24. Megan
Chapter 24
Megan
The afternoon passes in a blur, and my supermarket sweep results in a basket full of items that you couldn’t blame on even the worst PMS. Back upstairs, I open up my laptop and get to work.
By the time Ollie stops working on the van, I've had two glasses of wine, and I’m at the dining table scribbling all the characteristics I want from my future baby daddy.
After he showers, he doesn't bother with a t-shirt. It's an increasingly common occurrence these days, but I can't complain. He stares at me from across the room. I don’t care enough to be embarrassed any more. Ollie already thinks I’m a sad loser who can’t get a man. What’s one more piece of evidence?
“What are we eating?”
“Apple pie. Don’t judge me.”
“I would never.” He disappears into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a spoon. With my chin in my palm, I watch as he sits down next to me, pulls the dish towards him, and digs in. “Damn that’s good. More cream?”
“Yes please,” I sniff, wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my cardigan as he pours straight from the carton.
“Do you want to tell me why you’re getting drunk, eating pudding, and looking at… What is this?” He twists my laptop for a better look at the screen and bursts out laughing. “Why are you looking up sperm donors?”
“Kara is pregnant,” I wail, letting my head hit the table with a thump. “They're all having lunch and forgot to invite me, so I had to find out over the phone.”
“Oh, Megan, I'm sorry.”
“My friends are all moving in with their boyfriends and getting married and having babies and I'm going to die alone and be eaten by cats.”
He snorts around his spoon. “Wow. That got dark real fast.”
He reaches for my notepad and I try to snatch it back, but it's too late.
“Must haves. Kind eyes. Nice hair. Smart. Is this your list of criteria? Italian ?”
“My favourite book boyfriend is Italian,” I groan loudly and stuff another spoonful of pudding into my mouth.
“Right, so you’re looking for a fictional man with hair and eyes and a brain. That narrows it down.”
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing,” he insists, even though he absolutely is. “I just think you might want to raise your standards a bit. You really want to have a baby on your own?”
“No, I wanted to have a baby with my ex. I miss him.”
“What?” he yells. “Come off it, you don’t miss that dickhead. How much have you had to drink?”
“He was the best sex I've ever had,” I sob, all hopes of resembling a rational human long gone now that I’m deep down a rabbit hole of regret and self-loathing. “And he always cuddled me afterwards.”
“You're telling me that the best bit about sleeping with this guy was that he cuddled you?”
“You would say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you're a man.”
“What does that mean?”
God, why does he have to be so obtuse.
“No offence, but men are not as good in bed as they think they are. Cuddling is an important part of aftercare, and trust me, most men don’t know the first thing about how to please a woman in bed.”
“Oh, fucking hell,” he snaps, and I pause with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “You can't say shit like that to me.”
“What?” I shrug and he makes a sort of grunting noise in the back of his throat.
“Forget it.”
I slouch back in my chair, my arms folded across my chest, blinking away the tears that keep coming. I must look so pathetic right now.
“Megan, can I give you a hug? You seem like you could use one.”
Ollie rounds the table, dropping into the chair next to mine, then shuffling it closer so he can wrap his arms around me. Like a surly teenager, I stay statue still, and he struggles to find a position that works.
“This is—” He tries to lean around and hug me from the front, but it’s useless, and I’m not helping the situation either. “Hang on, just… come here.”
Before I can object, Ollie threads one arm underneath my legs, the other behind my back, then lifts me sideways into his lap, dropping me onto one of his very sturdy thighs.
His arms wrap around me, one hand cupping my hip, the other around my shoulders. The weight of it calms me almost instantly, and the warmth of his bare skin sends a shiver straight through me. My head meets his shoulder, my nose finds the masculine scent in the crook of his neck, and I inhale so deeply that I'm powerless to stop myself from softening further against him.
He was right. I really did need a hug.
The hand on my hip comes up to cup my head, and he holds me still. As heavenly as it is, his touch has the opposite effect. My lip begins to wobble, and I try to stop my body from shuddering, but soon I’m crying even harder than before. Ollie just holds me tighter, swaying gently as he cradles me like a giant baby against his warm chest.
“Are you OK?” he asks after we’ve sat there for a while.
“No. I’m not OK.” I confess. “I’m thirty-two, living in a flat my dad owns with a man half my age, working a job that’s more stressful than enjoyable, with no boyfriend, and no future. This is not what I thought I’d be doing in my thirties. I’m failing at everything.”
He chuckles softly, and I feel it rumble through his chest and into my side. The hand on my head strokes imperceptibly through the strands of my hair. “Good job you’re not a math teacher. I’m not half your age.”
I sit up, pulling a little out of his hold, and he drops his hand to my knee.
“I miss my friends,” I sniff. “You know we used to have this whole girlie Friday night routine? Kara got dumped, and she was miserable, so Hattie and I would go round every Friday and we’d order in food, eat ice cream and popcorn and curl up on the sofa and watch movies. It was the best night of the week and we never do that anymore.”
“Why did you stop?” he asks.
“Kara met Luke, then Hattie and Rob got together, so they do couples things on Fridays. We still have book club, and we still meet up as a group, but it’s not the same.”
“Well, they sound like terrible friends for ditching you.”
I pull back further. I might be upset, but I won’t accept slander against my friends. Hattie and Kara are the most brilliant, beautiful women I know, and I’d be lost without them.
“No, it’s not like that at all. I’m happy for them, I’m just jealous. I hadn’t realised how much those nights meant to me, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were all about cheering Kara up, but if I’d had a rough week at work, or if Max was back in Australia, I felt like I could get through anything when I had Friday nights to look forward to.”
“I can understand that.”
“Now I’m never going to catch up, and I’ll be nothing but a spinster teacher until I retire and die.”
“Can I make an observation?” Ollie asks, and when I scoff, he squeezes my leg, his thumb hitting some pressure point just above my knee. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Who does the twenty-four-year-old think he is dishing out life advice?”
I laugh and reach for a tissue to blow my nose. My face must be a bright red mess. I’ll need to do a calming face mask later to sort myself out. “Now who’s bad at math? You're twenty-three.”
“Not anymore.”
I frown. “Since when?”
“Since last week.”
“ Last week? Why didn't you say anything?”
“It's not a big deal.”
I whack him playfully on the shoulder, and he catches my hand with his, keeping it pressed there against the plane of his chest. His skin is soft and smooth. Lickable.
“Birthdays are a big deal, Ollie. If I'd known I would have…”
He raises his eyebrows, tips his head one way, then the other. “Would have what?”
“Bought you a gift,” I sigh. “Baked a cake or something.”
I grew up in a house where, no matter what else was going on in life, we always made a big deal about birthdays. Dad would take me into town on Saturday mornings to choose gifts and a card for Mum, and when it was my birthday, he always picked me up from school with a huge bunch of flowers, then took me out for pizza. Even now, I still get flowers and dinner every year.
“That's exactly why I didn't tell you. You don't need me adding to your mile long to-do list.”
“Well, I’ll still get you a cake.”
“You will not,” he says, gently poking me in the ribs. “Anyway, this isn’t about me. What I was going to say, if you’ll let me finish, is that I get the impression you…” he falters, and I stop breathing. “And please don’t take this the wrong way.”
I fold my hands into my lap and stare at them, steeling myself for criticism. “I just don’t think you're living your life to the fullest, Megan. In the short time I've known you, you're either at work or you’re at home. Where’s your sense of adventure? What do you do that's just for you?”
As nice as it was to be hugged, I didn’t sign up for getting smacked in the face with hard truths today. I twist out of his hold and disappear into the kitchen. “I have hobbies.”
“Name them,” he says, following me, challenging me.
“I like reading.” I don't mention training for a half-marathon because he knows better than anyone I've not been running at all.
“You need to get out more, see the world, meet some new people, move your body, surprise yourself sometimes.”
I fix him with a hard stare. “I do yoga five times a week.”
“Yeah, in your living room while I try not to look at your arse.”
My jaw drops at his inappropriate comment, but there’s a deep twinge in my lower belly that comes along with it.
“I’m kidding,” he smirks. “But moping around here all the time won't get you anywhere.”
“Well, thank you for your observations, Ollie. There’s no need to be so mean.”
I push past him, slam my laptop closed, and gather up my things. No sperm bank is going to let me get my hands on their product while I’m this miserable, nor should they. What was I thinking? I’m a mess.
“What are you doing for the rest of the night?” he asks, blocking me against the table.
I snatch up the bottle and try to dart round him, but he’s fast, spreading his arms out to cage me in. “Finishing this and being a sad loser with no friends, according to you.”
I leave out the part about masturbating myself into oblivion thinking about his chest and what the rest of him might feel like naked.
“I have got a much better plan,” he says, gently slipping the bottle from my hand. “Give me five minutes to change,then you’re coming out with me.”