Unconditional Read Online Free Page A

beforehand. Are you jet-lagged? You look jet-lagged. C’mon, I’ll take you to your room. I arranged a welcome picnic basket for you, filled with Aussie stuff. Watch out for the Vegemite. And the toaster in your room will set off the smoke detectors if you’re not careful. Maybe better to have pale toast. Do you like toast?”
    Me: (mouth still open)
    Heather: “God, listen to me. Carrying on when all you probably want to do is have a shower. The communal amenities here are really good. But be warned, they really mean communal. It’s a progressive thing Mackellar House is trying out. Boys and girls. No one’s complained so far but boy, did it freak me out the first time a guy came in for a shower while I was cleaning my teeth. But then, I grew up with sisters. No boys in my family except my dad. Hey, your hand is trembling. Are you okay?”
    Me: (shuts mouth)
    See what I mean? Perky and friendly. And talkative. Damn. When she pointed out my left hand was trembling, I knew it was time to crash in my room. I was shaking. I could feel it deep in my body. A quaking beyond my control. It happens when I’m tried. Or stressed. Of which I was both. Excited, but tired and stressed. And still slightly obsessing over my kiss in the bathroom from the mysterious, hotter-than-hot Australian celebrity.
    So while I really wanted a shower, what I needed was the chance to sit and be calm and still and take my meds (I may have missed one or two mid-flight, now that I think about it).
    I smiled at Heather, thanked her for the lovely welcome, passed off my trembling as jet lag and asked to be shown my new digs.
    “Absolutely,” gushed Heather, obviously not worried that I was—in the nicest way possible—shutting her down. “Follow me.”
    She damn near pirouetted on the spot and then skipped up the stairs of Mackellar House.
    I followed. It occurred to me Heather hadn’t asked about my luggage, or lack thereof. Curious. Or maybe college students in Australia—or uni students, as they were called over here—were the same as college students back home—free of common sense in the face of impending responsibility.
    The life of a graduate student is a strange mix of adult decisions and teenage angst and irresponsibility. On one hand, you’re in your twenties now. You’re legally an adult. You have to decide all on your lonesome what classes to take, what time to eat breakfast, what time is curfew. On the other hand, you still need to answer to teachers, still need to justify why you didn’t hand in your homework—‘my computer crashed’ really didn’t cut it in high school, so it sure as shit wasn’t going to pass at college—and are still under the merciless control of hormones way more powerful than your brain.
    Weird, huh?
    Chatting the whole way, Heather led me through Mackellar House. She introduced me to everyone we passed. “Hey, this is Maci Rowling. She’s the environmental student from the U.S. Be nice to her, ’kay?” And then she whispered tidbits about them as we moved farther away. “She’s failing English Lit. He’s spent the last five nights drunk. She’s trying to seduce her History professor.”
    By the time we made it to my room, on the third floor at the end of the hallway, my head was spinning. But in a good way. Apart from the accents, I could have been back home in Plenty. Uni life seemed very similar to college life—a group of young adults flexing their independence after years of living under their parents’ thumbs. In other words, chaos.
    With a flourish, Heather pulled a key from her pocket and handed it to me. “Your key. Now remember, wonky toaster, communal showers and loos. Your uni info is on the bed, along with your welcome basket. Vegemite should only be smeared on lightly, not slathered on thickly. Smear , not slather. There’s milk in the fridge if you want a cuppa. That’s a cup of tea, if you didn’t know. Do you drink tea? Oh, and don’t forget that party tonight I