Page 5 of Lessons in Love

Is there anything you want me to prepare?

Oliver James:

No, thank you.

Castello’s is a small café on campus next to the main library. A fond location for many students who need a break from study and a snack. And a popular spot to meet up with girls, according to Ben. Like he would know. Michelle has that man on a tight leash, and he’s not complaining.

It’s a cosy spot, with the smell of coffee wafting out the door no matter the time of day. I know it’s her when I see her, despite never seeing a picture. She’s the only one studying here before the semester even begins.

I’m here ten minutes early—which is typical for me—and she’s already found us a table, nestled in the corner by a window. The clicks of her keyboard ring out over the murmured chattering, so invasive in this small space. Brushing her dark hair out of the way of her glasses, she looks up when I pass through the door, bell tinkling to announce my entry. Stupid bell. If she recognises me, she doesn’t show it. I force myself to order a coffee before walking over to her.

“You must be Oliver.”

Her voice is gentler than I expected. Her intensity over text dissipates with the silky quality of her words. She’s pretty as well. Hazel eyes complementing the freckles scattered across her nose. Nursing a chai, she tucks a loose piece of chocolate brown hair behind her ear. I’m mesmerised by the way it seems to just brush the top of her shoulder when she clears her throat. I must be staring. Shit.

“Yeah, I’m uhm…Oliver. You must be Eden.”

She smiles, and something starts to unfurl in my chest. “Yeah, I am. Ready to start?”

I sit down opposite her just as the waiter brings over my drink. “So, Contemporary Literature, hey. What’s a science student like you doing a subject like that?” Considering my question was in no means rude, she looks like I just slapped her in the face. I notice that the tips of her ears turn red as she takes a breath.

“I failed the subject in my first year,” she says matter-of-factly. “I have to do it this year otherwise I can’t graduate. So, that’s why I need your help.”

“To make sure you graduate?”

“And to make sure I don’t fail this class.”

“Again.” I scan her face in response to my comment, rewarded by the way she purses her lips. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something so fun about getting under her skin. It’s been less than five minutes, and already I want to know more about what makes her tick.

“Again. I have to pass this unit to start my Honours degree next year.”

“What made you fail the first time?”

“An inability to understand why stupid people write stupid stories about stupider people.”

Jesus. That was not what I was expecting. I guess I’m used to this stubbornness from my primary school students, but it’s a bit jarring hearing it from someone like her.

“Surely that wasn’t the only reason.”

Tapping away on her laptop for a few seconds, she pulls up a document and spins it around to show me. It’s an essay on a novel anyone could write an essay on, and the feedback is very direct.

“Wow. The tutor certainly did not like you.”

Eden turns the laptop back to herself. “The tutor was very clear that I had no future in literary studies—which I am absolutely fine with—but she refused to let me pass. Which is why I’m here. Again.”

“Okay, so let’s start small. How often do you read?”

For me, this is a stupid question. Who doesn’t read as often as they can?

Eden snorts. “Do journal articles count?” I stare in disbelief, before stuttering out a no. “Last time I read an actual book was probably this class. But it doesn’t matter if I read in my own time. I just have to be able to pass the assignments and it’ll be fine.”

Long semester indeed.

This subject has four assignments. Two written pieces of 500 words reflecting on how authors grapple with ideas and concepts presented in their short stories. A 10-minute oral presentation on how Literature as an area of study has changed over the last few decades, focussing on a particular genre. And the final exam: one analytical essay on a longer work of fiction.

For me, this would be a walk in the park. For Eden—by the look on her face—I suspect this will be torture. I begin my sales pitch.

“We can catch up weekly to go through the pre-class work. We’ll also look at the assignments as they pop up. I’ll send you through my notes and assignments from when I did the class. They’re not on the exact same topics but should be able to give you a guide. You can message me any time you have questions,” I offer, like she isn’t already.