5. Olly
FIVE
OLLY
He’d watched me as I walked away to get our drinks.
I’d bet anything on it. Why this gave me a little thrill, I wasn't sure. I suppose it's because I haven’t noticed anyone look at me, really look at me in a very long time. It was part of the reason my arrangement with Shepard had worked out so well. He was the special kind of person who didn't judge someone for being curvaceous or skinny when it came to a bed partner. When I had first arrived in Kingston, it was after bitter, ugly years of teasing and torment at my high school because I was always the biggest girl in our grade, at least after I’d gotten pregnant and never really dropped the baby weight. I remember having a horror film fest at my house on prom night, starting with the original Carrie because I was actually a bit scared about what might happen if I did go to the damn prom. My mind was a lot more chaotic back then, and all those bullies in one place with teenage hormones flying in the air, goddess knew it was best I stay away. Shepard didn’t give a damn about those kind of shallow teenage concerns.
He thought my curves were sexy, and I was starting to think this was an opinion shared by Clark.
Clark, the incredibly handsome man with the beautiful soul who was my underling at work.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him in that way at all, considering the power imbalance, just for starters.
But that handshake! I knew him, and I knew he was in my life for good, now, meant for me from the time he was around one, and I was born.
Or maybe I was meant for him from the time I took my first breath in this world.
I let out a hiss of frustration at such crazy thoughts and grabbed some Coke Zeros.
I had just met the guy outside of the workplace, for Pete’s sake, and I didn’t need to be piling crazy on top of crazy when it came to us belonging together.
We were just acquaintances, and I wasn’t doing what I’d done with both Joey and Shepard: jumping into their beds as soon as possible.
No, this time, I think I was going to get to know him as a friend and see where things went, if anywhere, beyond the boss-and-employee dynamic.
I made my way back to the living room to find my new down-the-hall neighbour standing at my closed balcony doors and looking out over George’s Island as the last bits of daylight burned out and the fog rolled in.
I walked up beside him and handed him a drink, saying, “It’s quite something, isn’t it?
And to think I live here. I had a roommate I didn’t want to leave in a lurch,” I offered, by way of explanation.
“He’s in information too but really is kicking ass as an artist. We shared a third-floor walk-up quite far from here—I mean practically in Oz—and further yet to the Information Complex.
The commute in winter was hell. Actually, so was the commute in summer.
Anyway, some of his pieces started to finally sell after he made a deal with this gallery down near the Historic Properties.
I really hope the fetus—er, baby, I guess—has inherited his talents.
” Now I just needed to take time out to look through the binders of couples looking to adopt, I inwardly muttered.
I don’t know why I was procrastinating on that, but every time I so much as looked at the paperwork and the binders from the adoption agency I was working with, I felt something inside my stomach twist around, like I was looking at something offensive and had to close my eyes for a moment and then look away.
I knew I was doing that weird thing where I rubbed my left arm over my belly and immediately stopped.
There was no point in thinking about the pregnancy like that.
In fact, for the first week or so after I’d found out, I had thought of it as a parasite.
It felt that way still, sometimes. This little invader, taking over my body, bit by bit, in numerous ways, most of which were very unwelcome.
However, after seeing the look on people’s faces when I said the word “parasite” or “invader,” I decided to stop making everyone else uncomfortable and just roll with it when they called the wee thing a baby, child, etc.
I knew how I felt about the situation, and many an awkward conversation had been had in the elevator, in a team meeting, and around the pastry and coffee station.
People assumed I was excited about the pregnancy, and someone even asked me—horror of horrors—when I was going to have my gender reveal party.
This was so different from my high school days, when people saw how young I looked and my pregnant belly was an object of ridicule or of scandal.
As we sat on either end of my gorgeous cream-colored couch—most of my apartment was now white or white-adjacent, to keep it bright and airy and make me think of Scandinavia, a region I always wanted to visit—Clark reached for the remote and asked, “Can I? I’m curious what you’ve got in your Netflix list.”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
Clark wielded my remote like a pro, not needing to ask questions about how to get to the right page.
I had a feeling he had a Roku TV, too. He got to my viewing history, and my favorite shows were there on display for his judgement of me.
Number three was Bridgerton—which I know he watched, when I had given his thoughts a light touch earlier—two was Pride and Prejudice, and right at the top was Squid Game.
I had a bit of a thing for South Korean entertainment, and not just after I’d fallen in love with the K-pop group BTS.
When I’d first had a vision at thirteen, which I drew, of course, of me moving in with the Parks at fifteen, I couldn’t help but develop an interest in South Korean culture.
They were from Seoul, after all. I had started a hardcore attempt at learning the language about a year and a half before I would actually meet them, and singing along to K-pop or watching K-dramas helped.
It was all worth it when I greeted them for the first time in their own language.
They knew I was considered a “problem” child, already having been knocked up and shuffled through three different homes.
But when Mother Park came over and the way she looked at me as I nervously babbled in Korean to her, it was like the clouds parted and the sun emerged.
I promised her I would do my best to be a credit to her, and when I asked her if she would teach me to cook Korean food, she teared up.
Even Father Park cleared his throat a few times and seemed impressed.
Now I was fluent, but it didn’t come up often with others, and sometimes I even forgot about it until Father Park called, and we conversed entirely in Korean.
In the past, when times were tough, I had offered Korean tutoring for students at Queen’s and then down here in Halifax.
I loved the determination and grit my students had to keep coming back every week to learn a rather difficult language.
I got distracted, and Clark practically scared me to death when he asked, “I’ve never seen this. Mind if we stick it on?” He was hovering over Squid Game.
“No, I don’t mind at all. But I have to warn you, it’s pretty twisted and dark.
It’s a social commentary about class differences in South Korea, in a lot of ways, and goes over the top to make its points.
I can’t help but enjoy it, though. Oh, and don’t change the settings to English.
It’s so much better in the original Korean with English subtitles.
If I notice anywhere where the subtitles really mess it up, I’ll let you know. ”
“You know Korean?”
“Yup. I was adopted by a Korean couple when I aged out of the system. They’re great. The only reason I don’t have the last name Park is because they felt that I should keep that connection I had to my family who died. They are very...conscientious about things like that.”
I grabbed my super-soft blanket that I had gotten when I moved and pointed at a similar blanket on the other end of the couch that Clark could use. He shook his head, and the way the fading light came in from the windows and hit his face really drove home how damn attractive he was.
“Oh hell, the food! I can't believe I forgot all about it, and I am so hungry or at least the baby is. This would be a good stopping point if you wanted to get some dinner before the first big twist of the show happens.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Clark said as he joined me on the trek back to the kitchen and advanced to the counter to start opening bags while I grabbed plates.
The smell of Chinese food wafted my way, and I sighed happily as he pulled out containers from my cloth bags.
Things were quiet between us, but not an awkward quiet, an easy one, as Clark was scooping portions of each dish onto plates.
Then he casually threw in, “And here I thought you didn’t like me because of my background. ”
Yikes. What was that about it not being awkward?
I guess it was bound to come up at some point.
“I don’t dislike you. Not a bit. It’s just that being a children’s librarian didn’t help matters when we were vetting candidates.
My superiors saw something in you that I didn't see. This is serious business, not story time followed by singing ‘Sleeping Bunnies.’ You excelled in the computer-based tasks, the big moment being when you got as far as you did hacking into our systems, which we asked you to do as Jeff’s weird idea of a mix of creativity and problem-solving.
And they liked your attitude. They say they think you have potential to succeed here.
But the problem, as you were asking, is that I'm the one who has to train you.
And I'm the one who will have to wear your mistakes.” I snagged a piece of the lemon chicken, and as I licked the sauce off my index finger, I moaned at the deliciously seasoned, citrusy flavor.
Clark didn’t miss a beat. He kept right on scooping food onto already bulging plates as he said, “Then I'll be honest too. I feel like you're dismissing me and what I can do before you’ve had a chance to see my abilities in practice. How do you know that I’ll make so many mistakes you'll have to wear them? How do you know I wouldn’t own up to those mistakes being mine to Mr. Stevens, Mr. Barkhouse, or anyone else in the company?
I don't allow other people to take the fall for me, ever. My God, this ginger beef smells amazing.”
I was surprised by the intensity of his response, like he was going to make good on his word to own up to any potential disasters that might happen.
Not a lot of people had integrity like that, and I believed him.
My attention to the conversation just did a one-eighty as he switched from future workplace disputes to handing me a dish heaped with food.
I decided to let the heavy stuff go and just enjoy my filled plate.
If I could get through this meal without any nausea, it would be a feat of awesomeness, even more astonishing than the way the feast on my countertop looked and smelled.
I was suddenly reminded of Asian food night at Jeff and Aaron’s, the night I got pregnant.
Nope, scrub that from your brain, I thought. Be a good host.
“Feel like moving this meal over to the couch and coffee table?” I asked. “We could keep watching the show then, if you can deal with a lot of gore while eating.”
“I’m game if you are,” he said, smiling again at me.
We had settled into a rhythm of shouting at the TV and stuffing our faces with fragrant, robust, mostly vegetarian food.
This felt nice. Like the start of a friendship, if we could work out all the possible pitfalls of working together at Rose Financial.
When the first episode ended, he picked up the remote and looked over at me.
We still had half-full plates of food, and would it really disturb my night for the worse if I did something other than cuddle up with my Squishmallow collection and listen to an audiobook until I fell asleep?
“Oh, why not?” I said, and nodded as he advanced to episode two.
In for a penny, in for a pound, as they said.
Clark smiled at me, and it was like a burst of light had just filled my semi-dark living room.
So what if he was devouring my favorite dish—ginger beef—at record speed, at least he was enjoying himself.
I think. I decided to do a quick read on him, mostly to detect his humanity and not otherworldliness.
I mean that handshake was really something and I was certain I would have been able to detect his inhumanity in it if he was some kind of other creature, but after Gemma, I wasn’t taking any chances.
I put my plate on the coffee table just in case of any nasty surprises, then reached out and did the mental equivalent of lightly poking his brain—some might say his heart—to see what I could.
Instead of the cold dread I felt earlier, this was warmth, sunshine, a wood fire on a winter’s day.
Clark was layers and layers of fully alive human being, and a complex one at that.
I wanted so badly to linger in his mind and see more of what I had seen when we shook hands, but I also didn’t have his consent.
Our first time hanging out was not the right time to drop the psychic bomb on him, no matter how long it felt like I knew him.
“Olly, are you okay? Feeling sick?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
He made me feel guilty for eliciting that reaction in him.
I didn’t think he’d notice if I skimmed his mind, but I think he did, even if he had no frame of reference to understand what had happened.
I hit pause on the show for a moment while I got up to carry my plate back to the kitchen.
“No, I’m good, just full. If I eat any more lemon chicken, I’m going to sprout feathers.
” Clark laughed and finished his plate just as I was scooping the bit of mess left on mine into the compost. “Shall we return to the television and leave this all here, or be responsible adults and clean up the dishes and everything now? Choices, choices.”
“I will definitely help you clean up, Olly.” Clark looked so good as he stood there, his T-shirt tight on his chest and his hair having flopped down a bit toward his eyes.
Could he even begin to feel this...whatever was going on between us?
I could just ask him, but geez. Explain that one to human resources for me.
We decided to clean up now and have another evening of Squid Game soon to finish the episode.
Eh, better than nothing. Squishmallow pile, here I come.