The So-so Kiss

I didn’t know it would be our last kiss.

It wasn’t particularly memorable as kisses go. Not one of his passionate, let’s-get-down-and-dirty kisses. Nor one of his see-ya-later kisses.

To be honest with you, I didn’t pay too much heed to it. If you were to ask me to describe it, I’d probably tell you it was nice or sweet.

But I’d be lying.

Y’see, my mind was preoccupied with the tumble drier in the apartment that was broken. That the landlord swore would be fixed by last weekend. I was worried about the build up of wet clothes draped over the clothes horse, and the backs of chairs. I kept telling my flatmates, Sorcha and Frankie, to stop washing clothes, or to bring them to a laundrette, until the drier was working again. But they’re masters of nodding agreeably and then going ahead and doing what they want. Black mould is serious, y’know.

So no, I wasn’t exactly one hundred per cent in the moment with Liam and his kiss. Bigger things on my mind.

But then I didn’t know it would be our last kiss.

He didn’t show up for lectures the next day. That’s not unusual for Liam. He’s a bit hit and miss with the lectures. It’s probably because he’s so bright - gets bored with the lecturers. Already knows everything he needs to know about Python and Java; taught himself coding when he was eight. Can churn out his assignments in a matter of hours while the rest of us are sweating over laptops for weeks. So again, I didn’t overthink it. Just sat next to Maurice who’s pretty smart. I like to sit next to people who get it, so I can get them to explain things to me.

It is in the pub, later that night, that Alex brings it up. “So what do you think about Liam, then?”

“What do I think about what about Liam?” I’m slipping coasters under pint glasses on the table, can’t stand the drips and slops.

He looks at me curiously, as though trying to figure out if I’m bullshitting him or not.

“What?” I’m impatient.

“Well about him getting kicked out of college…”

“What??”

“Yeah, got hauled into the Dean’s office yesterday morning. I thought you knew. Gavin was in their room when he came back to pack up his things. Security guard standing at the door watching.”

I stare at him. He has got to be joking. I scan his face for telltale signs. Shifty eyes. Or smirking lips. Nope. Nada. “What’d he do?”

“He packed up all his th…”

“No. I mean, what did he do to get kicked out of college?”

“Gavin didn’t know, but one of the guys in my tutorial class said he was done for cheating.”

“Cheating?” That just doesn’t make sense. Liam doesn’t need to cheat. He could give the fucking course.

“Yeah, apparently used AI to write his code. And that paper we had to do on ethics in technology.” He chortles. “Bit ironic that, don’t you think?”

“No way, he wouldn’t. He’s not a cheat.”

“You sure?” he asks. “Did you ever see him code? Like actually see him writing code?”

I consider his question, scanning my memory for examples of Liam on his laptop. Couldn’t think of a single incident. He always had it already done when we met. “Oh that? Knocked it out earlier,” he’d say when he’d meet me anguishing over a particularly difficult nested function in C++.

“He wouldn’t,” I repeat, my words less confident.

Alex wisely keeps silent and takes a large swig of his pint before putting it back on the table.

I edge the coaster towards him, and then stop. Not sure coasters and slops really matter at this point.

He doesn’t contact me again. Liam, that is, not Alex.

I wait all that night and the next day to see if he’ll text or call. With some explanation, or accusation about the ridiculousness of all of this. But my phone remains resolutely mute.

It is the talk of the campus. Well, at least our part of the campus. The canteen, the corridors, the lecture halls, the college bar.

“Did you hear about Liam Carty?”

“Can you believe it?”

“I always thought there was something off about him.”

“Wanker. And he all condescending about how easy that algorithm assignment was…”

Any of them who know Liam and I are a couple are full of questions for me.

“Did you know?”

“Did you not even suspect?”

“Surely you must have guessed? I mean, did he ever help you?”

I shake my head, repeating again and again, “No, no. I never knew. Never guessed.”

I’m not sure if they believe me. I’d like to say I don’t care, but I do. Don’t like being the centre of attention, and particularly not when suspicion casts a wide net. It’s as though cheating is contagious. I am his girlfriend and therefore the likelihood is that I am also a cheat or, at least, complicit in his cheating.

Then I hear Sam Boland, who was in my project team for that real-time chat application thingy we were asked to build, say to another student, “Nah, she’s definitely not a cheat. Her code was pretty pathetic in that group project we had last semester,” - and I nearly want to hug the smug bastard.

I’m so caught up in the drama of the cheating it takes me a day or two to realise he hasn’t contacted me. As a girlfriend. Separate to all the college scandal, he is in a relationship with me. Surely I deserve a call.

Egged on by my flatmates, who declare this is better than Eastenders, I call him, Sorcha and Frankie watching wide-eyed from their corners of the sofa. The phone rings and rings, but he doesn’t pick up.

“Probably out somewhere,” I say, hanging up.

They harrumph.

“More likely ghosting you,” says Sorcha, not one for coddling. “Text him.”

Collectively we brainstorm the content of the text, before landing on the incisive “Hey. Can u talk?” And Frankie even studies English Literature.

One tick. Two ticks. Blue ticks.

His status shows as online.

We wait. And wait.

He doesn’t reply.

Linda O’Neill lives in the same town as he does, in Tipperary. A few weeks later she’s down home for the weekend and returns to college the following Monday full of information.

“So, apparently he’s hardly been seen since… Came home and hasn’t left the house. His parents are furious. Mother won’t mention it if you bump into her in the Centra. Father was in Thurles Mart last Wednesday, but if there was even a whiff of Liam’s name, he’d shut down.” She looks around the group, relishing the drama. “But my sister knows a cousin of his - did the Leaving Cert in the Ursulines with her - and she says he’s off to London. In the next week or two.” She looks at me, standing at the fringe of the group, her eyebrow questioning. I shrug.

London.

He’s off to London.

And not a word or a call. No explanation. No break up.

Me left, like a numpty.

So no, I didn’t know it would be our last kiss. And it wasn’t really that memorable, as kisses go.

Tumble drier is fixed, though.