Cocky Roommate

by Claire Kingsley

  I let my eyes close again. I’m having trouble processing everything.

  I’m not sure how much time passes—probably minutes—but I think I fell asleep. Kendra comes back with a small cup of water and a straw.

  “Here,” she says, holding it up to my lips. “The nurse said you can sip water for now. Maybe eat something later.”

  I press my lips around the straw and suck in a mouthful. The cool water feels so good in my dry mouth. It slides down my raw throat, soothing as it goes. I take another sip and nod. Kendra sets it on the counter.

  Fuck, I hate being so helpless. I can’t even get myself a damn drink of water. I want to get up and get the hell out of here, but I move and a sharp pain stabs through me. I clutch my stomach, wincing, trying not to groan.

  “Hey, don’t,” she says, putting a gentle hand on my chest. “I don’t think you’re supposed to get up yet.”

  I’m about to tell her to go home, but I meet her gaze and the words die on my lips. She keeps her hand on my chest, like she can hold me down. As fucked up as I am, she can.

  “I know.” I want her to take her hand off me, but I hope she doesn’t. What does that even mean? I’m not making sense.

  She draws her hand away. “How’s your pain level? The nurse told me last night that you might be in a lot of pain and they can help with that.”

  I’m sure they can, but I’m fuzzy enough as it is. I’d rather deal with the agony than not be able to think. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything.”

  “You don’t really look fine.”

  “I was in a fucking accident,” I snap at her. “How am I supposed to look?”

  She sighs and moves the chair back, then sits. “Oh good, the surgery improved your personality.”

  I scowl at her, but I think the expression is pretty useless. I wonder what my face looks like.

  She pulls out her phone and types.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Checking in with people.”

  “What people?”

  Her eyes lift. “Nosy. Would you like to read my texts?”

  I look away.

  “I’m telling Caleb that you’re awake,” she says. Type, type, type. “And that you’re grouchy, which means you’re halfway back to normal already.” Type, type, type. “Now I’m texting Mia. She’s engaged to my other brother.”

  “I know who she is.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve met Alex. And you talk a lot.”

  “Hmm,” she says.

  “You’re not telling them to come here, are you?”

  “I’m just letting them know how you’re doing. If you don’t want visitors, it’s fine. You need to rest anyway.”

  I almost snap at her, but again, I stop myself. My head is so fucking fuzzy. “Why are you here?”

  Her eyes meet mine again. Wait, did I ask that out loud?

  It takes her a second to answer. She looks at me, then around the room, like she’s not sure what to say. “You’re hurt.”

  “So?”

  “What do you expect me to do?” she asks. “Just leave you here alone?”

  Yes, that’s exactly what I expect her to do. I don’t understand why she came at all. It’s not like I deserve it. “You didn’t have to stay all night.”

  “I know,” she says. “But, we’re friends. I guess. This is what friends do.”

  I have to look away from her again. There’s a weird sensation thrumming through my chest. I don’t like it.

  She puts her phone down and stretches her arms up again, then presses her hands into her lower back. “I’m not gonna lie, though, I think this chair broke my ass.”

  I glance at her and can’t help but laugh a little. My face hurts when I try to smile, so I wind up half laughing, half grimacing.

  She stands, laughter on her own lips. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh at you.” She runs her fingertips carefully down the side of my face, her touch light. “This must hurt.” Her thumb touches my lower lip. “But that was kind of cute.”

  Her eyes are so brown. Rich, coffee brown with a hint of green circling her pupil. I’ve never noticed that before.

  “I guess I can’t complain about how much my butt hurts when you look like you got in a fight with a semi-truck and lost,” she says.

  I laugh again, but I’m careful not to move my mouth too much. “Yeah, no shit.”

  “Uh-oh,” she says. “He smiled twice and it’s not even eight in the morning. Watch out, Weston, you’ll go over your quota.”

  “I wouldn’t want you thinking I have a sense of humor.”

  “Don’t worry, I would never think that,” she says, totally deadpan.

  I shake my head. “Fuck off and go home.”

  She smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “Nah. But I am going to go find coffee and maybe food. I’d bring you something, but I don’t know if they’re letting you eat yet. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Yeah, not likely.”

  Kendra squeezes my arm, then leaves, the blue curtain swishing shut behind her. The room suddenly feels stark, barren. Sterile. The cardiac monitor beeps, the sound itching inside my skull. My chest hurts, my incision burns, my head aches.

  I hope she comes back soon.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I wonder what the fuck I’m thinking. I hope Kendra comes back? Why? It must be the drugs. I’m in pain and high on meds. I’m not thinking clearly.

  But when she returns ten minutes later, coffee in hand and a smile on her face, I can’t deny how fucking relieved I am.

  9

  Weston

  The pain meds make it hard to stay alert. I’ve spent the last several days drifting in and out of consciousness half the time. Everyone tells me to just sleep, it’s better for me. It will help me heal. The doctor in me knows they’re right.

  The rest of me wants to rip the IV out of my arm and get the fuck out of here.

  I was up and walking the first day, but holy shit it hurt like hell. Still does, although the time I spend on my feet increases each day. Breathing hurts, thanks to my bruised ribs and internal injuries, and it’s worse when I’m standing. But the longer I’m able to stay on my feet, the sooner they’ll let me out of this hell hole.

  I’ve never been so helpless. I couldn’t even take a piss by myself until this morning.

  Forcing my eyes open, I blink against the light. I fell asleep again, damn it. I want to wake up. Be alert. Get off these drugs. Go home.

  Although I’m not sure where home is, exactly.

  I glance over at the empty chair, then at the clock. Kendra’s been gone a couple of hours. She said she wanted to go home and shower. Get some clean clothes.

  She’s been here the entire time, visiting hours be damned, apparently. But no one has told her to leave. In fact, the nurses brought in a recliner that folds down into a narrow bed for her to sleep on. She’s spent every night sleeping there next to me, waking up every time the nurses come in to check my vitals.

  I didn’t ask her to stay. She didn’t ask me if I wanted her to. She just… did. She spends her days sitting sideways in that chair, her legs draped over one armrest, laptop in her lap. Spends her nights curled up under one of the beige hospital blankets.

  I need to make her go home and stay there. It’s stupid of her to sit around my hospital room. Why would she do that? She can sit on the couch at her place and do whatever it is she does on that laptop all damn day. I’ve had the words in my mouth a dozen times—Kendra, fucking go home, I don’t need you here. And every time I try to say them, they wither away, turning to ash in my mouth.

  Because I don’t want her to go.

  But it hurts, looking at her there. Especially at night. I watch her sleep. Watch her brow furrow as she shifts and tries to get comfortable, pulling the blanket higher, her toes sticking out the bottom. I don’t like the way it makes me feel. It’s a sharp mix of guilt and gratitude, and it does shitty things to my insides. I’ve had enough internal trauma for one week, for fuck
’s sake. I don’t need her ripping me open again.

  The curtain moves aside and Kendra walks in. Her damp hair is in a thick braid that hangs over one shoulder and her clothes look fresh—an open gray sweater with a white t-shirt underneath, and a pair of jeans. She grins at me and holds up a brown paper bag.

  “What is that?” I ask, trying to keep my face expressionless. I don’t want her to see how glad I am that she came back.

  She puts a finger to her lips and looks around, then pulls the curtain all the way closed. “Shh. I doubt you’re allowed to have this, but I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”

  I wince as I sit up, but I’m determined to deal with the pain. She pretends not to notice—I’ve snapped at her enough that she seems to realize I don’t want to talk about it—and opens the bag.

  The smell hits my nose and my mouth waters. “Holy shit, did you bring French fries?”

  Her smile widens. “Not just fries.” She pulls out another bag, this one white and stained with grease, the orange Dick’s Drive-In logo on the front. “I brought you a big bag of Dick’s.”

  The laugh rolls through me before I can stop. I clutch my side and wince, still laughing. “Damn it, don’t do that.” I take a few wheezy breaths. “It hurts when I laugh.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t resist. When was the last time you had burgers from Dick’s, though?”

  “I have no idea, but you better quit teasing me with that shit and give it up.”

  She tucks the bag against her chest. “Demanding, aren’t we? You sure you want my greasy bag of Dick’s? I might have to keep the greasy Dick’s to myself.”

  I shake my head, trying not to laugh again. “You love tormenting me.”

  “So much,” she says. “But we better eat this before they smell it out there.”

  She takes out the burgers and two orders of fries, then flattens the paper bag to make a tray. I wait while she unwraps my burger. I only have one hand, so I have to let her do it for me. My stomach rumbles the more I smell the food. The shit they’ve been feeding me in here is not cutting it.

  I grab a fry and pop it in my mouth while she finishes setting everything out. God, it’s good. I almost never eat stuff like this, but right now, it’s perfect.

  “Okay, dinner is served,” she says.

  She sits cross-legged on the end of the bed, our illicit feast laid out between us. It’s one of the most satisfying meals I’ve had in a long time. Obviously it’s because I’ve been so deprived. Anything would taste better than the bland hospital food I’ve had to live with.

  We both eat fast and she cleans up the remains. There’s a little grease spot on one of the blankets, but she just laughs and shrugs it off. I sit back and adjust the pillow behind my head while she takes up her usual spot on the chair.

  “What are you always doing on there?” I ask, nodding toward her laptop.

  “Working,” she says.

  My brow furrows. She’s working? “Really? I figured you were really into Pinterest or something.”

  She looks at me. “First of all, seriously? You think I sit here fucking around on the Internet all day long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Second, I’m questioning your manhood a little bit because you know Pinterest.”

  “Shut up. I’ve just heard of it.”

  “Right,” she says. “What kind of things do you enjoy pinning, Weston? Do you have a fashion pinboard? What about recipes to try?”

  “Fuck off, Lawson.”

  She laughs. “Yes, I’m working. I take breaks to check Facebook or email or whatever. But most of the time, that’s what I’m doing. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”

  “What do you do?”

  “You are literally the least observant person in the universe,” she says. “I’m a freelance editor.”

  “You edit what, books?” I ask.

  She regards me with a slightly confused expression for a few seconds before she answers. “Yeah, I edit books. I used to work for a small press, but I quit a couple weeks before you moved in and decided to try to make it as a freelancer. That’s why I need a roommate. I went from a steady income to, well, freelancing. It’s scary, so I figured renting out the extra room would help me make ends meet.”

  Before I can reply, she sets her laptop on the counter next to her and gets up.

  “I almost forgot.” She grabs her messenger bag and pulls out my tablet, then fishes my earbuds out of a side pocket. “Here, I thought you might want these.”

  I take them from her, feeling more unsettled than ever. Maybe it’s all that greasy food I just ate, but I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” she says, then goes back to the chair.

  I stare at my tablet for a long moment, then press the button to turn it on. The battery is full. I’m almost positive it wasn’t the last time I used it, and I don’t think I plugged it in. Did she charge it?

  Why is she so fucking nice to me?

  “You should go home,” I say.

  Silence hangs between us, broken only by the steady beeping of the cardiac monitor.

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  “No, Kendra,” I say, putting more heat into my voice. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

  “I told you, it’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” I snap. “I don’t fucking need you here.”

  “Weston—”

  “Goddammit, Kendra, go the fuck home.”

  She doesn’t reply, and I keep my eyes on the ceiling. My head is getting fuzzy again, my eyes trying to close. After a moment, I hear her get up. The zipper on her bag. Shuffling.

  “I was just trying to help,” she says.

  I look up, but she’s already gone, the curtain swaying in her wake.

  They keep me here for two more fucking days.

  I’m going out of my mind with boredom. Caleb checks in on me, but he’s headed home from a long shift, so he doesn’t stay. Other than that, it’s just me and the incessant-vitals-checking nurses.

  Not a word from Kendra. Although I don’t expect to hear from her.

  Doesn’t stop me from checking my phone constantly.

  Today’s nurse comes in, but to my surprise, she doesn’t check my vitals. She goes straight to the computer and sets a stack of paperwork on the counter next to her.

  “Well, Dr. Reid, you’re going home today.”

  What? Home? “I didn’t think I was being released until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “You’re recovering faster than anticipated,” she says. “Doc says you’re ready today.”

  As much as I want to get the hell out of here, I don’t know where I’m going. Or how I’ll get there. My car is totaled. Kendra probably threw all my stuff out onto the street by now.

  The nurse is giving me my discharge and home care instructions, but I’m not hearing any of it. I’ll have to call Caleb and see if he can give me a ride to a hotel. Or maybe I can crash at his place for a few nights, because I’m pretty sure the nurse just said I shouldn’t be alone for a while. The only other alternative is my father, and that isn’t an option.

  She hands me my discharge papers.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” She goes around to my other side and unhooks my IV. “This will hurt a little.” It pinches as she pulls it out, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my ribs.

  She unhooks me from the rest of the monitors, talking the entire time about how to care for my incision, what to look for, signs that I need to come to the ER, pain management. I wish she’d get on with it so I can call Caleb and figure out where I’m going.

  “I’ll help you get changed.”

  She grabs the duffel bag Kendra left for me and pulls out a pair of underwear, socks, a t-shirt, sweats, and a pair of shoes. Gingerly, I stand and shrug off the hospital gown, although it’s hard to get my broken arm out of it. The nurse threads th
e t-shirt over my casted arm first, then pulls it down over my head.

  “You want to get the rest, or do you need help?”

  “I got it,” I say. I’m going to have to dress myself, so I might as well start now.

  She nods and leaves me alone. I pull off my underwear and manage to get the clean pair on with one hand. The sweats are harder, but I get it done. It hurts too much when I try to pull on the socks, so I jam my feet into the shoes without them. I can’t tie the shoes either, but fuck it.

  I don’t know what happened to the clothes I was wearing in the accident. They probably had to cut them off me. I’m lucky they found my wallet and phone.

  It feels good to be in real clothes again, even without socks, but now I’m exhausted. My side aches something fierce. I lean against the bed, wondering if I should lie down.

  The nurse returns with a wheelchair. “Hospital policy. I have to wheel you down.”

  I’m so tired, I don’t even argue. I gather up the rest of my things and sit, the duffel bag on my lap. Without another word, the nurse wheels me out, turning toward the elevator.

  “I still need to call a ride,” I say as we head down to the first floor.

  “Are you sure? They told me to bring you downstairs, which means your ride is here.” Paperwork shuffles. “It says Lawson on your paperwork, but there’s no first name.”

  Must be Caleb. He probably logged in and checked my chart so he knew I was being discharged. “Oh, okay.”

  The elevator dings and opens. She wheels me out through the front lobby, toward a set of wide automatic doors. A breeze blows in as they open, filling my nose with fresh air. It feels good after a week in a stuffy hospital room.

  I look around for Caleb’s car, but I don’t see it. Instead, the nurse wheels me toward a black Honda Civic pulled up next to the curb. Wait, is that…?

  Kendra gets out and opens the passenger side door.

  I stare at her. Is she serious? What is she doing here?

  She sighs, impatient, and grabs the duffel bag from my lap. I stand and take a couple of slow steps toward the car.

  “Take care, Dr. Reid,” the nurse says behind me.