The Missing O

“Wow,” he said lowly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. I watched Oliver take long steps through my room, looking around him in curiosity, and then dropped himself onto the mattress, the springs squeaking in protest. “It’s really…white.”

“An observant one, aren’t we?”

He smiled, rolling his eyes, and bounced himself on my bed, as if he were testing it out. He looked much too large for my tiny bedroom, his limbs appearing even longer and ganglier, if it were possible. And he was much too colourful for the white décor he hadn’t seemed impressed with. I watched him, tall and painted like a rainbow in my quirky little room, and it reminded me of an extract from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, or Willy Wonka.

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding to a bundle of material at the head of the bed.

I picked up the tatty thing, biting my lip and smiling in fondness. I held it close my chest, smelling the dust and musk that clung to it, and a zillion memories hanging to the fibres.

“Coco Bear,” I said wistfully, holding up the teddy to show it off properly. “He’s almost as old as me,” I told Oliver matter-of-factly. “My mum bought me him on my first visit to France.”

I was just a baby, on my first trip over there, I don’t remember it at all really, but Shirley had told me stories of it so many times, I could almost smell fresh cinnamon pastries, feel the cool air on my young face as we - both of us alone in the world - looked up at the great iron Eiffel tower.

I wished I remembered the younger years, when I was still wearing little pink dresses and white ankle socks. In the photos we both looked so happy, Shirley and me. She was younger too, her hair longer and thicker, her skin softer and her eyes more alive. She’d just been walked out on by who was supposed to be the love of her life, left to raise a child all alone, and yet she smiled back at the world, every morning applying a new coat of lipstick.

In the younger years, we’d been a team, the two of us, out to show those good for nothing bastard men that we could do it without them. We could see the world, get tans and wear a hundred pairs of heels across the globe, stopping every now and then to change a diaper. I didn’t remember back then, but I pretended that I did.

“Morgan?” Oliver was staring at me, Coco Bear now limp, hanging by his foot from my grip, his bow tie dangerously close to falling off. “You okay?”

“Mhmm,” I threw the teddy on my bed, and the threw myself after it, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe my room was too white. I thought about what colour I would paint it, if I ever dared myself to do it. Purple. I liked purple.

“You know,” I didn’t move away when he laid beside me. “You never did tell me why you didn’t like me at first. Seeing as we’re here, all alone, do you think you might tell me?”

It was hard to tell when he was being serious, he always seemed to be smiling or smirking. But it didn’t matter this time, whether or not I could figure him out. All I could think about was his eyes, and how they looked at me, seeing right through my exterior, and finding something in me that was so vulnerable, it was hard not to give myself over to him completely. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway.

I watched him swallow a breath and his cheeks warm up a red when I turned and pressed the tips of our noses together, a hand slipping to the back of his neck.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He seemed curious at my dodging of his question, but humoured. He nodded, showing me his thousand dollar grin. I couldn’t help but comply with my own. “I always liked you, Oliver.”

When his lips touched mine, I felt that jolt rip through me. Familiar, but not yet old. I couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of it, of the way his mouth was so soft or the way his hands knew how to hold me close, pull me tighter without smothering or constricting. His breath was sweet on my tongue, my head growing hazy, a fire burning somewhere low in my stomach. But he pulled away, much, much too soon.

“Will you promise not to tell me off if I give you something?” he asked, in his half smile. His eyes were warm, briefly disappearing behind his lids and thick, black eyelashes. I sighed once. “It wasn’t expensive,” began, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a small, plastic baggy. He made a little space between us, but still keeping his legs wrapped up in mine, and pressed the bag into my hand. “I noticed it was missing in when we used to sit in that café. Thought it was about time you replaced it.”

I looked at the little, black round key. It was pristine, so much cleaner and beautiful than the other letters on the typewriter. The curve of the white ‘O’ was perfect, not one wobble or chip in it’s entirety.

Oliver stood behind me, watching close over my shoulder as I fixed the missing letter into it’s rightful place. It looked odd, sitting there with all the old ones. Something fresh and new, standing bold over a history. Some mine, some a strangers.

“It looks weird, doesn’t it,” he mused quietly, his hands wrapped around my waist. “Too clean.”

“No,” I shook my head. “Not odd. Right. It’s a new beginning.”

“You know,” he said, huskily now, his lips at my ear, his breath hot. “If you weren’t so cute, I’d make fun of you for being so cheesy.”

He kissed my neck and I shivered. “You’re going to make fun of me any way, aren’t you?”

He laughed into my shoulder, pulling me closer if it was possible. “Yes. But not until later.”

He pulled me backwards, and I complied whole heartedly, but not before giving the stack of papers beside the typewriter a glance, the top sheet nearly full, but still incomplete.

It was dark, darker than Marlow had seen any corner of the earth, and by now she had seen a lot of what was left of the world. Her hands were pressed into something wet and thick, slimy like algae. The smell surrounding her was putrid, clinging to everything, and she found herself unable to avoid it, even if she stuffed her nose into her shoulder. She gagged.

A noise disturbed her coughing, and her head shot up, hair flying down her back. The dark was too heavy, but the noise was loud and clear, like someone or something moving through the sticky water, long sloping movements that swayed and rippled this mysterious lake she appeared to be stuck in. Marlow could not move, her hands and knees, submerged, were fastened to the spot.

As whatever it was approached she let out a sob, and wished that Kid were there. Kid.

When they’d been brought into the building, Marlow was blindfolded as she heard Kid screaming, fighting, yelling for them to let go.

“Don’t let them get you!” She heard him crying as the sound of skin against skin, fist to bone surrounded her. Kid was being beaten, and she couldn’t do anything but whimper.

She was lead away, every nerve in her body shivering, convulsing in terror, her mind spinning, her stomach turning sick. This was very much likely to be her end. Everyone’s end. Marlow and Kid had failed, the earth was no longer in balance from danger, but firmly in it’s grasp, sinking lower and lower. She was frightened, for herself but less than she was for Kid. But more than anything she was heartbroken that they’d lost.

From the beginning until now, she’d never truly understood what her place was in all of this, what importance she held to Kid and this favour that she owed her world.

But even so -

It stopped there. Unfinished, with so many questions unanswered. There were things about the story that I didn’t know myself, even if I were to keep writing. I was still so blind, not even able to find my own way yet before Marlow would be able to find hers. It seemed unjust to try and force her life into a false direction before I knew where I was going.

How was her mother coping through all of this, her only daughter missing somewhere in the world.

Where was my mother? Somewhere in France, waiting for my reply to a letter she’d sent months ago. Her daughter, missing somewhere in the world.

And Kid, what about him? Would he live to save her, to save the world and run off together to live happily ever after, to be in love in and love one another like all stories should end?

I didn’t know. All I knew was that there was so much left unresolved, with both of us. Marlow needed her answers. I needed my best friend. I needed Charlie, someone who had grown so mysterious to me over the past few months, a stranger - as strange as Marlow’s mission was to her.

And little baby Kaitlyn. I needed her, somehow more than anyone. For so long she’d been my reason for me being who I am. And yet I was realising, that soon I couldn’t be her mother anymore. Because in reality, I wasn’t her mother, Charlie was.

It wouldn’t be long until Matt asked her, both her and Katie, to move in with him, to be his family. Despite Charlie’s shallowness, I knew she loved Matt, that she wouldn’t let this slip through her fingers because of her neediness. She’d learn, for Matt, I knew she would.

I had to be who I could be for them both until that time came. Until I had to step back and accept that I couldn’t mother them both anymore. Then, I’d have to find my own path.

But this was where my eyes became clearer, if only just a little. Because I had someone, something I’d been missing for the longest time now, to help me find the way.

Oliver was everything I needed now, and as long as he was happy to have me, I’d let him take as mush as he wished.

I’d let him threaten my harassing boss, even let him talk me into quitting and going to work for the clothing line. I’d have missed Brett if it weren’t for the fact that he insisted that we still have quality time together, inviting Oliver and myself over to his and his boyfriend, Jordan’s apartment for dinner at least three times a month.

I’d let him walk me to my door every night, and say goodbye a million times before he’d invite himself in and spend the night.

I’d let Oliver love me, and I would let myself love him back. I’d found him, and myself after all this time and it was the sweetest, most freeing thing I’d ever felt. There was no going back now.