Bedhead: A Romance

by Kayt Miller

  A while later, maybe fifteen minutes, I hear a chiming sound. “My phone.” I flop out of bed and grab my bag to search for it. When I find it, I stare at the screen. Should I answer it? Should I just shut the phone down? “Screw it.” I jab at the button and watch as his face appears. He’s alone.

  “Love—”

  “Mate. You mean mate.”

  “Quinn—”

  Ignoring him, I say things I never thought I could or would ever say. “I can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “This.” I point at him, then at me. “My self-esteem is fragile, Cooke. But I’m not stupid. I know whatever this thing between us was… well, it was going to be short-lived.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I sniffle. “Because you’re Cooke freaking Thompson, international rugby star. You’re model gorgeous, you live in another country, and I’m….”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m… I’m just me. A boring, awkward Iowa girl. I can’t compete with gorgeous women in red sequined dresses.”

  “Look—”

  “Whatever excuse you’re about to make, save it, Cooke. I know I’m easy prey for you.”

  “Prey?” he says loudly. “You’re not bloody prey.”

  “I just mean you should be with someone like her.”

  “She’s the club sponsor’s daughter.”

  I stare at the phone, expecting more. When he says nothing else, I shrug. “So she’s perfect for you.”

  “I can’t bloody stand her. None of us can. But I can’t tell her that.”

  I sniffle again. “You said I was nobody. A mate.” A tear slides down my cheek.

  “Because it’s none of her fecking business who I talk to. She’s a shit-stirrer. If she thought I had an American girlfriend….”

  “What? She’d what?”

  “She’d push harder.”

  Push harder? “To what? Pursue you?”

  He nods, his mouth set in a grim expression. “Blokes have been left off the roster after rejecting her.”

  I stare at the phone, at him. Do I believe him? Yes. Am I disappointed? Yes. I mean, Cooke Thompson’s the best fly-half in the world. If they “leave him off the roster” because of the owner’s daughter, I’d think his fans would want to know that. “But you’re the best.”

  “Right now I’m the best. But not forever.”

  “So, you’d rather—”

  “Quinn, enough. I told you who she was and why I said you were my mate. Now leave it.”

  Wow. Just… wow. “Well, on that note, I need to go. Bye.”

  I hang up and then shut down my phone. Now instead of being sad, I’m pissed. He sounded just like my brothers. They talk to me like I’m an annoying gnat, and I’m not going to allow Cooke Thompson to do the same. Sure, I love him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him treat me like that.

  Searching my room, I find a pair of leggings and a tee and get dressed. The girls and I are still walking almost every morning. I say almost because there are days we just can’t. Like when it’s raining, or if we went out the night before, or if I had to work until close. When that happens, I’m too pooped to walk, and my roommates are on the same page, usually. Since the weather’s nice and I didn’t work last night and no one over-imbibed, the walk is on.

  I’m the first one ready to go today. That’s a first. I usually drag my ass out of my bed last. I guess it helps that Cooke woke me up so early. Sitting in one of our kitchen chairs, I close my eyes and run back through our conversation. Well, I guess you could call it a fight. Our first fight? Hell, it doesn’t matter; a fight is a fight, no matter how many we’ve had. But he was wrong this time, or at least what he said was wrong.

  “So,” Robbi says, surprising me, “what was that all about?”

  “What?”

  “Your tiff with Cooke.”

  “You heard that?”

  “Uh, yeah. You were both talking loudly.”

  We were? I don’t want to rehash it, so I shrug. “Long story.”

  She pats my back. “Lucky for you, we’ve got thirty minutes to talk about it. Come on.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Patsy has her boy over, Kat is at Ryne’s, Lindsay is across the street, and Susanna is a lazy ass.” She snorts. “Just kidding. She was up late studying for her chem test.”

  “So it’s just the two of us.”

  “Yep. Now let’s go. And tell me everything.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Robbi’s been nearly silent the entire time I tell her about the FaceChat with Cooke earlier this morning. Now she says, “I think you did the right thing. He shouldn’t have cut you off like that.”

  “Right?” I pause, trying to figure out how to say this. “But I think I may have overreacted.”

  She places her hand on my shoulder as we slow our walk. “I’ve had two serious boyfriends. The first one, I was too young to know what I was doing. The second time, I learned from my mistakes. And the main thing I learned was to nip shit in the bud right away, as soon as it happens. So, by hanging up on him, you let him know he can’t talk to you like you’re a toddler.”

  I nod. I agree with her, but I’m not sure hanging up on him was the right thing to do. “But I should’ve said something to him instead of just hanging up on him and shutting off all communication.”

  “Give it a day or so, then send him a message explaining your actions. See how that goes.”

  “I suppose that would work.”

  “Worth a try.” She pats my shoulder. “Now, let’s get inside so we can beat the others to the shower.”

  Now that they’ve gutted the basement, we’re down to one shower. Sure, I could use the one in the basement, but it’s sort of moist and creepy down there now. Creepier, I guess I should say.

  When we step into the house, we hear the shower running, and Patsy is in the kitchen making her breakfast. “Who’s in the shower?” asks Robbi.

  “Jeff.”

  “Seriously, Pats. Again?” spits Robbi. “You let your boyfriend shower here when there’s too many of us for one shower as it is. Lindsay will be over here any minute to use it too. Plus, you know the hot water heater sucks. He should’ve showered at his place. Now we’re all going to be late.”

  “Jesus, Robbi—” Patsy starts.

  “I’ll shower in the basement. That’ll help. I’m sorry.” Ugh, why am I sorry? Robbi’s right. Jeff should have schlepped home.

  “No. That’s not the point.” Robbi sounds angrier now. “That was inconsiderate to say the least, Patsy.”

  “It’s just one morning,” Patsy snaps.

  “No it’s not.” Robbi has her hands on her hips. “This is the third time in two weeks.”

  “Well—”

  “I’ll shower downstairs.” I run up, grab my towel, and run back down the steps when I realize all my shower stuff is in the main bathroom. Not wanting to get in the middle of the spat between Robbi and Patsy, I wait for Jeff to get out of the bathroom.

  I sit for a good ten more minutes before Jeff strolls out of the bathroom in only a towel. My mind immediately goes back to that night in Cooke’s hotel room. Jeff’s cute, but he doesn’t hold a candle to Cooke Thompson in a tiny towel.

  Shaking away those memories, I make quick work of grabbing my toiletries. Stepping back out, I can hear Robbi laying into Patsy again. “This place is overcrowded as it is now that we lost a bedroom and the basement bathroom. There’s just no space for our guests,” she says sort of snidely, “to use up our hot water and make us late in the morning.”

  “Robbi, I’ll take care of it. Just let it go.”

  Robbi isn’t letting it go. “How are you going to take care of it?”

  I sneak past the quarreling roommates and head down into the basement. I haven’t been down here since the day they gutted the place. When my feet hit cool concrete, I take a whiff. It doesn’t smell bad, and it looks dry. I move to the bathroom area. I can’t call it a b
athroom in its current state, so area is a good word for it. Setting my clothes on the toilet seat, I reach into the shower to turn it on—and scream. The biggest fucking spider I’ve ever seen has made a home in the wire rack that used to hold shampoo and soap. We make eye contact, my two meeting all of his. It’s black and hairy, and judging by the size of him, I’d say it could sit in the palm of my hand.

  Yeah, if I was fucking crazy.

  “What the hell!” Robbi says from directly behind me.

  I didn’t even hear her come down the steps.

  “Is that a spider?”

  “Aragog,” I say softly.

  “Jesus.” Robbi shivers. “I’ve never seen one that big before.”

  Like an afterthought, I murmur, “That’s what she said.”

  Robbi chuckles, then pulls my arm away from the shower. “You can’t use this. Someone needs to spray down here or something.”

  I grab my clothes from the top of the toilet and follow Robbi back up the stairs. “I told you guys there was something lurking down here. Now I know what it was.”

  “Yeah, Stephen King’s incarnation lives and breathes in Ames, Iowa.”

  “I just hope it doesn’t have a family.”

  “Jesus.” Robbi shivers again. “I’m calling the landlord.”

  Good luck with that. “While you’ve got him, ask him if he plans on doing anything with the basement, would ya?”

  “Will do. Now, you take the bathroom next, but hurry your ass up.”

  I walk to the bathroom, but the door’s shut. “Patsy?” I say loud enough for her to hear.

  “Yeah?” she says from behind me.

  “Oh.” I turn to face her. “Who’s in the bathroom?

  “Jeff. He had to”—she rolls her eyes—“you know.”

  “You’re shitting me.” Now I’m on the same page as Robbi.

  “What!” Robbi shouts right in my ear. “Patsy, why couldn’t he have done that downstairs or even upstairs? There’s a toilet up there.”

  She shrugs. “He’ll just be a minute.”

  “It’ll be a while,” says a man’s voice from behind the door. “My tummy is upset.”

  “Tummy?” I say almost to myself.

  “Yo, Jeff!” yells Robbi. She doesn’t wait for him to acknowledge her. “Next time, go home to shit, shower, and shave, yeah? Now none of us will be able to get ready in time.”

  “Whatever,” he mumbles, then moans from inside the bathroom.

  “I’ll just put my hair up and go like this,” I say. “I’m going to be late.”

  Loud enough for Patsy and Jeff to hear, Robbi replies, “Me too. I guess I can’t use my own goddamn bathroom to get ready for class.” Then she mumbles, “Inconsiderate fuckers.”

  This entire thing this morning gives me pause. Robbi mentioned that we’re overcrowded, especially now that the basement isn’t an option thanks to the arachnid from my nightmares down there. Heck, even if the landlord did finish the basement, that giant fucker could be living in a crevice somewhere. With its million spider babies. They could regain control of my bedroom in a matter of hours. God, I hate spiders.

  No, I need to take all of this as a sign. I need to find a new place to live. And since Tayler is going to be homeless in a few weeks, maybe I could bunk with her. The money from Mr. Becker could help me with that.

  I race back upstairs and pick up my phone to check the time, but I forgot I turned it off. Quickly restarting it, I brush my hair and put it up in a messy bun. I throw on an oversized ISU sweatshirt and slip on some fake Vans. I wish I had more time to get ready. I feel gross. At least I brushed my teeth before the walk. Oh, and I’m starving, but there’s no time for breakfast. I finally have some food too. Food that isn’t considered a carbohydrate. I used a tiny bit of the five thousand from Mr. Becker to buy myself some healthier groceries.

  When my phone comes to life, I quickly check the time. “Shit.” I’m late. Not only that, I see several messages. Cooke’s name is among them. No doubt he feels badly about earlier. I don’t have time to read them, so I grab my bag and am out the door to my pretty blue Vespa. The pretty blue Vespa that Cooke bought for me. I used the gift certificate to buy a new helmet. It’s the same style as before, but this one is baby blue, just like the scooter. The new trunk also matches the scooter. I paid a little extra to have the guys at the shop install it.

  Slipping on the helmet, I straddle the bike. I’ve got the keys in my hand, but before I start it up, I grab my phone and quickly type.

  Me: I forgive you. I’m late for class, so I’ll write more later. Long story, but I’m probably going to have to move soon. I’ll let you know where and when.

  I race to campus. When I get to the Design Center parking lot, there isn’t a spot in sight. “Of course there isn’t.”

  I drive around frantically for ten more minutes. When I don’t find a thing, I park illegally behind a short brick wall that separates the sidewalk from a grassy area behind the building. I’ve seen other scooters there from time to time, so I cross my fingers that I don’t get ticketed, or worse, towed. By the time I race into ceramics, I’m sweating, panting, and my hair looks like I’ve been in a wind tunnel. In a word, I look hellish. Not only that, there’s only one wheel left, and it’s that fucking kick-wheel.

  Shoulders slumped, I lumber to the back, mumbling, “I should have never gotten out of bed today.”

  I wouldn’t find out until later, but I was more right about that than I could have imagined.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cooke: You hung up on me again?

  Cooke: Childish. That’s what that was. Bloody childish.

  Cooke: Now your bloody phone is off, isn’t it? Well, you can just sod off, Quinn.

  See? I should have stayed in bed. God, I’m the world’s biggest idiot.

  I reread his texts to be doubly sure. Yep. I can say, without any hesitation, that Cooke was not asking for forgiveness in his messages. Nope. And if “sod off” means what I think it does, I’m pretty sure he broke up with me.

  In a text.

  What a cliché.

  I turn off my phone again because I can’t take one more text. From anyone.

  I knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The world’s second crappiest day has turned into the world’s second crappiest night at work too. Luke’s in a terrible mood, so nothing I do was right. And I mean nothing. I’m not sure what crawled up his lovely, firm ass, but whatever it was, it isn’t sitting well.

  Example. Just now, I was minding my own business, pouring a pitcher of beer. When I finished, I turned around and ran smack-dab into Chris, causing me to drop the pitcher and get us both completely drenched in beer. Chris is laughing it off, but Luke is livid.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Quinn?” he shouts. “Clean that shit up.”

  So I start to pull up the rubber mats we have behind the bar when he yells, “No, Jesus. Get the people their beer, for fuck’s sake. Then clean it up.” Then he literally growls, “On second thought, Chris, get their beer. Quinn, clean that shit up before you fall and break that Kardashian ass of yours and sue me.”

  I’m bent over and have started to lift the rubber floor mat when the words float out into the air above me.

  No.

  He.

  Didn’t.

  My face heats, and that fucking burn behind my eyes starts, but I’m not doing it. I’m not going to cry because of something some asshole says to me. Not anymore.

  Shame. I was even starting to like Luke. I rise slowly, leaving that stupid mat right where it was. My eyes meet his.

  He knows.

  I can tell by his expression that he knows he said the wrong thing. And, for once, I’m not going to put up with it. “You know what, Luke?” I’m not waiting for him to say anything, and I think he knows it, because he keeps his stupid, insensitive mouth shut. “You can go fuck yourself.”

  I toss the rag
into the sink, something he’ll be super pissed about, and start to stomp away, but the fucking mat is wet and slick, so I slip. I don’t fall, though. I’m able to keep my balance at the expense of my groin muscles, but who the hell cares. With my head held high, I stomp past the customers at the bar and stop right in front of Luke.

  “Luke Green, you’re no better than those assholes that you yelled at about the same damn thing, and frankly, I deserve better.” I’m pointing at myself when I say that last bit. “It’s not okay what you just said to me. And you know what else?”

  This time he answers. Clearing his throat, he says, “What?”

  “I’m telling Tayler.”

  He winces. I saw it. I knew he’d react to that, because the guy has been working overtime to get her to go out with him. According to Tay, he’s called her almost every night. At first it was for a booty call, so when she told him that wasn’t her style, he switched gears. Now he’s wooing her—Tayler’s words. He even sent her flowers one day, but she still hasn’t given in yet. So yeah, I knew my words were going to hit him where they hurt. In his dick. Ha!

  I grab my purse from just inside the kitchen door, and I’m out of there. But not before I shout, “Kiss my Kardashian ass, Luke Green.”

  I blubber all the way home. Crying is cathartic, right? If that’s the case, I should be cleansed as fuck. No matter. As far as days go, the horrible, terrible, worst fucking day ever is still numero uno, but this one is right up there. I mean, apparently Cooke broke up with me this morning. I found out I used to live with a spider the size of a rodent, that our house can’t sustain six roommates, and since I was the last one in, I’m the logical one to go. Also, I think I quit my job. Granted, I didn’t say those words exactly, but by telling my boss and the owner of the bar to “kiss my Kardashian ass” is pretty much quitting. I’m boyfriendless, homeless, and jobless.

  “God, my life sucks.”

  When I slow to a stop at a light, I look down at my pretty blue scooter. Petting the handlebars, I coo, “At least I’ve got you, Bluebelle.” Yeah, I named her Bluebelle. What can I say? It fits.