14. Megan
Chapter 14
Megan
Nine days into the new year and there is not one note in the Happy Things jar. My plans to maintain a seven-step skincare routine are long forgotten, and I have not met the love of my life. Though that should come as no surprise, since, as Ollie put it, I’m an ancient haggard dried-up crone freak.
There’s a small chance I'm exaggerating, but honestly, even my students are getting more action than me. They seem to have all discovered kissing over the Christmas break, and I can't turn a corner without finding two of them at it.
Despite my pre-holiday prep work, the first week back at school is a struggle as the children get back into their routines and remember how they’re supposed to behave in my classroom. Unfortunately, they still haven’t dropped their habit of flipping me the bird when my back is turned, only to wave their ring fingers at me when I challenge them on it. I’ve seen plenty of tricks and pranks in my time, but this one really irritates me.
Every year I also forget how quickly the exam pressure ramps up, and with mock exams starting later in the month, you can practically feel the stress in the air.
Both Mum and Dad sent me good luck texts on Monday, but I haven’t heard from Kara or Hattie all week. Ollie has his own routine, coming home after I’ve gone to bed most evenings, so really it is like living alone. At least Hattie was considerate enough to tell me if she was coming back late.
I’m a light sleeper at the best of times, but it’s impossible to relax when I know someone is coming home at an unknown hour. Instead of getting my recommended eight hours of sleep, I’m destined to lie there for hours waiting until I know we’re both safe inside.
On Monday and Tuesday he came back after midnight, stumbling into the hallway, then stubbing his toe on the side table and cursing loudly outside my bedroom door.
I wanted to say something, but he’s up and out so early each morning that I couldn’t catch him to ask him to be more considerate. On Wednesday, I scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen counter.
We should probably swap numbers so you can let me know if you’ll be back late.
It’s the least he could do. I added my number, and wondered if I should tape it to his bedroom door, but that seemed too passive aggressive, and the last thing I want is a confrontation in my own home.
On Thursday morning, I found the note in the kitchen bin, and his breakfast dishes in the sink, so I left him a note about that too. And when he came home late again last night, my frustration reached boiling point.
It was just almost one in the morning when there he was, bashing into the side table again, sending the bowl of keys clattering to the ground. Leaning out of my bedroom door, I found him on his knees, picking everything up.
“Can you please be a bit more respectful of other people in the house? I was sleeping.” I wasn’t, but he didn’t know that.
“Sorry. I texted you.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I did! This table is too big for this space,” he said, kicking the leg and rubbing at the spot where he’d bashed his thigh. “Can you leave the hallway light on if I’m out?”
“Sounds like a rule. Thought you weren't into rules.”
Even in the dark, I could tell he was smirking, which irritated me even more. “Sounds like you'd be doing yourself a favour. You could still be sleeping like a princess if I didn't have to do an assault course every time I get in.”
I stormed back to bed in a huff, and when I checked my phone, there was no message. So he’s disrespectful, and a liar .
Now we're one week into our arrangement, and I'm thoroughly over it. I used to love Friday nights when it was just us girls hanging out at Kara’s old house. Now I’m dreading it. I don’t know what’s worse, Ollie skulking around with his stupid big arms on display, or staying out for hours, making me worry over someone I don’t even know.
And how am I supposed to get to know him if I barely see him? Even when he is here, he doesn’t acknowledge me, and I hate feeling like I have to walk on eggshells. I know this is a temporary arrangement, but so far it's awful.
I’m just finishing my dinner when he appears in his grubby work clothes, passing me on his way to the kitchen without as much as a nod to say hello. Through the doorway, I watch him fill a glass of water, down it, then fill it again. I take my dishes through and swallow hard, finding the courage to clear the air.
“Ollie, would you mind just…”
“Yes, I know!” he snaps, throwing his head backwards and dragging his hands over his face. “I need to do my dishes. I'm not a kid, so don't treat me like one.”
He storms past me, his shoulder brushing against mine, and teacher mode kicks in. I'm not a brave or bold person, but being yelled at is an unfortunate part of the job, and I’ve got plenty of experience pretending confrontation doesn't affect me.
“If you're not a kid, then don't act like one!”
I follow him and he spins around halfway down the hallway, nearly causing me to crash into him. “How am I acting like one?”
“Storming off mid-conversation is incredibly childish.”
“That's not me acting like a kid. That's me giving you space, before I do something I regret.”
“Like what?” I yell.
I may be old and pathetic and doomed to be single for the rest of my life, but I refuse to be spoken to this way in my own home. Channeling my inner superwoman, I plant my hands on my hips and take two steps closer.
“What are you going to do, Ollie? Are you going to break stuff? Hit me?” It's a tried and tested method in school, naming the escalating behaviour can stop young people before their actions go too far.
His shoulders drop, and he stares at me with a pained look on his face. “No, fuck. I would never hurt you.”
His words, combined with an expression of deep sincerity, are so unexpected they make me want to cry. His eyes lock with mine and I couldn't look away even if I wanted to.
“Then talk to me.”
“Megan,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Trust me, you're the last person I want to piss off. I’ll do my dishes, I just want to shower first. I've had a really busy week, and I’m knackered.”
He folds his arms across his chest, and that brief moment of connection is gone.
“Then get an early night and stop partying so late.” I push past him, dashing to hide in my bedroom before tears come.
I thought by this age I’d be spending Friday nights having sexy nights in with my man or fancy dinners with our friends.
How has it come to this?