Chapter 17
Dafne
Ollie has been quiet ever since we got out of rehearsal, which is unlike him, but I haven’t pushed it. Before parting ways to go shower, he told me he’d meet me and Phoebe in the canteen for dinner. Phoebe and I get back to our dorm room from our respective rehearsals almost simultaneously, so I warn her not to point out if she later notices anything abnormal about his behaviour.
“I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the epilepsy,” Phoebe considers an hour later, when we’re freshly showered, changed, and ready to fill our grumbling stomachs.
“I don’t think so,” I say as we jog down the stairs, “I think it’s something else entirely.” I have a good inkling of what that something–or someone, rather–may be, but I say nothing.
I’d rather he told us both, if and only if he feels like it. As we step into the canteen, the smell of delicious curry immediately fills my nostrils, and I can’t help but sigh in content.
“Sorry, Phoebs, I know you hate curry,” I grimace.
Phoebe rummages through her bottomless bag and lifts the corner of a small plastic tupperware.
“You should know by now that I always come prepared,” she whispers, rattling the contents of the green plastic container.
“Is it that barley salad I can never pronounce?” I ask.
“ Byggrynsalat ,” she nods sagely in perfect Norwegian.
She cracks me up. I get in line to grab my food and an extra chocolate chip cookie for both Phoebe and Ollie, then make my way to the table Phoebe secured.
I’m almost there, when someone bumps into me with the entire left side of their body–and I can see the vision of what’s about to happen so clearly. My food splattered on the marble-like floor, me falling face-first and possibly breaking my nasal septum. Except none of that happens, because a strong arm is holding me upright by the waist, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other gripping the food tray around me. I turn, praying it’s not who I think, knowing damn well it’s exactly him. Theodore’s eyes roam over my face, then he abruptly lets go of my waist but keeps his hand on the tray like he’s not sure I can support it on my own. My fluttering stomach would agree. Funny–I don’t remember enjoying being the damsel in distress in real life. I feel like a terrible feminist right now. He eyes the tray and slowly loosens his grip until he removes his hand completely.
“Thank you,” I mutter, moving my hair over my shoulder with one hand in what I hope resembles a confident ges-ture, holding onto the tray for dear life with the other.
“Hey, you,” Theodore says somewhere to my back, “Are you going to apologise for nearly making her fall?” he asks, his tone on the verge of authoritative, and I wonder if Phoebe happens to have a mini fan in that bag of hers.
“Price, it’s fine, they probably didn’t even notice–”
He eyes me, one eyebrow raised. Is he scolding me?
I turn and see the culprit staring at Theodore like he’s been struck by lightning, then look between the two of us and mumble a sorry before sprinting towards a table on the other side of the room. Theodore makes a rumbling sound like he’s not satisfied with the boy’s answer, so I place a hand on his arm.
“He was clearly a first-year, I’m sure he’s been terrorized enough for the day,” I say in my most placating tone.
Theodore clears his throat, then nonchalantly gazes around the room, looking everywhere but at me.
“Are we good?” he asks, as if he didn’t really care about the answer, and maybe it’s presumptuous of me, but I think he does.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” I reply with a smile, having decided approximately three seconds ago that I will not be the one to cave in. His gaze drops to me now, as warm as wildflower honey.
“Maybe because we–” he stops. “I just think we should talk about it.”
“Not in the middle of the canteen, we shouldn’t,” I reply simply.
He nods, and when his eyes fall on the table where his friends are sitting at he asks, “Is Oliver good?” His voice is strained, like he would have preferred dropping a hammer on his big toe than ask the question. That makes me purse my lips. “Since when do you care about Ollie?” I inquire, subtly stealing a look at Phoebe. She’s staring at us as if we were a movie, and the salad she’s stabbing with her tiny recycled-plastic fork the popcorn. Theodore clicks his tongue and shakes his head lightly.
“I don’t,” he shrugs, then walks back to the table where Devon and some of the other lads are chatting animatedly. What is he acting all mysterious for?
I plop onto my seat at the designated table, my tray clattering as I drop it with a tad too much force.
Phoebe cleans her mouth with the green paper napkin that matches her tupperware, looking as proper as Maggie Smith’s character in Downton Abbey .
“Well,” she says slowly, setting her cutlery down in perfectly parallel lines, her baby pink manicure shining under the cafeteria lights. “The plot thickens, and so does–”
I can’t stop the laugh that erupts from me. “ Phoebe , not in front of my–” I don’t finish the sentence, because a near-empty tray appears next to mine, the seat to my left being filled by Ollie.
“Who eats curry with coconut sauce?” he grimaces, eyeing my now semi–cold dinner skeptically. Still laughing from Phoebe’s colourful use of semantics, I nudge him lightly.
“You know I do. I’d cover everything in coconut if I could.” Phoebe chokes on her water then, and I tilt my head in question. She wiggles her eyebrows, and my eyes grow wide because I can’t believe that’s where her thoughts went. Again . Pervert.
Ollie nods knowingly, crossing his arms over the table by pushing his tray further from him. Phoebe smiles brightly at him and asks, “What’s up, Ollie?”
I take a bite of my cookie and look over at him.
“Not much,” he sighs. “I found a penny in my shoe, tomorrow will rain, I like a bloke as more than a friend, the usual.” He says it casually, but Phoebe and I exchange a look. Wait, what? Just like that?
“You want to talk about that last thing?” I ask carefully, offering the cookie I got for him, which he accepts and starts breaking in smaller pieces.
“What’s there to talk about? It doesn’t change anything, does it?”
“Of course not,” I place a delicate hand on his arm. There’s nothing Ollie could do or be that would make me love him any less, least of all the fact that he likes a lad.
I’m just … disappointed at myself for not realising so oner. I mean, what happened today at rehearsal had me wondering whether something was going on, and perhaps he hadn’t figured it out himself until a short while ago, but I always took pride in knowing him better than anyone else. I just wish I could have been there for him.
His silence should tell me not to insist, but I decide to take a leap of faith that he’s not going to run away, and ask the question that will keep gnawing at me if I don’t set it free. This is not the place, though.
“I propose a walk,” I say then, “but first, we pick up dessert.”
Phoebe and Ollie look at each other, then at me, then scramble out of their seats. I’ll take that as a yes.
Phoebe’s arm is linked with mine, which makes it difficult to get the spoon of my single portion of crème br?lée to my mouth. Ollie has been quiet, and I’m sure he’s grateful for the silence being filled by our friend’s anecdotes about her castmates. When even she runs out of words, I take a deep breath and turn to Ollie.
“Does it maybe have anything to do with Devon? You know, your realisation?”
He doesn’t answer for a few beats.
“Is it that obvious?” he grimaces, removing some stray cream from his chin with the back of his hand.
I smile warmly and say, “I probably wouldn’t have thought much about it before, but your reaction to that thing Mr. Hackle and Devon said about Tybalt and Mercutio …” I shrug. “The last time I saw that expression on your face your mum was telling you about how she’d caught you making out with Tam on her new couch. It all makes sense now, the time you spend with him.”
“Are you upset?” the corners of his mouth pull down.
“Ollie–no, absolutely not.”
“I’m not either, in case you were wondering,” Phoebe says over a mouthful of dessert. That makes him snort. “Good.”
“So … are you going to do something about it?”
“Like what? Just because we’ve been hanging out, that doesn’t mean he’s interested,” he huffs.
“He wouldn’t show his interest if he thought you were into girls only, now, would he,” Phoebe considers, and fails to stifle a yawn.
“Phoebs has a point,” I say as I take her empty plastic bowl from her hands and stack it over mine. “You’re the one who’s been telling me to take risks for the past fifteen years, yeah?”
“I hate when you use my wisdom against me,” he narrows his eyes, but I can tell he’s only mildly annoyed.
“Truth hurts,” I nudge his elbow, and we start heading to the dorms.