46. Megan
Chapter 46
Megan
Ollie unlocks the van and holds his hand out to help me climb in. While he walks around to the driver’s side, I slip my heels off and sink into the seat, wondering where we’re supposed to go from here. He fastens his seatbelt, then drops his head against the steering wheel with a heavy sigh.
“I can’t drive,” he says. “I’ve had too much to drink.”
Of course he can’t drive. Neither of us can. We were supposed to show our faces, have one drink and go. I threw that plan right out of the window, along with my respect for our friendship.
And I do think of Ollie as a friend. I can’t pinpoint exactly when he became more than just a roommate, but I’ve grown to love his company, to trust that he won’t judge me or laugh at me, no matter how unhinged I’m being. Yes, there’s a big part of me that would like to take him for a ride, as Hattie might say, but our friendship isn’t worth messing up over some silly, tipsy fake dating scheme.
I’m rooting for him, and he’s rooting for me. We’re just searching for different things in life.
“We could walk back?” he says, and my feet throb at the suggestion.
“It’s miles, and you couldn’t pay me to put these heels back on.” I pull my phone from where I left my small clutch bag in the side compartment and ignore the messages in my group chat with the girls. They’ll have to wait until later. “I’ll request an Uber.”
“There’s no Uber here,” Ollie groans.
“Well, what’s the number for the local taxi company?”
“I’ve never had to get one.”
“Oh, and why’s that? Did you have a chauffeur? A personal limousine?” I point back up at the house. “Go ask your concierge man. I bet he knows a number.”
I still can’t wrap my head around Ollie, my Ollie, growing up with an army of staff. I can’t wait to tell Hattie and Kara about that revelation.
“Harold?” he scoffs. “I’m not asking for shit from him. He hates me.”
“Then there’s only one thing for it,” I say.
“We sleep in the van?” he says, at the same time I offer my suggestion.
“We walk to the pub and ask for a number.” I smack him playfully on the arm, but he catches my hand and keeps it there. “We are absolutely not sleeping in the van.”
I stare at the spot where his warmth radiates through me, and when I look up, he’s staring at it too.
How can he just pretend this never happened?
I want him to kiss me again, and if I’d had more to drink, I might live my very own ‘eff it’ moment and suggest sleeping in the van too. The thought of him holding me close and keeping me warm all night is tempting, but we can’t.
“Come on,” I say, pulling away and opening the passenger door. “You’re giving me a piggyback.”