by Kayt Miller
Ha! Where did that self-assuredness come from?
I smile all the way down the sidewalk and around the corner to my scooter. Unlocking the trunk, I grab my helmet and slide it on my head. As I throw my leg over the seat, I nod to myself, because you know what? I just got a job. I am awesome.
When I get home, the girls and I celebrate my new job with popcorn and a movie in the living room. I also get an earful from Robbi about Luke Green, the owner and resident asshole of Cy’s Roost. I listen as Robbi tells tales of Luke’s many quirks and idiosyncrasies. They’re too numerous to list, but apparently Luke likes things a certain way behind the bar, and if you can’t do as he says, you’re out. It doesn’t bother me that he has his own way of doing things, but I am glad I now have a heads-up about him. I have to do a good job and make it past that two-week mark.
Chapter Fifteen
Just as I’m about to finish a paper for my art history class, my computer begins to buzz. I check the time and see it’s nearly nine. Tapping the icon, I wait a second or two for Cooke’s face to appear and feel a smile spread across mine. When he smiles back, I take a second to see where he is. He must be using his phone, because all I can see is his head and part of his upper body, but nothing in the background. He’s dressed in what looks like a zip-up sweatshirt with his team logo on the upper left side.
“Hey, Cooke.”
His voice is quiet, a whisper. “Allo, love.” He sounds tired.
“It’s been a while.” I do my best to speak softly too. It seems like the thing to do.
“Sorry. Been a mite busy. We’re leaving Japan. We’ll be home by tomorrow.”
“Oh, you’re leaving Japan right now?”
“Aye.”
He does sound tired. I watch as his image moves around, almost bouncing. “Are you in a vehicle?”
“On the team bus. Heading to the airport.”
“Oh, I see.” I’m not sure what to say. I could ask him about his other match, but I already know they won because I checked the web for the score.
“Where are you? It’s rather dingy-looking.”
He’s right. My room is dingy. Probably due to the fact that I’ve only got one tiny window that’s covered by a dark curtain. “In my bedroom.”
He gives me a funny look.
“I call it my subterranean slumber chamber. Spiders included.”
I watch as he throws his head back and a laugh escapes his lips. It doesn’t end right away either. “E-Excuse me?” he chokes. “Subterranean what?”
“Slumber chamber. The basement. I live in the basement. Everyone else lives above ground.”
“Oh, poor dove.”
“It’s not bad if you don’t mind moist conditions and spiders. Lots and lots of spiders.”
I watch him visibly shiver. “Arachnids are bloody disgusting.”
“That they are, my man. Worse than snakes.”
“Bloody hell, woman. Snakes? You live with snakes?”
“No.” I giggle. “Just spiders. Well, I’m pretty sure there’s another type of nocturnal lurker too, but I’m afraid to know what it is.”
“Poor lass.”
Just then, someone else moves onto his screen. I stare at a bearded man with a white-blond mohawk.
“What’s so funny, Cooker?” the hairy man asks.
Cooke’s smile is gone. “Feck off, Ollie.” Ollie does as he’s instructed and disappears from my view. I’m about to say something else when Cooke asks, “Who’s Dan?”
“Huh?” Dan? “Dan?”
“The bloke you mentioned in your text. The one who watched rugby with you?”
“Oh.” I giggle again. “Just some guy at the bar. We all went to watch your game at a pub, and the Iowa State rugby team was there. I sat next to him at the bar.” Since my seat was taken at the table by she-who-shall-not-be-named. “But I don’t know him.”
“Good.”
Good? What does that mean? I stare at the screen, then snort. No. Way. Is Cooke jealous? “I’ve got news too. Though not as good as yours with your wins and you getting to go home and whatnot.”
Cooke chuckles. “Let’s hear it.”
“I got a job!” I practically squeak when I say it.
“A job? Do you need money?”
Okay, that was a weird question. “I’m a college student. Of course I need money.” I giggle.
“I can send you—”
I stop giggling. “No.” My face serious now.
“I’ve got loads.”
“No. Why would you suggest that, Cooke?”
“You should be focusing on your courses, not a job.”
“I am. I’ve got time in my day to work. No worries.” I smile again in the hopes that I can move this little conversation along. “I’m going to bartend at a pub and restaurant.” See, I said “pub.” “It’s one of my favorite places, called Cy’s Roost.”
“Cy’s Ruse?”
I laugh at his pronunciation. “Cy’s Roost. You know, like a chicken roosts? Cy’s our college mascot, so the bar’s named after him.”
“I see.”
Ignoring the frown on Cooke’s pretty face, I tell him more about the place, how it’s been around a long time, that my mom and dad used to hang out there when they attended Iowa State, how I carved my initials in the same table as my mom and dad did years ago, and that it’s where we all like to hang out.
“So it’s a family tradition.” Cooke nods like he gets where I’m coming from.
“It is.”
“Well then, I’m very happy for you, love.”
“Thanks.” I pause thinking of a new subject. “So, have you enjoyed Japan?”
Cooke’s mouth lifts on one side. “Japan is a lovely place. I think you’d like it. But I’m ready to be home, to sleep in my own bed. I miss my flat.”
Flat. I know this one. It’s an apartment. “Where do you live?”
He arches a brow. “Are you a stalker now?”
I quickly lose the smile. He thinks of me like a weird fangirl. I knew it. “No. I’d never….” I look down at my hands. “Um, I need to go, Cooke. My mom is call—I need to go. Bye.”
I hit the End button just as I hear him start to speak and quickly shut my laptop. I’m tempted to turn it completely off, in case he tries to call back, but I need it to finish my paper. My computer does, in fact, buzz again, but I ignore it.
The last thing I want is for Cooke to think I’m some weird stalker chick, though I don’t think he meant that the way he said it. He doesn’t seem like he’d intentionally hurt my feelings. He’s just tired.
I hope.
“Are you listening to me?”
I blink as I look up at Luke. “Yes.”
“I said make sure each label is turned toward the front.”
I’m loading more beer into the glass beer fridge, as Luke calls it. He’s a tad particular about the way the bottles need to line up. Anal retentive is probably the term I’d use to describe Luke’s habits. No worries. Robbi gave me a heads-up, so I was ready for it. I quickly turn the labels forward.
“If you’re busy and you need to grab a beer fast, you’ll want to be able to see the label,” he explains.
“Makes perfect sense.” And it does. Luke is going back over some of the basic things that he showed me last Sunday. He really is anal retentive.
“Now, as you’re working, you need to be cleaning as you go. Wipe down the bar with this.” He holds up a yellow cloth. “This is only for the bar top.”
I nod. I know.
Holding up a blue cloth, Luke says, “This is for the stainless top here.” He points down to the part of the counter customers can’t really see. “Keep the dirty dishes to a minimum. Run glasses back to the kitchen as soon as this bin is full.” He lifts a square plastic tray meant to put glassware through the dishwasher. “When you take it back, pick up an empty tray and bring it back here.”
“Okay.” I’m so tempted to roll my eyes because he’s repeating the same stuff we covered l
ast week, but he’s not in a joking mood. I snort and his head snaps back to me. “Sorry.”
He keeps going. Repetition is good, right? “A good chunk of your job is to make sure it runs smoothly. Having glasses piled up back here makes it harder to be efficient.”
I can see that too.
Just then, a woman approaches the bar. She’s tall, blonde, and focused solely on Luke. I smile but say nothing. “What can I get ya?” he asks.
“Gin and tonic, please.” The woman smiles as she leans against the bar giving both Luke and me a glimpse of her cleavage. I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to get Luke’s attention, and I think it’s working.
“Quinn, grab a rocks glass.”
Yay, I finally get to mix a drink. Last Sunday was all about paperwork, using the computer, and the stuff he just went over again. Since I now know what a rocks glass is—the short one—I pick one up and wait for my next order from the bossy boss.
He doesn’t disappoint. “Fill it with ice.”
I move to the ice machine. Using the glass, I scoop up enough ice to fill it.
“No!” Luke shouts. “Jesus.”
I jump and nearly drop the glass.
“What?” I squeak.
“Do. Not. Ever. Use the fucking glass as a scoop.”
I nod but feel my eyes start to burn. I’m not used to someone shouting at me. But I will not cry.
Stepping closer, he looks down at me. No longer sounding angry, Luke says, “If the glass breaks while you’re scooping out the ice, we’ll have to empty the entire icemaker, clean it out, and start over. We can’t have glass in the ice.”
I nod again, doing my damn best to hold it together. “Sorry.” My voice cracks.
In a softer voice, Luke adds, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Quinn. You’re doing a great job. I’m used to working with idiots. I know you’ll never do that again.”
I slowly shake my head back and forth. “I-I won’t. I swear.”
“Good.” He turns and smiles at the blonde woman. “Now, let’s make this lovely lady a drink.”
As I make the drink, the two of them flirt. It’s sort of annoying, to be honest. By the time I’ve placed a lime wedge on the glass, he’s got her number, and I think there was a promise of getting together later. But it’s none of my business.
I worked until five, the point in time when Cy’s gets busy on Sundays. Luke doesn’t think I’m ready for prime time yet, and I agree, but I’m proud of myself. I did well. I drew beer without much head—that’s the foam at the top of the glass, you dirty-minded minx. I made several gin and tonics, as well as a whiskey sour. Luke gave me a chin lift as I left, which is a good sign, I think. Another good sign, I’m going to be working with Chris several days after school. That tells me Luke trusts me to be here when he’s not. Besides, Cy’s isn’t very busy in the later afternoons, so I should be able to gain more confidence and speed. I’d just be in the way right now.
Chapter Sixteen
On my way to my scooter, I check my phone for the first time tonight because personal phones aren’t allowed when we’re working. Luke’s words. And seeing how he feels about ice, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath again. Ever.
Glancing down at my phone, I see I’ve got several text messages. Tapping the icon, I notice they’re all from Cooke.
Cooke: I’m home, love.
Cooke: My sincerest apologies. I know you’re no stalker.
Cooke: My address: 35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham, TW1 1NZ. UK Pop by if you’re in the area. :p
He even added the happy face/tongue out emoji.
Me: Since we’re giving addresses, mine is 205 Beedle Drive, Ames, Iowa 50010, USA. In case you’re in the area. ;p
I’m not sure why, but I get a chill thinking of Cooke Thompson stopping by. Wouldn’t that be something?
I’m staring down at an express delivery envelope in my hands. An envelope with a return address of Twickenham, England. It’s handwritten, and I can only assume it’s in Cooke’s hand. It’s a little messy but still readable. I run my fingers along the letters of my name, imagining him taking the time to write this out. Shaking that off, I flip the envelope over and carefully tear it open. Inside is a single sheet of white, lined paper. I open it and see something slide out and fall to my feet. Bending, I pick it up and read the front: Visa Gift Card. I close my eyes and look at it again. “No, Cooke.”
With the letter in my right hand, I read his words.
Quinn,
As you said, uni students always need money, and I have more than I need. Please use it as you wish. Throw a bash for your mates, or buy yourself something you’ve always wanted. Have some fun.
Yours, Cooke
God, I’m not sure where to start with this. I stare at his words, then back at the gift card. Flipping it over, I gasp. “A thousand dollars?” That’s just… ridiculous. I’m instantly angry. Okay, maybe angry isn’t the right word. Flummoxed. That’s a better word. I told him I didn’t need his money, but he sent it anyway. Yeah, flummoxed and frustrated. Oh, and flabbergasted. Now there’s a good word.
Without thinking, I pull the phone out of my pocket and shoot off a text.
Me: Cooke, no. What were you thinking? This is too much. I don’t need this.
I stare at my phone, waiting for a response. When nothing comes immediately, I glance at the clock and do the math. It’s late evening there. He should be up. When there’s still no response, I gather my book bag and letter and make my way downstairs. I’ll study for my next test while I wait for him to reply.
By seven that evening, there was still no word from Cooke, so I decide to seek the advice of my roommates. I’m sure I’ll get a variety of opinions about what to do about this thing, but that’s good. I need to hear all sides.
When I step into the living room, Susanna, Lindsay, and—ugh—Kara are watching something on the television. “Hey.” I look at Susanna. “Are the other girls here?”
“In Patsy’s room,” mumbles Lindsay. “They’re getting ready to go out.”
Since her room is right around the corner from the living room, she must have heard us, because soon the room is filled with the girls. I wish Kara weren’t here. She’s always here, and I don’t understand why.
“What’s up?” asks Robbi. I’ve come to realize she’s the no-nonsense roommate. She doesn’t pull any punches, nor does she put up with much bullshit. I can respect that.
“Well….” I pull out the folded letter from my back pocket. Carefully, I remove the card and unfold the letter. “I got this from Cooke today.” I hand the letter to Robbi, who quickly reads it. Her eyes grow round, but she passes it on to the next person. I watch it move around the room, deciding to wait until everyone has read it before I speak.
When it’s Kara’s turn, she reads it, then snaps, “How much?”
I ignore her for as long as possible, since Patsy and Kat still haven’t read it. When they do, I clear my throat. Holding up the card, I say, “He sent me a thousand dollars.”
“Wow.” Patsy gasps. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It is.”
“What’re you going to buy with it?” asks Kat.
“I don’t think I should keep it.”
“Why the hell not?” Kara snaps. “He sent it to you. He told you to have some fun.”
“It’s not my money. I didn’t ask for it.”
“Sure you didn’t,” mumbles Kara.
“I didn’t. I told him about my new job.”
Robbi asks, “Is Luke still an asshole?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
“God, I’m so sick of you holding court about this guy,” grumbles Kara as she stands up, taking a step or two closer. “You think the world revolves around you.”
Yeah, well, I’m sick of you being here all the time. “No, I—”
Kara keeps right on going. “You’re pathetic. You’re stroking his fragile ego, and now he’s paying you.” She stops. “Wait.” Sh
e snorts. “Priceless.”
“What?” Do I want to know?
“Are you sexting him?” She starts to cackle.
“No, of course not.” What is sexting? Oh, wait. “No!”
“Well, if he’s just your friend, then why not spend it? It’s a gift.”
“Kara, it’s not my money. I can’t just spend his hard-earned—”
My words are cut off the second Kara reaches out and takes the card from me. “Then I will. He said you could give it to your ‘mates,’” she sneers.
“Well, you’re not my mate, Kara.” I look around the room, wondering if these women are truly my friends. My eyes focus on Susanna. “Are you just going to stand here and let her do this?”
“Me?” Susanna squeaks. “B-But her sister….”
Oh, wow, seriously? “So, she gets away with treating me and probably lots of other people like shit because her sister died?”
“Quinn!” Patsy finally speaks.
“What? That’s the reason, right?”
The room is silent for way too long until Lindsay finally says, “Kara was supposed to move in.”
I look over at Lindsay. “Who was?”
“Kara. She was told she could have the room downstairs.”
I look at Kara, who has her arms crossed in front of her and a smirk on her face, then back at Patsy. “Is that my fault?”
Patsy looks sheepish as she says, “No, it’s mine. I, erm, didn’t realize it was promised to her.”
“I see.” Because I do. She’s the roommate they wanted. Not me. I turn to Kara. “I’ll start looking for a new place to live.” I look for the letter that is now on the coffee table. Picking it up, I step toward Kara, who backs up like I’m going to hurt her. “Give me the card.” She places it in my outstretched hand.
I start marching out of the room, then turn back to her. “Enjoy the spiders.” I pause. “And whatever is lurking around at night. I named it Aragog.” Let’s see if Kara gets that Harry Potter reference. Then I’m out of there, getting back in my room so I can sulk in private because I’m sure as shit not going to cry. Not over Kara. I can’t get over what an emotional roller coaster this semester has been, and it’s only October.
