Page 11 of Connectio
Grabbing my handbag from my nightstand, I sling it over my shoulder and pull out my keys.
Her eyes meet mine. “Is he not picking you up?”
“No. I’m meeting him at his place.”
“See? Weird. A real guy picks you up.”
She has a point, but I push it aside.
“He had a lot of class prep to do so thought it would save time if I just met him at his place. No big deal.”
“Like I said, weird.” She turns her back to me and waves her fingers above her head. “Bye. Have fun, I guess.”
Closing the front door behind me, my stomach clenches as I walk to my car and climb inside. Is it weird that I’m picking him up? I don’t go on many dates, but even I know the guy picks up the girl, at least on the first date.
What am I saying? It’s the twenty-first century. And if vaginas are going to rule the world, they should drive every now and again.
* * *
After walkingbetween two cement white lion statues sitting atop a redbrick fence that surrounds Oliver’s front garden, I make my way up his porch steps, dodging pots of succulents before knocking on his door. Déjà vu sweeps over me, and I realise his home reminds me of my Nonna and Nonno’s house. It’s weird, considering he’s my age and not in his eighties.
I shake my head, silently berating myself for thinking the very word my annoying roommate planted in my head.
“Damn you, Carly,” I mutter as the door swings open, revealing Oliver in all his Prince Charming glory—navy chino shorts, latte-coloured shirt, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. It’s exactly what he’d worn at school today, except now he’s barefoot.
I tell myself to repay the favour and pretend his feet don’t smell, even if they do.
“Hey, Lib. Come in.” He holds the door open and gestures I enter.
“Thanks.” I stop on the threshold for the slightest of seconds, expecting a kiss on the cheek or a hug but getting neither.
“Just through here, into the living room.” Oliver closes the door behind us then leads the way.
I bend to remove my sandals.
“You can leave them on,” he says.
My face burns with embarrassment; of course I should leave them on. I’ve already near killed him with them off.
“I mean, if you want to,” he adds. “The carpet is old, so it doesn’t matter.”
Without intentionally doing so, I laugh the type of laugh you hear in the audience of a TV sitcom then choose to leave my sandals on. Seems stupid to take them off when we’re leaving for dinner at any moment.
Following Oliver into the living room through open, amber-coloured, glass doors, I take in his minimalist living style—brown leather recliner sofas, stereo system, gaming console, and a couple of picture frames with photos of him and who could very well be his parents and grandparents.
Because I’m not rude, I say, “This is nice,” when it’s not nice at all. It’s old fashioned and austere.
He swishes his hand. “It’s not my place. It’s my gran’s.”
“Ohhh! I thought she lived in a flat out the back?”
“She does.”
I’m a little taken aback by his answer, and he must notice, because he continues. “The house is too big for her, so Dad built her a flat and moved me in here.”
“But isn’t it too big for you too?”
He narrows his eyes, so I cover my mouth with my hand.
