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30
Haven
Wick did win his game. I watched it on television, definitely not in the mood to head down to the stadium in person and by myself with all the rumors flying around about me and all the history I had of attending them to support Topher.
But watching it alone was kind of depressing. Even though it was nice to see how well my roommate played, I just had no one to brag to about him, because Wick kicked ass. He seriously did. My hands grew sore from the amount of times I high-fived myself after he intercepted the ball, broke up a pass, or made an awesome tackle. It would’ve been nice to share that with someone. But alas, I made do on my own.
Sadly, Topher had an on game as well. He was mentioned by the sportscasters just as often as Wick was. Bleh.
To get over that bit of nastiness, I made Wick some spaghetti for supper to celebrate, even though if I really wanted to be honest with myself, it was probably mostly an apology meal for what I’d done to him with the bra and the socks and all. Except Wick stayed out late, probably celebrating with friends—hopefully not just to avoid me—or maybe even hooking up with some beautiful, exotic football groupie—Lord, I really hoped not—so I dished the food into a leftover container and went to bed alone.
I was determined not to mention the whole my-cooking-him-supper thing, but the next day, I couldn’t seem to help myself. I tapped on his open door when I didn’t spot him out of his room before noon. Peeking inside, I found him sitting on his bed, back against the headboard and feet stretched out in front of him with his earbuds in as he worked on his laptop. Probably tutoring. Hopefully not sexting a hookup from the night before.
“Hey,” I called, loudly enough to be heard above the buds. “I’m going to head down and do some laundry. Do you have anything you need me to throw in for you?”
Yes, I offered to do the guy’s laundry; I was seriously that desperate to make amends.
He didn’t even glance up from where he was typing as he shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“But I promise not to hide any of my bras in your clothes this time,” I coaxed, pulling out my adorable, please-love-me smile.
His attention flittered to me briefly—not even long enough to notice the smile—only for it to return to his laptop. “Wasn’t even worried about that.”
I lingered, chewing on my lip and watching him. Did he hate me now? Was he just busy working? What the hell was going on in his head? And why was I so worried about what he thought?
He noticed my fretting and finally gave me his full attention, even lifting his eyebrows questioningly.
I cleared my throat, feeling awkward and unsure. “I, uh, I made you some supper last night—spaghetti, to help rebuild your carbs or whatever your body needs after a game—so if, you know, you get hungry today, there are some leftovers in the fridge.”
“There are?”
Nodding eagerly, I waited for him to now announce that he hadn’t been out having celebratory sex with some random girl while my spaghetti had been going cold.
“Oh,” he said, blinking out his surprise before he winced. “Sorry. The guys wanted to go out after the game.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “For some reason, I always end up being their designated driver. And it’s just so exciting to lug all their annoying drunk asses home, I simply couldn’t refuse.”
I smiled at his sarcasm while, inside, I cheered uproariously because—hallelujah—he’d been too busy babysitting his drunk friends to score with some poor, random girl I would then have to hate and unfairly call a dirty, rotten-crotch slut behind her back for daring to touch him. But, whew, thank God I didn’t have to resort to that.
So I pulled out a cringe I totally didn’t feel from the depths of my soul in order to commiserate with Wick. “Sounds fun.”
He sighed. “Trust me. I definitely would have rather been here than getting my shoes vomited on by two different guys.”
That warmed me from the inside out. Not hearing about the vomit part—yuck—but learning he would’ve rather been here. With me. So I contained my pleasure and nodded to him in satisfaction before leaving him be.
The rest of the week, I still tried to make my sock/bra fiasco up to him, though. I cleaned the house. I went grocery shopping. I cooked almost every night. I told myself it was simply my turn. Wick had been taking care of all that since I’d moved in; it was time for me to step up and do my part too. But again, I mostly just wanted to suck up so he wouldn’t hate me so much anymore, in case, you know, he actually did hate me now.
He kept to his room, though. I didn’t know if that was just his regular behavior or if he was avoiding me. I tried to convince my brain not to read too much into it, but I read way too much into it. What if, inside, he never really forgave me for trying to use him as I had? Wh
at if I had ruined everything?
By Friday, all my worry and anxiety had left me drained. I told Wick at breakfast that morning I was going to head home for the weekend and spend it with my parents. I needed some serious mommy/daddy time. I wasn’t doing so well at this adulting stuff. Felt like I messed up more than I didn’t. So home to be pampered by the parents sounded like heaven.
Except when I called Mom on my lunch break, she told me she’d surprised Dad for his upcoming birthday with a weekend getaway, just the two of them, and they were already headed out of town, on their way.
Bummed that my own parents had moved on without me and had more of a life than I did, I slumped into the apartment Friday after classes and work, prepared to be lonely and depressed the entire weekend.
To console myself, I made some no-bake cookies.
I’d just pushed the last pile of chocolate-drenched oatmeal off my spoon and was licking it clean when I heard the front door open.
