Disclaimer: Still don't own
On Saturdays, Maeve sleeps late. Work doesn't start until four in the afternoon, though her shift frequently lasts until the early hours of Sunday morning, so the first part of the day is hers to sleep and to do assignments—or, on lucky days like this one, when she hasn't got any assignments coming up, to read. Generally Aimee will call, or Elsie's foster mum, Anna.
It's ten in the morning before she crawls, yawning, out of bed, and pulls on a pair of shorts beneath her oversized T-shirt. Checking her messages, she sees a text from Otis: I don't know Latin, unfortunately. Or is that Greek?
It's Latin, nerd, she types. Greek uses a different alphabet.
The kitchen, predictably, is a mess. Most of their crockery and cutlery is stacked in the sink, which is half-full of grey, scummy water. Messy scraps of potato peel are piled on the kitchen counter, which is disfigured by an alarming smear of ... something. It looks a bit like mustard, but Maeve is disinclined to confirm this impression by inspecting it more closely.
The cheap apples she got from the about-to-expire section in the supermarket have started to spoil. Brown spots have begun to bloom on them, in some cases flecked with white-green mould. She should've put them in the fridge, she thinks, but it's a small fridge. She and her two housemates are always figuratively jostling for space to store their food.
The apples are probably still salvageable, if she cuts off the spoiled bits and cooks the rest.
A glance at the knife block, and she curses—the only clean knife, it seems, is the long, serrated one they use for bread.
Maeve sighs, resignedly. Then she puts on the latest album by Sløtface (turned up loud), and gets to work on the sink.
An hour and a half later, the sink is spotless, and Maeve is sitting with her feet up—no one around to tell her not to put her boots on the sofa—picking at a bowl of fragrant stewed apples and surfing through channels on the TV. The flat was furnished before she arrived, which is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it saved a lot of money and stress. On the other, there remains something vaguely horrifying about using a mattress upon which countless other students have doubtless drooled, spilled alcohol, and exchanged bodily fluids. The couch, too, is old and has suspicious stains that she tries not to think about too much.
She's just decided to give up on the TV—the only thing that looks vaguely interesting is a David Attenborough documentary about giraffes—when her phone rings.
"Hey, Anna."
"Hey, Maeve. How are you doing?"
"Pretty well, thanks. No assignments this week, just got work tonight."
"They treat you okay at that place? Pay you fairly? No sleazy strangers?"
"Yeah, yeah. Bartending's quite fun, actually. And I don't mind the sleazy strangers. Lots of practice dealing with em."
"You're a lot tougher than I was at twenty-one. Just remember, call me if you need anything, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, Elsie's right here, and she's been pulling my arm off wanting to speak with you, so I guess I'll hand you over. She's been looking forward to this all week—haven't you, darling? Here you go..."
"Hi, Elsie."
"Maeve! Guess what?"
"What?"
"We got turtles! Their names are Andy, Bandy, and Bob, and they're really small, and they swim around—"
"Wait, Els, hold up. Anna got turtles?"
"No, silly. We got them at school, and we got to name them, and Mr. Liu said that we can feed them. D'you know what to feed a turtle, Maeve?"
"No, actually, I don't. Do you?"
"Evvything," Elsie says, happily. Then, with great concentration— "They're om-nee-vores."
When Maeve gets her roster on Tuesday, she's rostered to work on Friday night. She refuses to feel disappointed.
OTIS: Have you read anything by Terry Pratchett?
MAEVE: I haven't, actually. Do you recommend?
OTIS: "It is said that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. That is true, it's called Life."
MAEVE: I like that. How is your week going?
OTIS: Pretty good. Accidentally therapized another random. Are you coming to lecture on Friday?
MAEVE: Nope. I gotta work
OTIS: Oh
[Lengthy pause; typing bubble]
OTIS: Any chance you'd want to hang out Saturday or something?
MAEVE: Maybe. I don't work mornings.
OTIS: Weather's going to be shit. Where would you want to meet?
MAEVE: Your college room?
[Flustered pause; sporadic typing]
OTIS: Sure. I'm in Churchill.
On Saturday, it rains, heavily, and Maeve wakes up to a text from Otis. It's raining buckets. You ok getting here?
Honestly. She'd also had to walk home from work at 2am that morning, and it was pouring worse then.
Yeah, I'll be fine. Only just woke up, though. See you in an hour?
She spends half an hour getting ready. That's totally normal for her, of course, and if she does put on her favourite top and nicest mini-skirt, that's purely because they were clean and at the top of the drawer. Well... halfway down, and behind a pile of underwear. Plus, she has to find her umbrella—her rain coat is still dripping in the bathroom after last night's ordeal.
The second half hour is spent walking to campus. Otis meets her outside Churchill, hovering in the shelter of the entrance way. When he sees her walking towards him, he darts out into the rain. "Maeve! You walked? Don't you have a bike?"
"Technically. But it's got a flat tire at the moment. Anyway, I prefer to walk. I only learned to ride a bike a couple years ago."
"Well, I'm giving you a lift home after this. No arguments."
"Trying to get rid of me already, dickhead?"
"No." He does the old, adorable head tilt and slight smile that he used to do when he was being pedantic. "I'm planning ahead. How was work?"
"Long. We didn't finish til 2am. This very drunk woman kept asking where her poodle was—no fucking idea what that was about, we don't allow pets on the premises. She was very persistent. I was very tempted to say we didn't allow pets or pests, but I need this job, unfortunately."
"That's quite funny. You're a waitress?"
"Bartender. It's quite fun, mostly. Long hours, but decent money. Have you got a job?"
"Not a consistent one. I sometimes do stuff for Mum on term breaks. Like, secretary type stuff. And last term I did some transcribing of notes for a student with disability. Well, actually they'd been in a bad accident and broken both their arms. So temporary disability."
"I saw your mum had a new book out. It's becoming quite popular. I didn't know you had a little sibling."
"Sister, yeah. Her name's Joy. She was born halfway through our final year. Mum didn't know she was pregnant til she was nearly four months along, so... And she only told me a few weeks after that."
"Wow. No wonder you didn't speak to me all summer, you must have been preoccupied."
He gives her an odd look at that, and seems about to say something, but what comes out is nonchalant. "Yeah, I was a bit. And mum moved Jakob and Ola in to our place, too, so that was an adjustment. Actually, she was really sick after Joy's birth. Wasn't properly up and about for six or seven months, but apparently all that time in bed gave her lots of time to plan Love and Motherhood in Middle Age, so silver linings I guess."
"Wow." There are several questions on the tip of Maeve's tongue, but he cuts her off. "Should we go find somewhere to sit down? We don't have to sit in my room if you don't want, it's really not all that interesting, but there's a kitchen somewhere around here, and I could make tea—"
"Otis. Your room will be fine."
Maeve isn't sure what she expected from Otis's college room, but she isn't surprised to see that it's meticulously tidy. It's also quite small, cosy in a quaint way. On the side nearest the window, the ceiling slopes down like in an old attic. The desk is tucked into one corner, the bed into the other. In the surprisingly large floor space that remains lies a circular woven rug in bright colours—saffron yellow and dark purple.
He sees her staring at it. "Christmas present from Eric. He said it was loud and bright-coloured so it would be a good reminder of him."
Maeve swallows a giggle. "That's... does it work?"
"Given that he still texts me constantly, it's not really necessary. It's nice and soft, though." Otis is kicking off his shoes.
"Oh, should I take mine—?" Maeve is suddenly conscious of the many puddles she's stomped through on the way here.
"Yeah, that would be—yes please, if that's okay."
Ah, so he still thinks she might bite. "Yeah, it's not a problem," she says, and crouches to unlace her boots.
They talk into the afternoon. At some point her stomach rumbles, and Otis springs into action, vanishing down the hallway to the mysterious kitchen to prepare toasted sandwiches. They're good—lots of lettuce, ham, thick slices of melted cheese, even guacamole. She accepts a second sandwich, suddenly aware of being starving, and Otis sits and watches her with an expression that's a mixture of smug and bemused.
In the course of a couple of hours, she's managed to get out of Otis practically the entire story of his life for the past three years—Jean's tumultuous pregnancy; his relationship with Ruby; his largely uneventful Bachelor's of Psychology and Literature—while adeptly dodging questions related to herself. Now, she realises with alarm that Otis has a familiar look on his face—the look of someone trying to formulate a question.
"Out with it, Milburn," she snaps, though the effect is somewhat spoiled by her mouth still being full of sandwich.
"Uh..." Otis fidgets, then arranges his hands in his lap and says, in the measured, slightly prim tone he used to use for therapy, "Okay, well... I want to ask you what happened in your life after Moordale shut down, but I've noticed that you keep avoiding any questions about yourself, so I'm trying to figure out how to ask it in a way that expresses both how extremely curious I am, and also the fact that I completely respect your decision to keep some—or all—of it private."
Maeve shakes her head. "That was the most Otis response I've ever heard. Alright then. Here's what I'm willing to tell you..."
A/N: Any guesses as to what Maeve's been up to for the last three years? And thank you everyone for the lovely comments, it really encourages me to keep going.