* * *
As soon aswe’re buckled into Tayler’s car, I pull my phone out of my pocket.I’m just going to do it.I send Cooke a text. The first communication from either of us in ten days.
Me: Good news. Tayler and I found a new apartment. It’s amazing and cheap!
I add a photo of the main living room and send it to him. Even though he hasn’t bothered to message me, I feel like I need to try one more time. If he doesn’t respond, then I can accept that it’s over.
Over before it really began.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Thanks, Dan. Can you put the chair right over there?” I point to a spot in the far corner of the living room. We want things out of the way so we can move around. Furniture will be the last thing we’ll arrange once everything else is put away.
“This place rocks, Quinn,” Dan says, wiping off some sweat from his brow.
“It does,” Bull agrees as he passes by holding three boxes, all Tayler’s. She’s the one with all the stuff. Mine fit in one trip in Tayler’s car. When he comes back empty-handed, he’s quiet for a second, like he’s apprehensive about something. “Sorry to hear about Cooke.”
Sorry? To hear about Cooke?Did he hear we broke up? No. That’s impossible. “What do you mean?”
“His injury.”
“His injury?” I squeak. “What injury?”
Bull and Dan look at each other, then back at me. “Yeah. Playing Ireland. It was gnarly.”
Oh my God. “W-What? Ireland?”
Bull looks a little perturbed. “I figured you watched it online or something.”
Shit. No, I didn’t. I look first at Bull, then at Dan, “How bad was he hurt?”
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.
