Page 30 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“If there’s a God, I don’t think they’re gendered,” says Jasmine, pressing her hands together.
“I don’t know how anyone can believe in a God when innocent children are dying in war every single day,” says the girl next to Jasmine. She looks young enough to be my daughter, with a mouth full of braces and a smattering of acne on her forehead. “Like, who can see that kind of suffering and still believe in a higher power who would allow that?”
“Religion is an elaborate thought conspiracy, designed to oppress the masses,” says Zeek, and several people make noises of agreement.
“The two arms of oppression, religion and the patriarchy,” says someone else.
“I don’t agree. How can you look at a shell with the Fibonacci spiral, or a dragonfly mating in midair, and believe that came intobeing by accident?” Coco says, voice light and ethereal. They hold up their hands as though holding an imaginary orb. “God is beauty. God is love.”
“Intelligent design,” Caleb says. “I get that.”
It has been many,manyyears since I last sat around and debated the existence of God. On the one hand I admire their ambition—it beats talking about the school run or house renovations—but there’s also something painfully naïve about it. Do they really think they’re going to solve the mysteries of the universe, wasted, at three in the morning?Shit, is it three in the morning?
“What do you think, Anna?” Caleb asks, turning to me. Everyone in the circle looks in my direction. They want to know what I think.What do I think?There are many things in life I haven’t made up my mind about yet: whether Apple products arereallyworth the money, who the best Batman is (Ethan swears it’s Robert Pattinson), and whether I believe in God. I keep thinking I will get around to deciding these things, that I will trial a different smartphone, that I will take a weekend and watch all the Batman movies back-to-back, but somehow it never feels like a good use of time. So, for now, I will maintain my brand loyalty to Apple, I’ll take an uneducated guess at Christian Bale, and as for God—I remain undecided.
“I think it’s late. I think I’m drunk. I should go home,” I say, not wanting to rain on anyone’s parade by telling them what I really think—that they’re recycling well-worn ideas debated for as long as humans have existed. How everyone’s time would be better spent studying, trying to get a decent job, saving for a house deposit, and contributing to a decent pension scheme. I must be sobering up if I’m thinking about pension schemes.
As I stand, Caleb jumps up to follow me and I wave good-bye to everyone in the philosophy circle. Downstairs I feel wobbly on my feet, the hallway spinning.
“You can crash here if you like,” Caleb offers. He reaches out to hold my hand, and I lean into him.
“I should get back,” I say, but my legs are having a hard time holding me.
“Grab a few hours’ kip, there’s loads of room.” Caleb pushes open a door with his foot. On the other side is a bedroom; the walls are covered in Moroccan-style throws and posters of Frank Ocean and Harry Styles. A girl is passed out on one side of the bed in her clothes. I don’t know when I last “crashed” anywhere, but the decision is now out of my hands, because my legs are taking me to the bed in a desperate bid to be horizontal.Just a quick nap, then I’ll call a cab.
—
When I wakeup, my head is pounding and I have no idea where I am. When I find limbs draped across my body, like a complex human seat belt, my first thought is that my children are in bed with me. But once my eyes focus, I see that this is not my bed, these are not my children. What might have felt warm and cozy a minute ago now feels like an intolerable invasion of my personal space. I am not comfortable sharing a bed with—I pause to count—four people I don’t know. Slowly extracting myself from the Jenga game of body parts, I slide out at the bottom of the bed.
The house is quiet, the party over. I find a bathroom, and my stomach clenches as I see the state of the place. Cigarette butts in the sink, vomit on the floor, a blocked toilet.Who lives like this?But I know the answer—students, students live like this. I decide to wait for my bathroom at home. Back in the corridor, I check my phone and see several missed calls from Lottie, then two messages asking if I’m okay. Shit. I quickly text her back, telling her I’m fine and on my way home.
Pulling up a taxi app, I see Caleb leaning against a wall, vaping. He smiles when he sees me, and I feel reassured after thehorror of the bathroom. My eyes fall on his long eyelashes. He really is very pretty. Perhaps too pretty.
“Hey.”
“Hey. You’re still awake,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Took some uppers, couldn’t sleep,” he says, his eyes firing with tired energy. “You leaving? Can I call you?”
“Thank you for inviting me, I had fun. But I’m not thirty-three, I’m thirty-eight. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I lied,” I say, biting my lip.
“I’m not twenty-seven either,” he says, stretching his arms in a full-body yawn.
“Right.”
“Closer to twenty-two.”
Twenty-two. Shit.“I see.” I swallow hard, relieved nothing happened between us.
“You don’t look that old, you’re hot,” he says. He’s sweet, but right now I feel every one of my thirty-eight years. But I’m also fine with it. I am not twenty-two anymore, and I don’t want to be. I want to sleep in my own bed, in clean sheets, and use my own bathroom. I want to get to bed at a reasonable hour and be able to function in the morning.
“I think this was more of a one-off,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“Fair enough,” he says, putting his vape into a pocket and squeezing my hand back. “I enjoyed buzzin’ with you, Anna.”
“Thank you for being so lovely to me,” I tell him.
“You won’t forget it.” He nods down at my arm, where I see an inky smudge. Lifting my arm toward my face, I see the black lines of a tattoo, pink and raw around the edges. An ampersand, etched onto my forearm.What? You’ve got to be kidding me.“Jasmine usually charges two hundred quid for those,” Caleb says. The sight of it makes me feel nauseous. How the hell am I going to explain this to my children?
