food. I didn't leave any mess in the kitchen did I?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from where I dreaded it was heading. Marcus' mouth dropped open in a shocked grin, and I knew immediately what he'd realised. Shit.