The Missing O

Instantly glad I’d asked for Charlie’s advice, Oliver opened the door with a small smile. He was barefoot, clad in his usual pair of tight, dark jeans and a black and green flannel shirt I’d seen him in twice before.

The building he lived in was on the outskirts of the town centre, just past a few run down warehouses, not too far from some high-end bars and restaurants. It took me a while to find, nothing but a text from Oliver with directions to guide mine and my decaying car’s way.

The further I got into the more expensive part of town, the more suspicious I grew. Walking up the steps, through the reception of the apartment complex and riding in the elevator, I wondered exactly what kind of money Oliver was on. This place was nice. Real nice. And I hadn’t even seen the inside of his place yet.

“Hey,” he stepped aside, against the door, waiting for me to walk in. Inside the apartment the first thing I noticed was how warm it was and that something smelled damn good. “You can throw your jacket there,” he nodded at an armchair by the front door, the coat rack beside it almost toppling over from the amount of garments clinging to it. I slipped my shoes off, now barefoot too.

“Wow,” I breathed, wiping my hands on my jeans. Oliver smirked embarrassedly, ducking his head and scratching the back of his neck. “This is really nice.”

Awkwardly, he half smiled, “Thanks. We only moved in a few months ago, so it’s still a bit of a mess.”

I shook my head at him, looking around at the incredible room I was in.

To my left was an entirely exposed brick wall, nothing but a single photo frame hanging off it, a picture of Oliver and a group of boys I didn’t recognise, other than Matt. The floors were all original wood, I could tell, stained and waxed. Well looked after.

The front door opened onto what was a kitchen dining area, but it was larger than the entirety of Charlie and I’s little flat. The walls were painted a Mocha Coffee colour, lit warmly with wall lamps and the hood over the cooker, where I saw pots and pans. That would explain the smell of delicious cooking over the homely smell that was oh so reminiscent of Oliver himself.

“You find it okay?” he asked, and I felt my cheeks burn. I’d been gawping, open mouthed at my surrounding for a good solid minute.

“Uh, yeah, not too bad. You could have just said the really, really expensive part of town. I would have found it straight away,” I laughed.

With another smirk and flip on his hair, Oliver pushed himself from the table he’d been leaning against and took my hand, “I’ll show you around. If you want, I mean.”

Through a door leading off of the kitchen was what was definitely the living room. There was more exposed bricks, floor boards and a fucking huge plasma screen. Peppermint green and Coral blue cushions scattered lazily over two large, black leather sofa’s, placed around a coffee table littered with magazines and remotes for the various DVD players, DVR’s and games consoles I could see wired up below the TV.

In a far corner, by a set of French windows that must have lead to a balcony, was a desk and a Mac, a model above the one I had at work. It seemed to be almost an office corner, ring binders and filing boxes stacked neatly on shelves.

“I picked up some DVDs, and there’s a load upstairs if you want to watch one later,” he shrugged, pulling me over to the stairs - yes, a second floor - after we’d idled in the lounge for a while. “I never really asked what movies you’re in to, so I just got whatever.”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied weakly. I hated how awkward I was being. I mean, this is Oliver, right? I never usually had a problem being humorously sharp-tongued and witty with him. But this secluded situation, just the two of us here, it changed the way I acted around him, without any effort. And my tension didn’t decrease at all as he was leading me hand in hand up the stairs.

On the landing there was another sofa, the leather was cracked and worn, a forest green colour now. There was a black, vinyl guitar hanging on the wall above it and on the facing wall a large bookcase filled top to bottom.

“Screw going to the library,” I uttered. “Next time I need a good read, I’m coming here.”

“S’fine with me. I’ve read all of them anyway.”

“You know, I never figured you as the reading type. Not novels anyway,” I said, scanning over some of the thick spines, most of the authors I’d never even heard of before. The lower the level of the shelf, the less sophisticated the collection got, ending on an encyclopaedia of Marvel Comics Characters.

“Not the cooking type, not the reading type,” he sighed sarcastically. He tugged my sleeve, grasping my attention. “You shouldn’t be so assumptive, Love.”

“Life’s better when it’s full of surprises.”

“Touché,” he smirked. We passed the first door, which he told me was Matt’s room, then the next which he showed me was the loo. Then a guest room, an airing closet, an actual office, and then finally, Oliver’s bedroom. “It might surprise you that I’m the cleaning type as well, don’t be surprised by how tidy it is. Matt reckons I have OCD.”

So did I. His room was spotless. I mean, the entire apartment was shockingly sharp, swanky and pretty much amazing, but his room topped it. A large king sized bed set against the back wall - exposed brick, but this time painted over white - and had a thick, wooden headboard. Quilted in black sheets, more scatter cushions and I was delighted to see a lime green stuffed bunny rabbit settled snuggly among the pillows.
Parallel to one another, there were built in wardrobes on either side of the room. I saw a door that must have lead to an en suite bathroom, and I shuddered with jealousy. This place was everything I could have wanted.

“Uhm,” Oliver lead me in a little more, our bare feet clapping together over the floor. “It’s kind of plane. I’m gonna put some stuff up on the walls, when I find something I like…”

“It’s awesome,” I grinned, taking another look around. I felt slightly intrusive, but as I caught a glimpse of more photo’s Oliver let my hand slip away for a closer look. I heard the bed squeak slightly with the protest of weight; I felt his eyes on my back, watching me.

I broke out into a smile when I picked up a photo of him and Tom from what must have been years ago, judging from the roundness of their cheeks and slightly humorous haircuts. There were ones of him and people I couldn’t name, and a few of him and who I guessed were his parents; they held enough resemblance.

Stepping back from the photo’s, my heel hit against something. Turning I saw it was a cardboard box. Actually, quite a few cardboard boxes, and I recognised them straight away as the same ones that often took up the back seat in the VW.

“Oh!” Oliver exclaimed, jumping up and crouching beside one of the boxes. “You want some free shit?” he grinned.

“What?”

“I get a load of stuff from Drop Dead, stuff that I can keep and give to friends,” he tore open the boxes, looking through sizes. “You’re a small, right?” he asked, handing me some shirts. I held them loosely in my hands, transfixed by their design. Oliver misunderstood my silence, “I mean, if you like them. You don’t have to…”

“Oliver,” he stood up, and I was shocked by how close he was, but for only a second. “These are your designs? They’re amazing.”

“I thought you hated it for a sec,” he laughed lowly, ruffling his hair with his hand. “Take whatever you want, just make sure if anyone asks you spread the word, eh?”

Grinning, Oliver elbowed me jokingly before leaving me alone in the room with an armful of the clothes. Right then was the moment where I wondered why there wasn’t a guide for this type of etiquette. What the fuck are you supposed to do in this sort of situation? Follow him out the room with everything in your hands, or pick out what you really wanted and dump the rest on the floor.

My palms sweated as I looked between the shirts and the open door, frantically wondering what my next act should be. I thought the only thing I could; what the hell would Charlie, the least socially awkward person I know, do? Dammnit.

“Morgan?” Oliver called as I pulled my favourite of the shirts over my head.

Don’t walk in now, please God, do not walk in now!

Despite how much my only human mind had fantasized just lately, I didn’t fancy being walked in on with a shirt bunched up over my bra. I snagged it down in a hurry, straightened it out and took a deep breath.

“You can just leave them until later if you want- Oh. Hey.” Oliver stopped calling me when I dropped down off the bottom step, three of his shirts tucked under my arm, along with my own. He eyed the purple shirt, stretched a centimetre or two too tight over my chest, before meeting my eyes. “Looks good,” he smirked. “I should get you to do some modelling for the line.”

“What?” I laughed, folding the shirts over my coat by the front door when we’d re-entered the kitchen so the food could be checked on. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m quite hardcore enough for that sort of thing.”

It was true; I wasn’t exactly like Oliver. Sure, I enjoyed rock music a fair deal, but I also held a fondness in my heart for the likes of Schubert and Tchaikovsky. The only piercings I had were the studs I wore religiously in my ear lobes, and a belly button ring I hadn’t worn since I was 19. Tattoos were always something I’d considered, but had never had the bottle nor money to go through with. To put it bluntly, I was more of a drooping flower whereas Oliver was a beautiful rose, thorns included.

His appearance was much more romantic and thought out than mine, I could see he took a great deal of pride in aesthetics of things, from how he styled his hair and clothed his body, to the décor and cleanliness of his apartment.

Upon seeing him this evening, I had thought we were on par with our casual attire, but now that the thought crossed me, I realised that he could wear a potato sack and pull it off with more grace, edge and effortless handsomeness than I ever could.

“I was actually thinking about toning down the models,” he got out two glasses, filled them with coke and handed me one. “The whole bright pink hair, black eye-shadow and lip-rings look kind of gets you labelled. I’m not into all that Scene shit. But your look, that’s pretty much what I’m looking for.”

The last part had been jokey, but the way he seemed to be looking at me told me different. The thought of Oliver actually liking what he saw made my cheeks burn, so much so that I pressed the cold glass he’d just put in my hand to my face.

“You sure know how to flatter a girl,” I said.

After we’d eaten enough meat free Moussakas to feed a starving army that had been so delicious we’d had seconds - Oliver wasn’t kidding when he’d said he could cook - we crouched on the floor of the living room to decide on what movie to watch.

“You sure?” he asked when I fell onto the couch, my bloated stomach weighing me down into the leather. “I don’t want to send you home crapping yourself.”

“I’m not twelve Oliver,” I laughed.

“Okay,” he sighed, setting the disk into the DVD player and turning on the ridiculously large television. “But I’m warning you, this is some scary shit.”

As he flicked each of the lights off I felt myself become shaky with nerves. I hadn’t intentionally chosen a scary film so that I could cuddle up to Oliver when I got scared. The thought hadn’t even hit me until he sat right next to me, throwing some of the cushions off of the sofa so our ribs could touch.

He didn’t wrap his arm around me or try to hold my hand. Probably because he didn’t want to, but it might have had something to do with the way I had my arms folded around my knees, my jeans pushed up against the material of my new shirt. Numerous times though, I felt his eyes on my face watching me as the light from the bloody massacre on the screen reflected across the both of us, engulfing the room in a deep crimson light.

I wanted it to be the other way around, so that I could survey him and the way his nose was so perfectly straight and narrow, or how thick his eyelashes were whenever he blinked or darted his focus. I wanted to melt as I observed the littlest movements he made, like scratching his chin, chewing his lip, or my favourite, when he’d flick the hair from his eyes.

But each time I’d turn to have one of these moments of unexplainable satisfaction I’d see he’d catch me out. Each time this happened I returned his smile until I had to turn away, void of the fix of Oliver I’d been pining for.

During the climax of the film I’d had a hard time concentrating on, an axe-wielding psychopath had jumped out on the screen and I had jumped out of shock. Oliver had laughed at me, shaken his head but after a moment or two of stewing in my embarrassment, he’d passed me one of the cushions, tucking it under my arms so I could peer over the top and hide from anything that might be out to make me shit myself again. After a sneaky sideways glance I saw that he’d taken cover too.

“I’m impressed,” He yawned whilst the credits were rolling and the lights had been turned on again. “You weren’t nearly half as much of a wimp as I thought you were going to be.”

“Right back at you,” I replied, stretching my arms over my head and arching my back. I felt the joints and bones popping, squeezing themselves out of the position I’d remained rigid in throughout the movie.

“You’ve got a nice stomach.” My eyes snapped open and my arms dropped, only to see Oliver staring at me with a smile. Slowly it fell and he looked down at his jeans. “I was only complimenting you, Morgan. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”

I guess my lack of facial expression - which to me was more of a deer in headlights look - hadn’t conveyed the reaction he’d wanted. What did he want me to say? Thanks mate, you’re not too bad yourself? Charlie probably would have. Charlie would have done a lot of things by now that I hadn’t.

After waiting for him to shrug it off like I expected him to, only to find that a minute later the air was still tight with tension and he was looking shamefully down at his knee’s, I didn’t know what to say.

Take a risk, a voice bellowed somewhere in my head. What’s the worst that can happen?

There was plenty of answers for that, like a crumpled, broken hearted future that I wanted to block out entirely. Even the mental image of it was not something I felt comfortable being confronted with. But still, the longer I sat watching the layers in Oliver’s hair slowly fall over his face, the worse the feeling got in my stomach, and I realised that I had to do something.

“It’s cool,” I said, barely over a whisper. My hand found it’s way to his knee where his eyes were kept whilst my mind screamed. This was not part of the deal. Just stop him from thinking he did something wrong and you can stop feeling guilty!

It seemed like I had two personalities this evening, because as Oliver looked up and my hand didn’t move, I felt my chest flutter and a smile form. Oh my, the second personality thought. “Just took me a bit off guard,” I said, swallowing my spit.

A laugh that was not a laugh at all, but more of a breath through his nose hit my ears, and Oliver squinted at me, head cocked slightly to the side.

“You don’t take compliments very well, do you?” he said. After shrugging, too caught up in the heat from his leg finding its way through the denim and to my hand, he asked, “Why? I mean, whenever I say something nice to you it’s like you draw back from me.”

Backing up Oliver’s statement I took my hand back and folded it in my lap. This wasn’t a conversation I felt comfortable dealing with, just like I couldn’t the image of myself somewhere in the future, curled up in a pain that could only be due to heartbreak.

He looked at where my hand had been, the dejected look returning. He moved an inch closer, his hand raising up to rest somewhere on my face - to embrace. Shaking my head, I halted him and shuffled backwards.

“I just don’t.”

The next morning, when I’d woken up from a night of restless sleep and dragged my sorry ass into the kitchen, Matt was still in the flat. He sat at the table with Charlie, Kaitlyn wiggling in her high chair and was eating a full English breakfast that I hadn’t been offered any of.

“Morgan?” Charlie stopped eating on sight of me, like I was the last person she expected to see. In my own damned flat. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at Oli’s?”

“I was,” I grumbled, shoving the last two slices of bread into the toaster groggily. “And then I came home. Weren’t you expecting me to?”

“Well…no, not really.”

I ignored the look that she and Matt exchanged, the kitchen becoming completely silent other than Katie’s babbling and the scraping of knifes and forks against plates.

I knew what she was thinking: Poor old Morgan, blowing yet another chance at a relationship. I hated how she tried to compare Oliver and I to her and Matt’s relationship. Just because we weren’t seemingly madly in love like they were, doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together. She should just keep her nose out. It had nothing to do with the fact that I’d left Oliver’s feeling like the night had been a complete failure, and the fact that he hadn’t replied when I’d texted him thanking him for dinner didn’t make me ease my troubles in anyway.

I’d pushed him away, fucked it up, and every kiss, hug and sweet nothing that Matt and Charlie whispered to each other during breakfast made that very fact throb like a tumour in the back of my skull.