“So… med school,” he says. “Have you started placements?”
“Not yet. They save it for the end.”
He leans forwards conspiratorially. “Can I confess something wildly unpopular?”
“Go on.”
“I fainted the last time I gave blood.”
I laugh. “That’s notunpopular, that happens all the time. You wouldn’t believe how many six-foot blokes go sheet-white at the sight of a cannula.”
He winces and then, inevitably: “Do you… watchGrey’s Anatomyto study?”
I groan. “Strike one.”
“OK, OK,” he says quickly. “What do you do when you’re not dissecting stuff— actually don’t answer that. Hobbies?”
“Ummm, netball.” I twirl my straw. “I play with the uni team.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. I focus on the condensation sliding down my glass. It didn’t feel this hard talking to Cam last week, but maybe that was because we were out and about exploring the city, chatting about places we’d discovered on previous weekend trips.
“So—” we both start at the same time.
“Oh.” I laugh nervously. “Sorry.”
“No, you,” he says quickly, gesturing at me.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “And book club,” I add, “which is basically just arguing about plot twists and eating chocolate. Then just hanging out with friends… nothing super exciting.”
It feels stilted. I just can’t work out how to make this conversation flow smoothly, and I feel guilty about it because Cam's lovely and he’s obviously trying.
He smiles. “Sounds fun.”
“And I run sometimes.” I take a sip, nerves fizzing. “My best friend Sam swears by morning exercise—” I stop, heat pricking the back of my neck.Why am I bringing him up on a date?“—anyway. I’m not as committed as he is, given he’s a professional athlete so yeah…” I trail off.
“Sam?” Cam asks, mild as a cat in a sunbeam.
“An old friend,” I say lightly. “We grew up together. He lives abroad now.” I fold my napkin into a sharp little square. “So, ummm yeah, hobbies. That’s… most of them. What about you?”
He lists a stack of extracurriculars and a weekend trip he took with friends. Cam makes it sound so easy. An odd pang settles under my ribs. I don’t find it as easy as he makes it sound. Sometimes I feel like I’m spinning too many plates, and if I look away for a moment, one will drop and shatter.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. I wonder if it’s Sam. He had a race today, and I sent him my usual good luck text, but I haven’t had a chance to look at the results because I’ve attempted a date.
Cam’s telling a story about getting locked in the engineering lab after hours and eating a stale protein bar he found in his backpack. “Honestly it was like chewing chalk,” he says. “I thought my jaw was going to seize.”
As I zone back into the conversation I try to laugh at the right time. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I don’t want to be rude. There’s a lab report due soon, and I promised some friends we could drive out to Dartmoor tomorrow, so I need to finish it before then. I try not to explore why I’m thinking about lab reports instead of my date in front of me.
He offers another round, and I check the time. If I leave now, I can still snag a table on level three of the library before the post-dinner migration. I hate hunting for plugs like a Victorian urchin, and that level has the best radiators too.
“I should probably head out. Early start. And… lab report.”
“Of course,” he says, easy about it. “Are you OK to get back or do you want company?”
“That’s kind, but I’m going to head to the library, so no worries.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Anytime.”
Outside, the cold bites at my cheeks. We do the awkward side-hug by the bike racks; he kisses my cheek. He smells like laundry and pale ale, which isn’t unpleasant, but there’s no spark, and I don’t want to try to make one.
