Bedhead: A Romance

by Kayt Miller

Dan pulls his phone out of his back pocket. I watch him impatiently. I want to yank the phone out of his hand to see what he’s doing. “Here’s an article.”

  Holy shit. I take the phone from him and squeeze my eyes shut. I had no idea. I’ve been so caught up in my own life, feeling sorry for myself, whining and bitching about him not contacting me, that he hurt himself and I had no idea.

  “I’m the worst girlfriend.”

  I scoff. I’m not his girlfriend. A girlfriend would care about her stupid boyfriend more than she does about her fucking scooter. It had to have happened around the time of my accident.

  Stepping into the bathroom for some alone time, I sit on the toilet seat and start to read.

  England National Rugby’s fly-half, Cooke Thompson, suffered a season-ending injury last evening in a match against Ireland. The team representative stated that Thompson would undergo surgery at Royal Orthopaedic Hospital in Brockley Hill later this week.

  I stare at the words. Cooke is hurt. I try to swallow, but my throat feels like it’s closing. My heart is beating in my chest so hard, I think it might burst. “Cooke,” I say to myself. “I’ve let you down.” My stomach drops, and nausea swirls inside. I need to gather myself. I’m going to finish moving; then I can figure this out.

  I look at the clock on Dan’s phone, then hand it to him. “Thanks.” When I do the calculations, I realize it’s late evening where Cooke is. I need to talk to him. At the very least, I need to send him a message.

  Moving away from the two men, I search for my phone. Running into the bathroom, I shut the door and lock it. Staring down, I wonder if I should FaceChat or text.

  Text.

  Me: I just heard about your injury. Are you okay?

  I want to ask him why he didn’t tell me, but that seems insensitive. It’s not like it’s his job to tell me. I was supposed to be watching him play. Heck, I told him I was going to watch his match and that I was going to text Bull. I never did. Why didn’t I do that?

  I stare down at the phone, willing him to respond. God, I feel sick.

  When I hear voices in the living room, I shove the phone into my back pocket and return to the job at hand. If he replies, I’ll feel the phone buzz in my pocket. In the meantime, I need to get this done.

  I pass Dan in the kitchen, holding a large box. I should be doing more than freaking about Cooke since these guys were the only two we could find to help us on a weekday. I start to reach for a box when Dan asks, “Did you watch the press conference?”

  “There was a press conference?”

  “Yeah. After the surgery.”

  “No. But I will after we’re done here.” I can’t watch it right now. It’s too much.

  Bull steps up to us. “You going to go see him?”

  I’m about to say no, but that’s not the word that comes out of my mouth. I look at Tayler, who’s been listening to our conversation. “Should I?”

  She’s got concern written all over her face. “So he wasn’t ghosting you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No. I guess not.” I thought he was blowing me off, but it was really the other way around. “What if he needed me? Or needs me now?” I should have been there for him like he was there for me.

  God. I’m so fucking selfish!

  “What about school?” asks Tayler.

  “I’ll text my professors. I’m always there… pretty much. I can make things up when I get back.” And if I flunk a class or two, so be it.

  I can read Tayler’s face so well. She still looks worried. “You’ll need a passport.”

  “Right. I have one from my senior trip to Mexico. It’s at home. Aren’t they good for ten years?”

  “Yep,” says Bull.

  We wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. A man of very few words. Speaking of…. Pulling out my phone, I peek at the screen. Still nothing from Cooke.

  “I can run you home to get your passport tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Tay.” I swallow thickly. “I’ll need to sit down and talk to my parents about all of this anyway.” I can’t just fly off to another country without their knowledge. “I’d best book my flight.” And tell Luke I’m not coming back for another week. He’ll be pissed, but this is important.”

  “Do it. Call the airline. Tell them it’s an emergency. See if they can give you a better deal. Buying a ticket this close to you leaving could be expensive.”

  “Let me check one of the discount travel sites first.” Tapping away, I enter the pertinent information. I find a flight that leaves the day after tomorrow at 11:45 a.m. and gets to Heathrow at 9:05 a.m. “It’s $2,349.”

  “Not terrible.” Tayler shrugs.

  It is sort of terrible, but I’ve got the money. “I’m doing it. I’ll fly back the Friday before Thanksgiving, which will give me three days to make up any work I missed before break.”

  I know I should talk to Cooke first, but I can’t wait to see if he responds to me. I need to do this now; there’s something gnawing at me, like I need to get to him. I select my flights, and before I know it, I’m booked round trip for a week in London.

  I hope he lets me stay with him. Hell, I hope he’s there. What if he flew off to some tropical island to recover? I’ve never been one to take chances—putting myself out there, risking it all. But I’m doing it now. For Cooke.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. Thank you.”

  This is it.

  “Flight attendants, prepare for landing, please.”

  I’m clutching the arm of my seat and staring out of the window. I can see land moving closer and closer, and all the while my heart is beating faster and faster. I hate takeoff, but landing makes me want to puke. When I feel the bump from the wheels hitting the runway, I release a gust of air from my lungs. I was holding my breath all the way down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Heathrow International Airport. Local time is 8:58 a.m., and local weather is partly cloudy with a temperature of fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, fifteen degrees Celsius.”

  It’s chilly. I’m glad I’m wearing layers. Slipping on my cardigan sweater, I lean forward in my seat, waiting for my turn to deplane. I’m so ready to get up and walk around. My ass is numb, and I’m starving. Plane food isn’t the best. One good thing is the inflight entertainment. I had my own small television embedded in the seat in front of me and was able to watch several new releases and some episodes of some old favorite shows.

  In all, the flight was good. I have only one complaint, and it relates to the person sitting in front of me, a person pushed their seat back to recline, which took away a good six inches of space from me. Space I couldn’t really afford to lose. It’s rude. I wish they didn’t even have that feature. So, if you’re listening out there, please think of those behind you the next time you decide to recline. Please be kind, don’t recline. Catchy, right?

  When it’s my turn to exit, I grab my small carry-on and make my way to baggage claim. I brought a smallish suitcase, but I must have packed a lot of heavy things, because it weighed almost fifty pounds. If I buy any souvenirs, it’ll be over the limit on the way back. I’ll have to figure that out later. Right now, I just want to get my bag and hop into a taxi. I’ve got Cooke’s address memorized, sort of like Dory had the dentist’s office memorized in Finding Nemo. “35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham, TW1 1NZ. 35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham, TW1 1NZ.” See? Memorized.

  Outside, I find a long row of taxis, but they aren’t like the yellow ones you see in the US. No, these are mostly black, and they look old, like from the 1940s, even though they’re new. I guess you could call them retro.

  When I get into the line of people waiting for a taxi, I bite my lip and run my tongue over my teeth. I feel gross. I should have stopped in the restr
oom to brush my teeth and clean up a little bit. I feel airplane cooties all over me. But there’s no time.

  Sliding into the taxi when it’s my turn, I bite my lip again, worrying about how far away Cooke lives and how much this is going to cost. “35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham,” I say to the driver. I attempt to sound assured, like I know where I’m going. I’m not sure I’m convincing, but only time will tell.

  As the car moves along, I stare out the window. The area around the airport is all hustle and bustle, but it doesn’t take long until we’re driving through a more residential area. It’s almost provincial, with quaint brick homes and a few with thatched roofs. I love it.

  In less than thirty minutes, the taxi has stopped in front of a two-story brick home. “There you are, miss.”

  I blink at the driver, then back at the house. This isn’t what I expected. I assumed he’d live in some sleek, modern building with a doorman or something. He’s famous here, yet he lives in a somewhat modest home. Granted, it’s a large modest home.

  “That’ll be twenty-six quid, miss.”

  I turn to the driver. “Oh, right.” I pull out my wallet and count out thirty British pounds. Luckily, Tayler reminded me to get some currency from the bank before I left Iowa. Handing the money over the seat, I open the door and slide out as the driver jumps out to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk. “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

  “Good day, miss,” he says with a little bow.

  I smile, then turn to face the house. I’m not sure what to do now. I was so frantic to get packed, email my professors, get currency, find my passport, and explain to my parents about my impromptu trip without telling them too much that I didn’t consider what’d I do once I got here. I mean, what if he hates me? What if he takes one look at me and slams the door in my face? Or hell, what if he’s not here? He could be anywhere, and since he never replied to my text, who knows what his reaction’s going to be?

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Pushing my shoulders back, I grab my wheeled suitcase, hitch my other bag over my shoulder, and march toward the door. “Here I go,” I murmur.

  Passing through an adorable metal gate, I step onto a brick walkway right up to the door. I scoff. “You’d think he’d have security.”

  Then it hits me. What if this isn’t even his house? What if he just gave me some bogus address because he really did think I was a stalker?

  I roll my eyes. Of course he didn’t give me a bogus address. I sent him the Iowa State rugby tee and he got it. “Duh.”

  Talking to myself is not wise at this juncture. I look sort of crazy as it is, with my hair like a rat’s nest on top of my head and wrinkled clothes as a bonus. “Why didn’t I tell him I was coming?” I groan.

  Because you were afraid he was going to tell you not to come. Yeah, that’s why.

  “Just do it,” I say determinedly.

  So I do. I step up to the door, raise my hand, and grasp the brass knocker tapping it against the door three times—tap, tap, tap. I let my arm rest at my side and wait. Leaning in, I attempt to listen for footsteps, anything. I hear nothing, so I repeat the knock—tap, tap, tap. When I hear nothing again, I’m tempted to bend down and push the mail slot open to yell through it. Something like “Hello? Does Cooke Thompson live here?” But then I decide against it.

  There are two glass panes on either side of the knocker, but they aren’t clear. They’re more like stained glass with lilies or irises or something.

  I chew on my lip, trying to decide what I should do next. I could walk down the road to see if I could catch another taxi, but where would I go? I could try texting Cooke or maybe try to FaceChat him. But first, I’ll try knocking one more time.

  I raise my hand and blink because I see a doorbell on the right side of the door, hiding in some ivy. Instead of knocking, I press on the button and hear a pretty chiming sound coming from inside the house. I do what I did before, leaning in until my ear is next to the door and listening for movement. I smile because this time, I hear something, and that something is getting louder the closer it gets to the door. I still don’t know if Cooke lives here, but it’s something.

  As the door begins to open, I open my mouth, prepared to explain who I’m looking for, when I see him. Cooke Thompson. The first thing I see is the crutch at his side and the long cast that runs from his foot up to his knee. That’s not the part that makes me pause, though. It’s the other thing on top of the cast. It reminds me of a metal armature used in sculptures. An armature is an internal support, only this one is on the outside. I want to bend down and look more closely at it, because from here, it looks as though there are thin metal rods going into his leg. Into. His. Leg.

  I quickly let my eyes move up his body. He’s wearing shorts and a loose tee that appears to have some stains on the front. When I finally see his face, I’m speechless. He’s got an almost full, scruffy beard, but that’s not terrible. It’s the rest of him that looks, well, like utter shit. Worse than me after flying for sixteen hours.

  “Cooke?” I ask softly.

  “Quinn?” His voice sounds hoarse. “You’re here?”

  “I am. I’m sorry I didn’t know about your injury, I—”

  I don’t get to finish my sentence because he’s got me wrapped up in his arms. I hear the clatter of something metal hitting the ground and realize it’s his crutch. He’s holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. That’s okay. I don’t need air right now. Not only that, I’m positive he’s crying.

  “Love,” he croaks out.

  Bringing my arms up and around his neck, I pull him closer. “I’m so sorry, Cooke. I would’ve been here sooner.”

  “No. It’s okay. I should’ve told you. I-I just wasn’t ready.”

  “My poor baby,” I whisper softly, then kiss his cheek that’s covered with fuzzy hair. I’m not sure it’s the right thing to say, but it’s what my mom always said when we were hurt. It always comforted me. And from the sob that just came out of him, I’d say he needs to hear it too.

  We stand in his doorway, holding each other for several minutes. When he pulls back, he’s still got his hands on my arms. He’s smiling. No, he’s beaming. “I can’t bloody believe you’re here, love.”

  “Me neither.”

  We stare at one another a little longer when it finally hits him. “My manners. Come in, come in.”

  I turn to grab my suitcase, but he hops, one footed, over to it to pull it inside.

  “No, you’re injured.”

  “I’ve got it. But if you’d grab my stick, love.”

  “I assume you mean your crutch. I’m going to have to get used to the language gap.”

  “Aye.”

  I scurry into the foyer of his house and wait for him to roll the large suitcase inside. Once he’s got it over the threshold, I take it from there. “Where should I park this?” I point to the luggage.

  “My bedroom.” He gestures to the left. “Last door on the left.”

  Turning around, I grab my suitcase and let my jaw drop. “Is that a pool?” It is. It’s a freaking indoor pool.

  “Aye.”

  “Not going to lie, Cooke. From the outside, this place looks like an ordinary house.” But inside, it’s all modern and streamlined, just like I pictured his home to look like.

  “A hidden gem. It’s why I chose this one.”

  “Wow.” I turn and look right at the kitchen. It’s white with marble countertops and extra-fancy appliances. It’s open to a very large living room with an entire wall of windows. That’s how I saw the pool.

  “Follow me. I’ll show you to the bedroom.”

  So I do, trailing behind him as he moves quickly on his crutch. “There are two full baths down here.” He points to one in the hallway. “That’s a guest bath.”

  When he pushes a door open at the end of the hallway, I gasp. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Swanky, yeah?”

  “It is.” There’s a gigantic bed at the far
end of the room. It’s got a canopy on top with soft white fabrics draping from the top down. It looks like it would be heaven to sleep beneath all that fluff. He’s got tables on either side of the bed, and two large dressers flank the bed on either side of the room.

  “Here is the master bath.”

  My eye follows the direction he’s pointing. Stepping into the bathroom, I want to choke. It’s massive, with a tub big enough for two people and a shower big enough for four. “This is amazing, Cooke.”

  His reply is soft, almost shy. “I’m glad you like it.”

  He clears his throat and continues the tour. “There’s a master closet through that door there.” He points to the far end of the bathroom. “Be warned. I’ve got a bit of laundry backed up. I usually just toss it there.”

  Since I’m a snoop, I step closer to the door and open it. “Shut. Up!” I shout. “This is bigger than my bedroom.” And he’s right. Clothes are strewn about on the floor and hanging from hooks.

  “So, you like it?”

  I scoff. “What’s not to like, Cooke? This place is amazing.”

  “There’s a study next door to this bedroom, plus three more bedrooms up top and another bath as well.”

  “It’s a big house.”

  “Aye.” He takes my hand now that I’m free of luggage. “Let me show you the back garden. It’s where I spend most of my time on nice days like this one.”

  Cloudy and cool is a nice day? I guess it is. Especially now that I’m here with him. I can’t remember a better day than today. Well, maybe the one when he showed up at the Hub. That day was better than nice.

  I follow him through the living room and out the sliding glass door onto a brick patio that overlooks a decent-size yard and… what’s that? A freaking river? “You’ve got a river.” And there’s a small yellow paddle boat pulled up into the yard. “Do you take your boat out?”

  “The dinghy, aye. Or I did before.” He points to his leg.

  I look down at the cast and the metal contraption that’s swirling around his leg, then back up at him. “What happened to it?”