10. Megan
Chapter 10
Megan
As the evening wears on, my stomach twists, half with hunger, half with the indecision on how to navigate cooking and eating around a stranger. Yet I’m still hiding.
This is ridiculous. This is my home. I’ve lived here for years. My money pays the bills, my photos are on the walls, and that’s my food in the fridge. I shouldn’t have to hide in my bedroom.
I summon the courage, and find Ollie looking right at home on Hattie’s end of the sofa, feet stretched out on the coffee table. I suppose I should be grateful he hasn’t positioned himself in my spot. He doesn’t notice me at first, fully absorbed in the book he’s reading, though I can’t make out the cover because of the way he has it folded back on itself.
That sort of thing used to stress me out, but when you try to get teenagers into Shakespeare, you see all sorts of crimes against books. I once had a student use an empty condom wrapper as a bookmark. Folding the cover back is nowhere near the worst thing I’ve seen.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, and Ollie lowers the book to his lap and looks up at me.
From this angle I notice long thick eyelashes, the kind people pay good money for, framing his grey-green eyes. Combined with the mess of dark curls and the small silver hoops he wears in each earlobe, his laid back vibe feels out of place in the home Hattie and I built together.
We love pale pink walls, candles, plump cushions, and throw blankets. He’s in faded scruffy jeans and a band t-shirt that’s ripped at the neck. It’s cut off at the waist, revealing a little sliver of stomach, but the sleeves fit snugly around his biceps and…
Oh no.
I have such a thing for arms, so of course my temporary roommate would have hot ones that bulge and flex when he stretches one out across the back of the sofa.
“You don’t have to cook for me. I can make dinner.”
“Can you?” I ask, unable to hide my cynicism.
Most of the men I’ve met are pretty useless in the kitchen, though Hattie and Kara certainly got lucky with theirs. Kara’s husband Luke was a chef before she met him, and has cooked some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.
His right eyebrow lifts, and he cocks his head. “You don’t think I can cook?”
“I don’t know you.”
“But you assumed I can’t?”
“Well, can you?”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I know my way around a microwave.”
I roll my eyes and head for the kitchen, but he hops up and follows me. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, but yes, I’m a pretty decent cook, actually. I don’t have a lot of my own stuff, though. Is it OK if I use your dishes and pans while I'm here?”
“Sure,” I shrug, dropping two slices of bread into the toaster.
“What are you making?”
“Toast.”
“Toast isn’t a meal,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re meant to be recovering. Besides, I’m on strict orders to make sure you eat the lasagna your mum left.”
This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?
I’m close to my parents, but after long days at school and weekends spent marking or preparing lesson plans, sometimes weeks can go by without me seeing them. Ollie sees my dad every day, so they’ve basically moved a spy into my house. Now he's telling me off for not eating properly? I’ll never come out of my room again.
I’d forgotten about mum’s lasagna, and my stomach rumbles at the thought of a steaming plate of it. It’s always delicious, but I don't fancy it if he’s going to watch me eat every mouthful.
“Are you going to give my dad daily updates about me?”
Ollie has the decency to look mortified, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Fuck, no, of course not.”
“Then you have the lasagna, and I’ll have my toast.”
Once my slices pop up, I scrape butter onto them, too incensed to spend the seconds it takes to add jam in his company. Looks like I'll be hiding in my room after all.
Flopping onto my bed, I knock my notebook off my nightstand, the one I used for my big new year plans. All those visions and dreams rapidly vanishing before my eyes.
Did I do this somehow? Was I so sad about being on my own that the universe sent me this guy? If so, the universe got it seriously wrong.