‘What.’
‘What if he doesn’t come.’
‘Then he doesn’t come and you wear the shirt for yourself. That’s how this works.’
‘You’re being suspiciously supportive.’
‘I’ve used my daily quota of cynicism. You’re getting the leftover decency.’
The Students’ Union smells of Red Bull and wet coats. The bass is loud enough to feel in the teeth. Freshers everywhere: drinking too fast, dancing badly, pretending they didn’t leave their parents three days ago. Someone’s already crying by the toilets, and it’s not yet half ten.
I like it. The noise fills the gaps—specifically, the gap where a lecture theatre keeps replaying.
Think about the drink, the music. Anything else.
Forearms.
Fuck off.
Femi clutches a drink and that expression where he’s trying to seem relaxed while he scans the room like CCTV. I’ve seen him at house parties in Lewisham: same face. The boy is incapable of pretending he’s not nervous.
‘Stop scanning,’ I say. ‘You look like you’re about to arrest someone.’
‘I’m not scanning.’
‘You’ve done a full 360 since we got here. Hemightshow up. That’s whatmightmeans. It’s not a contract.’
‘Hesaidtonight.’
‘He saidmight be there tonight. Which is three words away from a maybe. Drink your drink.’
He opens his mouth to argue, and then the lad appears. A bloke who introduces himself to strangers because he wants to meet them. Mental. And,oh. I clock him a second before Femi does: same wide grin, same loose confidence, no coursebook this time. This ishim. This is themight see you there, cashing in.
‘Hey,’ the lad says, to Femi specifically. ‘I know now. Economics lecture. Yeah?’
Femi goes still. Not the bad kind, the kind where his whole body forgets what to do.
‘I—yeah. That’s me.’ Femi’s got his drink clutched like a life raft.
The lad grins wider. ‘I’m Allan.’
‘Femi. I’m Femi.’
They shake hands. They actually shake hands, like it’s a fucking board meeting. Allan holds on a beat too long, and Femi goes this shade of red.
Christ, the lad’s blushing too—ears, neck, everything.
The options: wingman, offer a line, open a lane. But watching Femi try to function around a fit bloke is the best entertainment I’ve had since Manchester started.
Allan’s talking to him. Femi’s nodding too much.
Allan scribbles his number on a napkin. A napkin. Like it’s 1990. Hands it over. Femi takes it with both hands as if it’s a birth certificate.
‘Text me,’ Allan says. ‘We should get coffee.’
Coffee. A napkin and coffee, my arse.
Femi watches him disappear into the crowd and then turns to me. Devastated.
