55. Megan
Chapter 55
Megan
Ollie fills me in on plans for my bedroom while I curl up at the opposite end of the sofa, my feet tucked underneath me and my head spinning. It's too much like when he first moved in, back when we were strangers, not people who’ve kissed and dry-humped each other in the dark.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to look at samples, or just give him the go-ahead to fit like for like?”
I can't reconcile these two sides of him; the one who speaks to me like a customer, and the one whose casual touches light a fire inside me. How is he able to discuss renovations after everything that's happened?
“Megan? Did you hear me?”
I force a smile. “That sounds great.”
“Same carpet as before?”
“Sure.”
“Great, I'll ring the fitter in the morning. Is everything OK? You seem tense.”
My lips pinch together, and I know I should put on my big girl pants and pluck up the courage to say what’s really on my mind.
What did it mean when you said it’s quiet without me?
Do you like me?
Is it OK that I can’t stop thinking about you?
If I don't get a grip, my life is going to turn into one giant miscommunication trope. All I need to do is open my mouth and push the words out, but if he says this thing between us is nothing, then what? I’d have no choice but to stay at my parents' house until he leaves. And truly, how messed up is that? Two make-out sessions and one orgasm, and I’m already in too deep with him.
We're never going to be anything serious, so what's the point in starting something, anyway?
“I’m fine,” I tell him, but my voice is far too upbeat.
“Megan…” he says, levelling me a stare. “Talk to me.”
Looking at him makes me nervous, and my gaze settles on the jar on the coffee table. Considering how nothing this year has gone to plan, it’s a miracle I’ve added any Happy Things at all. And frankly, embarrassing that I know almost every folded slip of paper is a note about him.
I should hide it. If he peeked, I’d die of embarrassment, but he'll be long gone when I open it on December 31st, and they’ll be good memories to look back on.
“How is it at your mum and dad’s?” he probes.
“It's hard to relax. I'm too much of a homebody.”
“You? The woman who meal preps her lunches, showers for exactly seventeen minutes every morning, and always wears pink on Wednesdays?” he teases. “What a shocker. Come here.”
Ollie drops one foot to the floor and pats the space in between his legs. I scoot towards him, and with his big, warm hands, he grips my hips, shifting me to face away from him.
“Lean back against me,” he says, and softening into him feels so natural. He wraps his arms around my chest, my body rising and falling with his breath.
We may be surrounded by piles of my stuff, but here in his arms I'm more relaxed than I’ve felt in days. I cup his wrists and we sit like that for a while, breathing slowly together. My thumb seeks his pulse points and I let myself focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat and nothing else. This is the quiet companionship I’ve always craved, someone to just be with. No demands or expectations.
“Fuck, I really missed you,” he says, his voice humming near the top of my head. I melt further into him, but am rudely interrupted by my phone buzzing on the coffee table.
Mum: Dinner in the microwave if you want it when you get back. Me and your dad are turning in. Night love.
“Oh, no,” I sigh. “I forgot to tell my parents I wouldn’t be back for dinner. Mum put leftovers aside for me.”
“Well,” he says, squeezing me tighter then nudging me to stand. “I might not know much, but I know we don’t get on the wrong side of Mrs Porter. Let’s get you home.”
Ollie walks me out, holding my hand the whole way. Every second feels one step closer to something, and one step further away from something else.
My head is a mess. I don’t know what I’m doing, or what he wants, or whether it’s OK to tell him I want him, even though he won’t be here much longer. I thought there’d be more time, but the night is already over, and I wish we’d spent the last hour doing more than just talking.
We could have been kissing this whole time. We're almost at my car, about to say goodbye, when I remember he's always telling me to stand up for myself. To grab life with both hands. Ask for what I want.
I fumble with my keys and twist, pulling him closer until our toes touch.
“Can I kiss—” we both say, breaking into wide smiles.
I tip up as he dips down, lips barely touching. We’re useless, too busy grinning and giggling to make the necessary shapes with our mouths.
He clears his throat, drops his hands to my hips, then nudges me until I’m pressed between him and my car door. I think being pressed between Ollie and hard surfaces is my new favourite hobby.
A thin noise escapes him. My breath sounds shaky, and there are no other sounds in the cool night air.
“...you,” he whispers.
He cups my face, holding me right where he wants me, dragging the seconds out until he captures my mouth. I let him lead, let him guide me open to slip his tongue inside. Ollie’s kisses kick-start something chemical, and my body knows what to do without thinking. We push and pull, grab and grind. He moans, I moan, and it doesn’t matter that there’s no future here. All that matters is now.
I try to pull away, to ask him to take me back upstairs, but I can’t stop and neither can he.
“Get a room!” some teenager on an electric scooter shouts across the car park, and we freeze, the flat of his tongue pressed against mine, his hips pinning me in place. I let my head fall back against the car, release my grip on his t-shirt and groan.
“We have got to stop doing this in public places.”
“Shame,” he says, dipping to lick at the hollow of my throat. “Quite a lot I’d like to do with you in public places.”
Heat blooms in my belly and I cover my face with my hands, whining as he comes back up. I let my forehead drop against his chest. He cups the back of my head and holds me there.
“Can I text you later?” he whispers into my hair, and I smile the entire drive home.
Ollie still hasn't texted by the time I get into bed, and I am so far from calm about it. Can I text him first? Could I be cool and casual about it?
That I’m getting myself in such a state about it suggests, no, probably not. I must draft one hundred messages in my head before I give up all hope and turn out the light.
Seconds later, my phone screen illuminates the room. My arm reaches out so fast I knock my phone to the floor, and am half out of the bed, leaning over the edge to see what he has to say.
Ollie: Do you have plans for Friday night?
Getting naked with you, ideally.
Obviously, I can't say that. I can’t pretend to be doing anything fun, either. It’s not like I have a buzzing social life. He knows full well I’ve spent every Friday with him lately.
Be chill, Megan.
He doesn't need to know I was waiting by my phone for him to text me. For all he knows, I could be fast asleep. I should take a breather and reply in the morning, but my giddy little heart has me typing before I can properly engage my brain.
Megan: Nothing, why?
Ollie: I think you should come over
My blood thumps in my ears while I watch him type another message, delete it, then type again.
Ollie: For a sleepover
I pull the covers over my head, kicking and squirming underneath them. A few seconds later, another message lights up my dark cocoon.
Ollie: Though I can’t promise there’ll be much sleeping.
The squirming turns into a full body shiver. How do you reply to a message like that? I couldn’t bring myself to type half of the things I actually feel for him.
Ollie: You should be sleeping now though. It's late.
He texts faster than I can come up with responses, and here was me thinking double texting was a dating faux pas these days. Maybe Ollie's generation doesn't care about all those rules and games people my age play. He's almost a decade younger than me, what else is different that I don't know about? Will it be rude if I wait until the morning to reply?
Megan: I can't sleep. A boy keeps texting me.
Ollie: A man, Megan. Not a boy.
Megan: See you Friday
Ollie: Can’t wait x
He puts kisses on the end of his texts.
This is going to be the longest week of my life.