Page 10 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“I think he’s in love with you.”

She barks with laughter, and I wonder what’s so funny about what I just said. I’d merely pointed out the truth. Luckily, I’m saved from having to say anything because a woman greets us at the entrance of Highgate Hall.

“Hello! I’m Becca, your resident advisor. Which course are you here for?”

“Uh—” I can never just reply when a stranger asks me a question like this, even though I know the answer already. My brain always has to add in an extra syllable just to buy myself that split second of time to put on my mask, make sure I’m presenting okay.

“The MFA in Creative Writing,” Thalia says easily.

“Brilliant,” Becca says, leading us inside Highgate Hall. The interior is just as stunning as the exterior—high, vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors covered with giant Oriental rugs, and Renaissance paintings adorning the walls. Becca goes to a large table, where an array of name tags and envelopes awaits. “Right, here we are. Names, please?”

We tell her our names, and she locates our materials. “The envelopes contain the keys to your rooms—I see both of you are rooming at Downing—and a welcome packet with information about the college and Oxford in general, that sort of thing. Let me know if you need anything, all right?”

“Great,” Thalia says. “Thank you.”

Becca has fallen under Thalia’s spell as well, and it makes me want to scratch out her eyes. Seeing everyone fall for Thalia isn’t easy to stomach. She’s mine, not theirs.

“You’ll have your induction seminar at the Sawyer Room at four o’clock, where they’ll tell you about the process of matriculation and everything. And then right after that we’ll have a welcome reception and dinner. You can go up that staircase there; there’s a bridge that leads straight to Downing. Welcome to Michaelmas!”

The names and terms of everything are making my head swim, and I want to grab Becca and scream at her to talk in plain English. What the hell is “matriculation”? What’s “induction,” and why is she welcoming us to “Michaelmas” and not Pemberton? I snap my wristband before the curl of anger can overcome me and I actually do end up assaulting my resident advisor my first day here.

“Cool, thank you,” Thalia says, and with that, she turns and walks toward the staircase. We lug our heavy bags up the stonesteps, the sounds of our rapid breaths echoing in the cavernous stairwell. Once we’re on the second floor, Thalia drops her bag with a loud sigh, turns to me, and whispers, “What the fuck is Michaelmas?”

I laugh, and it’s the first genuine laugh I remember doing. My world is a whirling, broken mess and I don’t belong anywhere, but Thalia is the eye of the storm, where everything is still and silent and I can finally breathe.

There is an actual fireplace in my dorm room.

It’s no longer usable, of course, and instead of logs, there is a small bookcase sitting inside it, but still. It’s a fireplace. Inside my dorm room. There’s even space for a sofa and coffee table in addition to the expected single bed and study desk. And there’s a sink in one corner of the room. What kind of bougie dorm room has a sofa set and a fireplace? All this for one student. Back home, there was no student housing at the community college, and when I transferred to Cal State for the final two years of undergrad, I was assigned a dorm room that would’ve been shared between me and two other girls; a recipe for disaster, so I’d opted to stay at home instead. Not the college experience I wanted, but freaks like me don’t deserve the traditional college experience, and we sure as hell don’t deserve a solo room with a fireplace in it.

The moment my door clicks shut, I abandon my heavy luggage and fling my purse and papers on the coffee table before striding across the room and opening the bay windows. Oh yeah, did I mention the room has actual bay windows? They overlook the Old Quad, and the whole thing is so pretty I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I stand there for a longwhile, watching students trickling in through the front gate. None of them is escorted by the porter, I can’t help but notice. I guess we just got the special treatment because of Thalia.

Thalia. My breath comes out in a choked rush. I’m suffocating with need for her. Though need for what, I can’t say exactly. Do I want to fuck her? Is that what all this is about? The thought of Thalia and me entwined in bed—in my new single bed—our sweat-damp bodies writhing against each other, makes me shiver. I’m not into girls. I—

A knock at my door, making me jump and sparking irritation like a jolt of electricity. I snap around, teeth gritted. I’ve just been on a long journey, I’m in a foreign country and a foreign college, and I just need one fucking moment to recenter myself so I don’t fall apart. Is that too much to—

“Jane? What are you wearing?” Even muffled by the door, Thalia’s voice carries with it the musical quality that I’ve come to love. “I can’t decide what to wear to the dinner. You’ve got to help me.”

All of the irritation melts away, replaced now with anticipation. Then, with it, a sudden barrage of anxiety. Oh god, this is it. We’ll meet others at the induction, whatever that is, and then the welcome reception. Our course mates, or maybe even Pemberton students from other courses. Many people. My palms turn slick. I don’t want to meet them. Not right now. Not ever. I want to exist in a place where it’s just me and Thalia.

I cross the room and open the door. Fuck, it’s hard to remember to breathe at the sight of her.

“Yes?”

“Have you decided what to wear to the welcome dinner?”

“Oh, right. No.” I glance at the mirror above the fireplace. I look exactly how I feel—travel-weary and irritated by the world.My oversize jacket is rumpled, my hair flat with grease, whatever minimal makeup I had on rubbed off during my journey here. With a sinking feeling, I realize something that mortifies even me: I don’t have anything that’s appropriate for a “welcome reception.” I hadn’t expected anything formal. In college, we all existed in hoodies and torn jeans or yoga pants and Uggs, and during finals week, some of the other kids even showed up in their pj’s.

I must look as lost as I feel, because understanding dawns on Thalia’s face. “Come on,” she says, grabbing my hand. “You can wear one of my dresses.”

I open my mouth, about to resist, because no way, I’m not one of those girls who have female friends that they can swap clothes with. But she doesn’t give me a chance to protest before she pulls me along, saying, “Oh, this is so exciting. I’m so glad we met each other, Jane. I’d be so lost without you otherwise.”

She wouldn’t. The thought is laughable. I would’ve been lost back at the Heathrow bus terminal, but Thalia swans through the world like she belongs everywhere, and everyone opens their arms to take her in, because who wouldn’t? But I’m helpless to resist, letting her guide me the way a faultless little child guides a slouching beast in fairy tales, confident in their ignorance of what they drag behind them.

Her room is right across from mine, nearly identical except her bay window overlooks the Chapel Quad instead of the Old Quad. Somehow, in the time I spent just staring vacantly out of my window, Thalia has unpacked her belongings and put personal touches to her room. Books adorn the space—a handful placed in her bookcase in the fireplace, a few more on the mantelpiece, and yet more on the floating shelves above her study desk. Her bed no longer has the standard woolen blanket on it; instead, a fluffy white duvet rests like a cloud over it, completewith a crimson silk runner. It actually looks like a hotel bed instead of a dorm bed, and the small touch transforms the room completely.

“Have a seat,” Thalia says, walking to her closet.

I perch hesitantly on her sofa, noticing that she’s also draped a soft, rich blanket over it. I run my hand across the blanket, marveling at the softness. It’s like touching pure wealth.

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