Page 110 of Oleander

“His name was Cas,” I heard myself saying. “Caspien.”

Bast’s eyes went fractionally wider. I took this to mean I didn’t look like someone who was into guys. But he nodded and lifted his beer.

“So it wasn’t mutual?” he asked, clearly curious.

I shook my head. He nodded again.

“So, are you into guys? Girls? Both?” he asked. I shrugged noncommittally. “Nikita is hot.” Nikita was Russian, from St Petersburg, and shared a quad with Bast and two other guys. He was short, muscular and dark-haired; he was decidedly not my type. “And he is...” He made a gesture with his hand toward his dick and widened his eyes.

I laughed.

“You look at your roommate’s dick?” I questioned.

“He is always naked. I have no choice. I think maybe it’s a Russian thing, but maybe not. What about Conn? From the third. He’s gay and cute?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“You do: Irish or Scottish, wears the Harry Potter glasses and is always carrying a book. He came down to borrow milk from the kitchen the other day.” Bast explained excitedly. “I saw him looking at you.”

“You’re so full of shit.” I shook my head. Conn sounded more my type than Nikita, though. If I had a type. I wasn’t sure that I did. Or rather, I had a very specific, very singular type.Boys who can’t love you and break your heart for sport.

“I’m not looking,” I said and drained the last of my beer.

“No one’s saying you have to fall in love, my friend, but you can have some fun, right? You’re young, good-looking, and studying at Oxford. Why else are we here if not to live our best lives?”

“Get a degree from one of the best universities in the world? Solidify our future?”

He made a noise of disagreement. “That’s for third-year Jude and Bast to worry about. Now, we live.” I knew part of his approach was that this really wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to compete in the Tour de France. He had a poster of Eddie Merckx on his wall and considered cycling the most gruelling circuits on planet earth for a living his ‘dream career.’ It just so happened he was a brilliant academic, too.

He handed me another beer and stood up to change the radio to something more lively.

My eighteenth birthday arrived on a dark and cold Sunday. (My seventeenth hadn’t been much better.)

I woke up hungover. There’d been a party in one of the girls’ rooms on the third floor the night before. Booze lined up along a picnic table like a toxic pick-and-mix. I threw up into a sink. Smoked my first joint. Endured a blonde girl from Merton talking my ear off about her boyfriend back in Cardiff and how she suspected he was cheating on her, and how she wanted to get back at him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise then when she threw her leg over me and climbed onto my lap to kiss me. She tasted of wine and cigarettes, and I’d never been less into anything in my life. I’d gently guided her off and stood, stumbling downstairs to my room before passing out.

When I checked my phone, there were a few missed calls and texts. Luke, Beth, Gideon, and even one from Alfie.

I called Luke back when I’d showered, eaten some toast, and drank a litre of water. My head felt like cotton wool, and the low hum of nausea was thinking about following through.

“Judeyyyyy, happy birthday, mate! You’re an adult, congratulations!” Luke chirped. The sound of his voice settled some of the melancholy inside me, made worse by the hangover.

“Yeah, feels great,” I groaned.

“Partying hard, were we?” He chuffed in faux disapproval. “Hangovers only get worse from here on out, buddy. Ha, remember how shit you felt after a single glass of champagne at Cas’s birthday?”

I hadn’t prepared myself to hear his name, and the sound of it spoken so casually stunned me a little.

“Mhm,” I managed.

“So, what are your plans today? Anything nice?”

I hadn’t told any of the others it was my birthday. I was certain they’d want to take me drinking again. Though at that point, I was starting to wonder if it might be the only thing that would help.

“Not sure, maybe I’ll head down the pub later. Order my first legal drink.”

“Brave lad, oh wait, here’s Beth wanting a word.” My sister came on to wish me happy birthday and tell me how proud Mum and Dad would have been of me. I wasn’t sure that was true; weak and lovesick and becoming far too dependent on alcohol. The pit of sadness widened inside me the second I hung up the phone, and I filled it with the only thing I could think of.

I texted the Ellis group chat to tell them they’d better not be too hungover because it was my eighteenth birthday today, and I wanted to get exceedingly pished again later.