Another problem…
“Jules, come on, please,” begged Cilla, her voice pleading.
“I don’t want to. I don’t know anyone there. Go alone or invite Steph or Kat,” Julia replied sharply. “Exams are coming up. I need to study.”
“Kat’s cramming, Steph won’t go without her bloke Tom, and going alone would make me look desperate—like I’m chasing after Declan.”
“Aren’t you?” Julia shot back.
“Jules, please…” Cilla pressed her hands together as if in prayer.
“Fine. But don’t you dare abandon me there alone,” Julia warned, dragging herself off the sofa.
One of the third-years had parents working abroad in Africa for a year, leaving his flat empty. Every Saturday, they threw parties there—older students, some from other years, even recent graduates who swaggered in with their so-called experience, looking down on the first-years like they were clueless.
Cilla had stumbled in by accident, dragged along by an ex-boyfriend who’d since moved on. But she’d set her sights on Declan. That’s why she’d begged Julia to come—hoping to see him again. With exams looming, campus was a dead end.
Julia slipped into jeans and an oversized white shirt, tucking one side in. On her slender frame, it looked effortlessly stylish. She smudged on eyeliner, shook out her hair, then turned to Cilla, who was fidgeting impatiently by the door.
“What are we waiting for?” Julia muttered.
“God, that eyeliner suits you—mysterious, like some sultry film star.”
“Listen, if Declan isn’t there, we’re leaving,” Julia said firmly.
“Deal,” Cilla agreed too quickly.
The door swung open to reveal a woman in ripped jeans and a man’s shirt, cigarette dangling from her lips, wild curls framing her face. She squinted through the smoke, sizing them up before jerking her head toward the noise inside.
“Don’t bother taking your shoes off—no one does,” Cilla whispered as Julia hesitated. She tried to act like a regular, but her nerves were as obvious as Julia’s.
The flat was cramped, music thrumming low under the chatter. A table in the middle held picked-over snacks and half-empty bottles of cheap vodka and wine. A bloke lounged on the sofa with two girls draped over him, while two others argued over drinks. A couple swayed near the window—if you could call it dancing with so little space.
No one glanced their way. And if they did, their eyes slid right past. Just first-years. What was there to say?
They perched on an empty sofa by the wall. The bell rang, and in walked the same woman from before, trailed by two guys. The room erupted—even the dancers broke off to greet them.
“There he is!” Cilla sprang up, darting toward them. The guy she spoke to barely reacted, answering with bored indifference. But the other one—tall, athletic, sharp-eyed—was staring at Julia. She dropped her gaze, suddenly self-conscious.
“Hey. Missing me?” He slid onto the sofa beside her. Up close, he looked older. “Haven’t seen you before. Fancy a dance?” He held out his hand—broad, warm, firm.
They shuffled near the window where the other couple had been. The music stayed low, easy to talk over. He asked about her course, her halls, her family… People kept drifting in. Julia wondered if the flat had secret rooms, hidden from view.
Eventually, Cilla reappeared, red-eyed. “I’m leaving.”
“Me too,” Julia said, regret flashing as she met the guy’s gaze.
“I’ll walk you,” he offered. “Just let me say goodbye.”
Outside, Cilla seethed. “Prick,” she spat, meaning Declan.
Julia barely heard her, thoughts tangled around this stranger—until he emerged, striding toward them.
“Alright, ladies—name’s Chris.”
“Chris Rivers? Captain of the uni football team? No wonder you looked familiar!” Cilla squealed.
“You follow football?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Dated one of your die-hard fans. Never missed a match.” She giggled. “Bloody hell—Chris Rivers in the flesh!”
She babbled the whole way home, desperate for his attention. Chris saw right through it.
“Cilla, where do you live?”
“I’ll show you!” she said, launching into another monologue.
Julia stayed quiet beside them.
“That’s mine. Next one’s Jules’. See you around?” Cilla asked hopefully.
“Bye,” Julia said, turning toward her building.
“Jules, wait!” Chris called after her.
Cilla’s face fell. She’d hoped for more.
The evening air was cool after the day’s heat. Julia and Chris lingered outside her door, neither wanting to leave. He talked about his job at a local paper, his dreams of breaking into TV.
“You’ll hear my name one day,” he said, cocky. “And you? Gonna be a teacher? Always loved kids, yeah?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Julia bristled.
“Nothing. Just asking.” He softened. “Give me your number.”
“You don’t have one?” She handed over her phone.
He dialled his own, letting it ring in his pocket. The realisation they’d meet again sent heat through her.
“Didn’t think you had it in you, Jules. Quiet little you, snagging Chris Rivers!” Cilla called that night. “Spill. Did you kiss?”
“We walked home. That’s it.” The exchanged numbers stayed a secret.
He called two days later—just as Julia had given up hope. Her last exam was done. Summer stretched ahead. He took her on a rowboat, then to a café.
They met almost daily. Julia fell hard. His beat-up car took them to the countryside, where they swam, talked, kissed…
One rainy afternoon, he suggested his mate’s flat. She tensed when he unlocked the door.
“Where’s your mate? Bring girls here often?” She edged toward the stairs.
Chris caught her wrist. “Just tea. Chat. Where you gonna go in this rain? Mate’s abroad—I’m house-sitting.”
She stayed. Maybe it was love. Maybe recklessness. It happened fast. He was gentle.
After that, they met there often. Then he left for a “work trip.”
Weeks later, Cilla dropped a bombshell.
“Miss him? Saw you two together. Blimey, Jules. You know he’s married, right?”
“You’re lying. You’re jealous,” Julia snapped.
“He’s got a kid.”
The pieces clicked. Daytime meetups. Avoiding town. His “late-night writing” excuses. All lies.
She texted him furiously, blocked his number.
Then—worse—she realised she was pregnant. That first time, they hadn’t been careful.
What now? First year barely over. A baby? Her mum would kill her.
The clinic was humiliating. The doctor’s judgmental stare. The cold table. The needle. Waking up hollow.
Her mum noticed only her paleness. Then term started. Julia ached for Chris, half-wanting him back.
One lecture, nerdy Neil Baxter slid beside her—short, awkward, thick glasses magnifying his eyes. No girl noticed him. Until now.
“You’re seeing Rivers?” he whispered.
“None of your business,” Julia hissed.
“His wife’s nice. Kid’s barely one.”
“Why tell me this?”
“So you don’t waste time. He’ll never leave her. You’ll fight. He’ll lie. Why bother?” He paused. “I like you. Didn’t you notice?”
She had. But Chris was—Chris. Love didn’t vanish overnight, even after betrayal.
Then he appeared at her door one evening, desperate.
“Jules, talk to me. I can’t live without you. I lied because I was scared of losing you—”
She saw the agony in his eyes. For a second, she almost caved.
“You’re married. That means something. I can’t trust you.”
“You all just want weddings! Marriage is work—problems. I didn’t want that between us.”
“Your wife’s a problem? So am I?” Julia choked out.
Those words sealed it. She walked away, ignoring his car the next day, even kissing Neil where Chris could see. He never came back.
Some days she nearly called him. Others, she never wanted to again.
To forget, she let Neil walk her home. He was clever, funny, a lifeline in seminars.
“Ever thought of journalism? You’d be good,” she asked once.
“No. I’d rather teach than chase gossip,” he said.
Her mum adored him. “That boy’s going places. Headmaster one day, mark my words.”
He proposed in final year. They married after graduation. Neil wrote textbooks, climbed the ranks, even got offered a ministry job. Julia had a daughterYears later, watching her daughter play in the garden, Julia realized that happiness wasn’t the grand passion she’d once chased but the quiet, steady love she’d found along the way.
