27. Megan
Chapter 27
Megan
Ollie let me order Thai food on the drive home, and by the time we’ve finished eating around the low coffee table, I’ve more than sobered up. Why did I open my mouth and tell him I think he's hot? I can't take that back, and now things will be weird between us.
“I am so full,” he groans, stretching out on the carpet with his head near my thigh. His t-shirt rides up, and he slides his hand underneath it to rub his stomach. I try not to look at the smattering of hair that trails down from his bellybutton, or imagine where it leads.
Something he said earlier keeps playing on my mind.
“Where are all your friends?” I ask him.
“Rude,” he says. “Aren’t we friends?”
I cringe at my poor choice of words. It sounds rude because it is rude, and I scramble to explain.
“I mean, you’re telling me I need to get out there and do something with my life, but you’re either working with my dad, working on your van, or hanging out with me. I never see you with anyone.”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” he sighs. “But it won’t always be that way. I’m working towards a bigger dream here.”
“And I’m not?” I protest, but Ollie stares up at me, blinking until I concede. “No, I suppose I’m not.”
“As far as I can tell, you’re waiting for life to happen to you. I’m trying to go after it and grab it with both hands.”
“But, do you have friends? People in your life to talk to?”
“I talk to your dad,” he says softly, sitting up to box up our leftovers. “Guys at work.”
My heart hurts for him. Dad is a great guy, a good friend to everyone he meets, but that’s one of many kinds of friendship people should have in their lives.
“What about people your age? Are you still close with friends from school?”
“A lot of those guys moved away for uni, and that wasn’t what I wanted. It’s fine. We weren't close.”
He pushes up from the floor, gathering boxes to carry through to the kitchen. I grab our dirty dishes and follow him.
“Is it fine, though? I don’t like the thought of you being lonely while you’re on the road.”
“Come on, don’t do this,” he sighs.
“Do what?”
He stacks everything neatly in the fridge, then leans back against it, his hands deep in his pockets. His shoulders are bunched high, and I get another glimpse of that strip of stomach peeking out underneath his t-shirt.
“You saw how I was when I first got here,” he says. “I was ready to move straight back out when you started telling me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you what to do.”
“I know,” he sighs. “But everyone’s always had these ideas of what I should do, or how I should be. So what if I find it hard to open up? There'll be loads of time to meet people.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re such a baby,” I tease, rinsing dishes to stack the dishwasher. “What about dating?”
“No point if I’m leaving.” He grabs a towel from the hook on the wall and passes it to me to dry my hands. “Anyway, what about you dating? You still waiting in your princess castle for your dream man to turn up?”
“No! That’s what I was trying to do this afternoon,” I tell him, then mock his earlier comment in a surfer-dude voice. “Grab life with both hands, man.”
“It’s quite a leap to go from single to sperm donor. Maybe you could try actually meeting someone first?”
He marches off to the living room, cleaning spray and cloth in hand. While he wipes down the table, I fold the blankets across the back of the sofa and get to work on plumping the cushions.
“I’m trying.”
“How?” He’s got me there, and he knows it. He takes the cushion in my hands and plumps it himself. “Is there anyone at work?”
“I would never get involved with a colleague.”
“Then you need to get out and meet people or join an app, or you’ll be the one who’s lonely when I’m gone.”
I pick up another cushion from the floor and scream into it. “Apps are awful. That's how I got into that mess with Max.”
“Loads of people meet on apps. They won't all be like that.”
“I’m too old.”
“For fuck's sake, Megan,” he snaps, yanking the cushion I’m holding. I pull back, he pulls harder, and we compete in some stupid tug of war until it slips from my grip and I go tumbling backwards. In a heartbeat, he drops it, his fist grabbing the front of my t-shirt before I hit the ground. He hauls me to his chest and all the air leaves my lungs.
He’s so close I feel his warm, ragged breath ghost my lower lip and this feels like a moment in a book where the enemies say ‘fuck it’ , kiss aggressively, then become lovers.
I want that.
“You need to cut that 'I'm too old' shit out,” he says, eyes darting between mine and my mouth. “You’re young, you’re single, you have a good job, and nobody depends on you. You could do anything you want, you just need to be bold enough to put yourself out there and ask for it. Do you even know what you actually want?”
My answer is immediate.
“I want a love like my parents have. You’ve seen them together. They met in school, and every year that passes I feel like I’m getting further away from that.”
“No shit, you can't time travel.”
He lets go of my t-shirt, and we both look down at where it’s bunched and creased. I run my hands over my chest to smooth it out, and Ollie groans before storming out of the room.
“Fine, I’ll join an app,” I call after him.
“Good!” he yells back.
In the bathroom, I replay our conversation while going through my evening skincare routine. I feel like we just had an argument, but I’m more confused than ever. Turned on rather than upset, from dancing around some invisible line between flirting and fighting. I don’t want to fight with Ollie, but I certainly can’t be flirting with him, either.
Passing his room on the way to mine, his door is slightly ajar and I catch a glimpse of him changing into sleep shorts. A moment earlier and I might have been treated to an excellent view of his rear, but it’s probably for the best. I knock gently and wait for him to open the door.
“What’s up?”
“Are we OK?”
“Of course we’re OK. Why wouldn’t we be OK?” His upbeat tone isn’t fooling anyone.
“That felt like an argument.”
“Nah, didn’t we make a rule about no arguing?” he smirks, and I roll my eyes. One curl hangs right in the middle of his forehead, and I want to reach up, push it back, and let my fingers weave through his hair and down to the nape of his neck.
Pushing Ollie’s hair back has become a regular fantasy of mine, mostly in the context of him laying on top of me, his thick thighs urging mine apart while he—
“Well,” I cough. “I’m gonna head to bed, but I wanted to say thank you. For tonight. I had fun.”
“Even in IKEA?” he teases.
“Even in IKEA.”
“I knew it,” he says, leaning closer and prodding my shoulder with his finger. For the briefest moment, I think he’s about to slip the strap of my vest top down, but he straightens up, does some weird flapping thing with his hands, then taps me on the tip of my nose. “I know I’m a poor substitute for your friends, but just shout if you want to do this again sometime.”
We say our goodnights, and while I snuggle under my covers and try to read a few pages before the next book club, it occurs to me that the best date I've ever been on wasn't even a date.