Page 13 of How We Began

Ben just texted me a link entitled: Demo. It takes me to a private Sound Box demo track. My squeal of excitement when it arrived was way too loud and nowhere near cool. I got another chuckle in return.

28th September

I have my Uni schedule well and truly nailed. My agenda goes like this:

Lectures

Library

Stalk Ben

Another one of Ben’s skills other than playing the guitar, being super brainy, and looking shit hot, is cooking. Bloody awesome. I can’t boil an egg, and judging by how long the smoke alarm was going off the other day, Meredith can’t make toast. MasterChef we aren’t. We’ve been rescued from our general culinary disaster by Ben, who makes chopping an onion look sexy.

Two of the girls in our dorm are never here. They’ve made new, more interesting friends on a different floor. Jayne has been hanging with us occasionally though, she seems nice, studious and dedicated… all the damn things I planned to be. She had dinner with us earlier, which made our awkward as fuck little gang—mainly because I’m a bright red drooling mess every time Ben speaks—into a slightly larger awkward gang.

I’m just seriously hoping that this situation gets better soon. And I’m fully aware of the fact the situation is all my making. I just can’t help myself. If I’m within speaking distance of Ben I lose all brain cells. I’m not doing much for women’s rights at the moment. To be fair, Ben and I seem to be living in a comfortable sort of stalemate. We move around each other, being all polite whilst secretly eyeing one another other up. Well, I know I’m eyeing him up (duh, of course I am. Ugh, sorry to the God of Social Equality), and Meredith, who I believe is a reliable source, tells me that he spends a reasonable amount of time looking at me. According to the Oracle of Staring, he spent a whole three seconds staring at my arse whilst I rooted around in a cupboard for plates earlier at dinner.

There’s a sexual tension thing going on that’s zapping the air like a loose electrical cable in a rainstorm, and I seem to be spending most of my time giggling. Every day he sits behind me in lectures, taping the leg of my chair, and every day I lean my chair closer and closer back towards him. I will land on my arse one day. I know it.

I wish I hadn’t eaten so much of his dinner earlier, because tonight, we’re doing something completely different. We’re going to the local club for student night: The Fez Club. I’m not super thrilled. It’s not really my scene. I much prefer a pub and a bottle of wine to standing in a club surrounded by sweating dancers.

I hate dancing, and I’m pretty sure dancing hates me.

Well, actually the truth is that I hate dancing until I’ve had too much to drink, after which I fully believe that I can dance. Then I don’t stop.

I’m worried about how badly I am going to embarrass myself. It could go either way, so I’ve decided to wear a mature outfit of a black strapless top and dark blue jeans. A simple and understated ensemble intended to demonstrate my maturity and dignity.

29th September

Shit. My head. Again.

I am pretty sure that there is a locomotive in my skull performing some Morse code with its horn thingy.

It’s official. I am NOT mature, and I have NO dignity whatsoever. Well, now I don’t.

I can’t stop being sick, but I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol (let’s be honest, there was a fair amount of it), or embarrassment due to the fact that I practically mauled Ben in the cab on the way home.

I haven’t seen Ben today, although I can hear him moving around his room with my stalker hearing. I don’t know whether I should knock or not. God, why do I have to be so socially awkward? Why can’t I be like Meredith and own who I am? Maybe because I’m not a flame haired goddess. So, here’s what happened… (if I can get it written down without puking again, it’ll be a miracle).

The Fez Club

I was very a bit tipsy. Oh, okay, I was very tipsy.

My excuse was that the drinks were cheap: Two pounds a shot.

An hour after arriving, Ben had disappeared off somewhere with his band mates who he’d loosely introduced to us. The music was so loud though, it was one of those uncomfortable conversations where you just nod and smile and hope to God you aren’t agreeing to join a sex cult. Meredith and Tristan were in a booth, whispering. (When Tristan turned up, I’d been furious. How bloody annoying can he be? Surely he must have something better to do? And why is he hanging around my new best friend? More to the point, why is he stalking us at a student night like a pervert?)

This left me putting it about the multi-coloured dance floor with some strange guy who kept trying to ruin my solo dance by gyrating behind me, placing his hands on my hips and attempting to pull me back into his groin.

Yuck!

I was ducking away, when I spotted Ben over on the other side of the dance floor… surrounded by girls, who all appeared to be in a state of undress. The cheeky git gave me a wink. I zapped him the finger before moving away from the greaseball with the wandering hands, and circled myself further into the dance floor, blocking my view of Ben and his hoard of fans.

Hands circled my waist again and I spun fast, ready to punch the guy with sticky fingers. Instead, I found Ben right there, standing so close his breath brushed my skin, his shirt against the black of my top. My mouth practically flapped open but I had nothing to say, even if he could have heard me over the pounding music.

The silence between us was almost electrifying as he shifted himself around my body, just gently rocking us in time to the beat, his hand burning through my clothes. Combustible heat swept across me like a sandstorm. I can still feel it now. As a general rule, the sight of men dancing always makes me laugh. I can’t help it. There is always a serious amount of “Dad-Dancing” no matter how hard they try.

Ben doesn’t Dad Dance.