Page 2 of How We Began

I told the family my news over what turned out to be the worst Sunday roast ever. Another awkward meal in McCannon Manor.

Tristan had let me in, already smirking at me as he opened the red painted door with its oversized knocker and seasonal summer wreath—Darling, wreaths are for all year, not just Christmas, Mum had told me at Easter as she’d attached one with polystyrene Easter eggs.

“Late as usual, Delilah.”

“Knob as usual, Tristan.” I handed him my coat which he then just dropped on the floor in a puddle of Barbour.

Dad gave me a broad smile and a sherry as I walked in. “Delilah, look who made it for family roast.”

I cringed as I turned. This Sunday tradition of inviting randoms for lunch had frayed my nerves. “Oh, John.” I took a long sip of my sherry. So long, I hit the end of the glass—survival is a must at family dinner. John. John. John.

For a moment, I stood just wondering if it was a hallucination left over from the Pinot the night before. Five dates into an uncomfortable romance, John was the very last person I wanted to see. In fact, I had a strong feeling I didn’t want to see him ever again. Sadly, we worked together at Dad’s investment bank, so escaping seeing him involved some ingenious excuse making.

The Thursday before, I’d had to take my hamster to be put down.

He shuffled closer. One of the major deal breakers with John was his penchant for leather boat shoes and golf jumpers. Firstly, it’s not the eighties, second, only people over the age of sixty-five can pull off a boat shoe without looking like a total dick.

“Lilah. How are you? You must still be grieving from your loss.”

I glared daggers at Tristan, who snorted from the other side of the table. “I’m surviving.” I nodded and tried to manoeuvre myself out from under the clamping weight of John’s arm.

“Loss of what?” Mum walked in like the woman from the Bisto gravy advert, clutching a tray ladened with a roast leg of lamb. It looked amazing. Shame the eating wouldn’t relinquish the same fine results. With a quick glance, I checked the wine Dad had uncorked ready for the meal. Four bottles. With five of us, the odds were… I could survive the dinner.

Mum, Dad. I’ve decided to go to university. The words seemed much easier to articulate in my head. All I had to do was be brave. I had to remind myself that I didn’t want to put my life efforts into parading in with a roast on a Sunday wearing a twinset and pearls.

It’s not that I have anything against people who choose that path, I just know I don’t want it for myself. Does that make me a bad person? Selfish? I don’t know. Maybe. The look on my family’s faces told me it did.

“But Daddy got you that job, Delilah…”

My life doesn’t seem to be particularly fair. For instance, Tristan never seems to be in trouble about anything, yet as far as I can tell he doesn’t even have a proper job. There is always a significant discord between what is expected for me and what he gets away with.

You see, the issue I have with people isn’t them. It’s me. The moment I meet someone and they have an expectation of me, it makes me bolt like a thorough-bred out of a box.

It’s what I do.

I’m a flake.

It’s the look Dad always gives me. It says I’m a flake in everyone else’s ice-cream of success.

#melt

So that’s what happened. I told them about university. Dad looked like he was going to have an aneurism. Then, just to make matters even more End of the World at McCannon Manor, I told John, over a terrible crème brûlée Mum had made (sweet scrambled eggs), that I wouldn’t be extending our dates any further into our future.

He cried.

I suffered some serious cringe and remorse. (Once I’d stopped cringing at the fact he’d cried… FIVE DATES, PEOPLE. FIVE DATES.)

But no matter how much Mum hissed at me in the kitchen that I was making a terrible mistake and ruining my entire future, I just couldn’t back down.

I couldn’t and I won’t.

(Later)

Ugh. I’ve barricaded myself inside my room in the dorm and I’ve been in here all day. Now I’m bloody hungry and I’m going to have to find the kitchen… and maybe some friends. I’m being stupid, I know I am. The professor, the one who signed my acceptance slip, told me everything would be okay. I’ll fit in.

I’ve just got to get out there and start. I’m going to go. Update later.

(Update)