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.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound rude. I just meant she’s one person, and so are you, so it’s the same thing.”
“Of course it’s too big for me too, but I don’t mind. I can keep an eye on Gran.”
I nod. “She must love having you look out for her.”
“She’s the one who looks out for me, really.”
I nod again. I have a Nonna, so I know what that’s like.
Oliver sits on the leather sofa, a coffee table before it with an open laptop and worksheets fanned out on top.
“Take a seat.” He pats the spot beside him. “I’m just catching up on schoolwork.”
I do as he suggests and pick up a worksheet, noticing it’s from over a month ago. “Have you not corrected these yet?”
He laughs as if it’s nothing. “Told you I was behind.”
“Oliver! You’re very behind. These should have been done already. The kids need their results if they’re going to progress.”
Picking up a red pen, I start marking the children’s narratives for their portfolios they’ll present in the coming weeks at the end of term.
“I know.” He leans back and places his hands on his head. “I’ve just been so busy.”
“With what?”
Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m curious as to what he’s prioritising over his students.
“Er… Gran. She’s been sick.”
“Oh!” I put down the worksheet and pick up another. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah. Well, some days. She has angina.”
“That’s no good.”
“She’s on meds, but I have to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t do too much, you know?”
I nod and giggle at Evan Hunter’s narrative.
“What’s so funny?”
“Evan’s story,” I say. “I don’t think he likes his mum’s boyfriend.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
I point to the part where Evan locks his mum’s “friend” in a lion cage.
Oliver leans forward and reads what Evan wrote. “I reckon you’re right.” He leans back again, happy for me to continue correcting his work. “Poor kid. With a mum like his, he doesn’t stand a chance.”
I frown. “You don’t know that.”
“Have you seen Mrs Hunter?”
“Of course I’ve seen her.”
“Well, then, you’ll agree she