67. Megan
Chapter 67
Megan
The first day of work after school holidays always drags. Students are the opposite of well-rested, set on testing my patience with another new social media trend, and exam pressure has ramped up a notch.
My appetite has been voracious thanks to all the after-hours exercise I’ve been doing with Ollie, and I eat all of my lunch during mid-morning break.
We’ve spent most of the past two weeks in this bubble of ignorant bliss. While he goes to work, I spend the morning reading or soaking in the bath, and afternoons sewing things for the van. When he gets home we eat dinner, usually after devouring each other first, then curl up on the sofa and watch a film, or head to bed for more of the same.
Sometimes Ollie plays his guitar while I read, serenading me with a few stripped back covers of the 80s songs I know Dad makes him listen to on their way to work.
We have an unspoken agreement to not talk about dad, or work, or Ollie’s plans for leaving. If all we can do is play house for a bit, that’s fine with me. It has to be fine.
I’m counting down the minutes until I’m back in his arms, so of course Mr Jenkins emails me to ask me to stop by his office before heading home.
There’s something about being summoned to the Head’s office that makes me feel like a teenage girl all over again. Not that I was ever summoned during my school years. I was far too busy trying to score top marks in every subject to get into the sort of trouble that warranted meetings with my teachers and parents. Still, the threat lingers.
Once my prep work for tomorrow is complete, I take the long walk across the school campus. Mr Jenkins’ office is in the original part of our school building, down a long, cold corridor with polished tiles and dark panelled walls. Every step feels like it nudges something higher in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I knock three times and wait to be called in.
“Ah, Miss Porter, thank you for coming to see me.”
“No problem at all. What can I help you with?”
“Take a seat.”
Panic flutters behind my sternum as I do, perching on the edge. I’m sure I’ve read somewhere this position portrays a more powerful stance. My hands clasp together in my lap so I can’t fiddle with my lanyard.
“It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Mrs Malcolm informed me this morning that she intends to leave her post, effective immediately.”
As Head of the English department, she's technically my boss before Jenkins, and I thought we had the full year before she'd retire.
“Is everything OK?”
“Well, no, Miss Porter, it’s far from ideal, actually,” he huffs. “Her daughter has had a baby prematurely, and she wants to move closer to her to offer support with the child’s needs or something like that. There’s not much I can do about it, unfortunately.”
“Oh my gosh.” My heart aches for her. Mrs Malcolm has dedicated her life to education, and I know she was excited to become a grandmother. I hope everything is OK.
“I’ll need someone to cover her duties while we recruit her replacement.”
My heart lights up. By ‘someone’ , he clearly means me. Promotion opportunities are rare at this school, where most of the staff have comfortably coasted for years. I've been waiting for her role to be advertised, but acting up for the rest of the school year will be the perfect chance to show how well suited I am for the role.
“You know how it is with this ghastly recruitment business. We’ll never find someone before the end of term, and good department heads are hard to come by.”
“Of course. I’m happy to help with whatever is needed.”
“Good,” he muses, returning his focus to his newspaper. “I knew you would be. I’d suggest getting acquainted with her workload immediately.”
“Thank you so much for the opportunity.”
My head is in a spin on the drive home.
Head of English is the next step up, the first goal on my list, and this development means surely it's going to be mine. My job hasn’t been fulfilling for a while now, and I should be excited, but all I can think about is how this will impact my time with Ollie. Time that’s already dwindling rapidly.
As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t set a date for leaving, but there’s not much left to do in the van. He mentioned wanting to wait for warmer weather, but May is just around the corner. The thought that he could go any day kills me.
Despite spending every night in one of our beds, we still haven’t talked about what we’re doing, or what we are to each other. I want to slap myself for even stressing about it. He’s not worried about a thing. He clearly knows this is two people who are crossing paths for a short time, making the best of a strange situation.
We’re not anything and I need to accept that.
Ollie is already home by the time I park my car. I knock twice on the side of the van.
“Can I come in?”
“You have an open invite. Of course you can come in. Come and check out the new tiling.”
He extends his hand and I take it, stepping inside like I’m in a modern day Bridgerton.
Our fingers link together while he shows me his handiwork, a tiled backsplash running the length of the countertops. His cupboards have handles now, and there’s a pile of bedding waiting to be unwrapped and set out. He could go now if he wanted to.
I’m lost in my worries when he spins me into his arms and captures my mouth with a tender kiss.
“How was your first day back?”
“Strange,” I tell him. “My head of department has retired early, so I’ve been asked to cover her role until they start recruitment. It's exactly the promotion I'm after.”
“Wow. That’s exciting. Congratulations.”
“Yeah,” I shrug, still working on convincing myself to feel that way.
He lifts me up, perching me on the edge of the elevated bed, and my knees lock around his hips instinctively. It’s so natural, the way our bodies move together. His hands sneak up underneath my jumper, mine weave into the curls at the nape of his neck. His smile is one of peace, and it twists me up inside.
This kind of chemistry is all I’ve ever wanted, but every day we do this, he works his way deeper into my soul. I need to get this off my chest before there’s no turning back.
“This is just casual, right?” I blurt out.
Ollie freezes, then tips his head to the ceiling and chews his lip.
“Because you’re leaving soon,” I quickly add.
Ollie loosens my grip around his waist and turns back to his countertops, grabbing a cleaning spray and wiping them down. “Yeah, of course. Because I’m leaving.”
“Exactly. So we're just…”
Dammit.
I ran this conversation over in my head on the drive home, and now I’ve forgotten everything I wanted to say. Here I am trying to protect my silly little heart from getting too attached, but it hadn’t occurred to me that this would be a difficult conversation for him, too.
“Making memories?” he offers, scrubbing at the same spot he just cleaned.
“Yes! Exactly. Making memories. Life’s all about memories, isn’t it? Didn’t you say that? Or was it someone famous?”
He keeps spraying and wiping, his shoulders halfway to his ears. He hasn’t looked this tense since he locked me in the bathroom and told me off for bringing that terrible date home.
This is awful.
Hopping down, I wrap my arms around him from behind. I don’t know if I can stand to see his face right now, but I press my ear to his shoulder blade and feel him shift with a shaky inhale.
“They’re really good memories we’re making, Ollie. I'm glad we're on the same page about that.”
“Me too.” He twists to face me, his kiss on my forehead lingering far too long. “I’m almost done here. Want to make some memories in the shower after?”
“Yes, I do.”