36. Ollie
Chapter 36
Ollie
Inside, I take the stairs two at a time and find Megan curled up on the sofa, scrolling on her phone.
“Hey, you’re still up. You want to pick up where we left off?” I ask, and her eyes widen. “With the movie, I mean.”
“I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest,” she says, typing out a message. “Anyway, I had something I wanted to show you.”
She motions for me to sit down next to her, and scoots closer, pulling up her saved videos. I’ve seen hundreds of van build videos, but I don’t think I’ve seen this one. She presses play and fills me in on their backstory.
“This couple live in Canada, so their trips are much more remote, but they built a really clever shower. It looks like a normal cupboard with recessed shelving, but when you open the door, it’s curved into the shower room.”
The video is exactly as she’s described, and it solves a problem a lot of campers face if you’re planning to travel to rural places or avoid campsites with shower facilities. I’ll only have myself to worry about if I stink, but a proper shower at the end of a long day is something I know I’ll miss.
“See how it closes neatly into the dead space?” she says. “And the bottom shelf slides right on top of where they fitted the composting toilet.”
“That’s so cool. Play it again.”
It’s a genius idea. I’d pretty much ruled out having a shower in the van, and was planning to use rest stops where necessary. Something like this would mean I could get even more off grid, if I wanted to.
“I’d have to drill a hole in the floor and figure out the drainage, but if they’ve done it, then I don’t see why I couldn’t.”
“That’s what I thought,” she says, shifting her body until she’s facing me side on. “I checked the model and their van has similar dimensions to yours, so I’m sure you’d have space.”
“Since when are you watching van build videos without me?” I tease, rolling my wrist until my thumb rests against her thigh.
“What? I’m interested,” she shrugs. “Besides, you’ve totally destroyed my algorithm.”
God, she’s so fucking cute, attentive and considerate. Knowing that she’s saved things to show me is such a sweet gesture, but that’s what Megan is like. She thinks about people when they’re not around, wants what’s best for them, puts their needs above hers. She’s going to make an amazing wife for someone one day. I just hope that person gives her the same level of consideration back.
“Show me some more of their stuff.”
By the time we’re onto the fourth or fifth video, she’s so close I can smell her shampoo, her sweatpants are warm against my bare skin, and every time she gets excited and animated I want to pounce. Touching her is a temptation I shouldn’t give into, so I keep my hands buried in the pockets of my shorts before I do something stupid.
“What about this one?” she says, just as a notification pops up on her phone. “Oops.”
She swipes it away before I can read it, but it’s too late. I know exactly what it was, but that doesn’t stop me from asking.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, I just matched with someone earlier.”
“Oh,” is what I try to say, but it twists in my throat and comes out like a whine. She stiffens and scoots back to her end of the sofa.
Shit.
“Good for you, Megan. That’s awesome.”
“Awesome. Scary. Exciting. Nerve-wracking. Intimidating. Terrifying.” Her words come rushing out, the way they always do when she’s anxious about something.
“OK, Miss Porter. You can chill out. We’re not in English class now.”
Her head snaps back, and I should apologise for how harsh that sounded, but I’m too distracted by thoughts of her out on a date with some guy. I don’t know if we have the kind of friendship where I can ask her how it’s going, so I stare at the TV even though it’s off.
“We should probably get to bed,” she says, getting to her feet. “I mean, I should probably get to bed. You can stay up if you want.”
I don’t want that at all. I want us to stay up late together, keep hanging out and shooting the shit. I want us to do the same tomorrow, and next weekend too. Which reminds me, Dad is still sending me emails about this stupid anniversary party. I was going to talk to her about it anyway, but now I’m even more motivated to ask if it means I can keep her to myself for one evening.
“Do you have plans next weekend?” I call after her and she stalls by the door.
A yawn takes over before she can answer. “Marking probably.”
“Would you want to come to a party with me on Saturday?”
Even in the dim light, I see her face dance through surprise, then confusion, before settling on pity. “I think I’m probably a bit old to go to a party with you, Ollie. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style or anything.”
“Oh, no, it’s not a cool party,” I tease, plumping the sofa cushions back into place around me. “Not that I wouldn’t invite you to a cool party.”
“But you will invite me to a rubbish one?”
“It’s my parents’ anniversary party. My attendance is compulsory, apparently.”
Her eyebrows lift, and she swallows hard. “You want me to come to your parents’ anniversary party?”
“Yeah.”
“Do they know about me?”
“They know I’m living with someone. I sent them my new address, they had questions. Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s fine, but I’ve never met anybody’s parents before. It’s a huge milestone in a relationship.” She shakes the thought away. “Not that we’re in one. Um, how many years are they celebrating?”
“Ruby. Whatever that is?”
“Forty years. Wow, good for them. Is there a dress code?”
That she’s already mentally planning what to wear is a good sign that she’ll say yes. Ever the planner, this beautiful girl.
“It’ll be formal,” I tell her. I blow out the candles and stalk towards her in the darkness. “They throw a lot of parties and it’s all old white men in suits and women in dresses they’ll never wear again. You don’t have to buy anything new, though.”
“What will you wear?” she asks, looking up at me. Her sleepy gaze doing nothing to stop me wanting to hold her.
“My suit.”
The look of disbelief on her face is hilarious. “You have a suit?”
“Yes, I have a suit, you cheeky shit,” I tap my toe against hers. “I know you’ve only seen me looking like a scruff, but I scrub up pretty well, thank you very much. So you’ll come?”
I watch her think about it, her lips pouting to one side as she mulls it over.
“Sure, I’ll come. Thank you for inviting me. And thanks for everything tonight. I’m sorry we got interrupted.”
“My pleasure.”
And it really was.
I haven’t looked forward to coming home since I was a kid, always desperate to get away from school after a day of trying to avoid whatever bullshit my teachers and classmates were ready to throw my way. And that didn’t last long once my parents started signing me up for after-school clubs and private tutoring, filling every hour in a push to excel.
Taking her to meet them is probably a terrible idea, but she’s also the only person who could make one of their parties bearable.