Chapter 18 100 Authentic Foam
TANNER
When I’ve gotten home the past few nights, Wren has already been asleep on the couch with Dolly curled up at her feet.
The blanket she brought with her somehow always found its way on the floor next to the couch, so each night I picked it up and covered her with it before heading to my own bed and passing out.
Work has been a lot. I hate that I haven’t really gotten to spend time with my new roommate, worried that it’s not helping her impression of me.
I was supposed to meet with my dad this morning about the new proposal I worked on all weekend, but he didn’t show. Once again my calls went unanswered, and my texts went unread.
Since announcing his move, Mitch has made himself sparse, and so when I tried to find him after my dad stood me up, he wasn’t there either.
I thought about leaving early, but I knew that would just further prove my father’s thoughts about me, so I stayed.
I should’ve been diving into my next project, but I couldn’t focus.
Instead, I sat at my desk and drew up imaginary plans for The Local, daydreaming about all the what ifs.
I pull into my apartment complex and try to loosen up the tension between my shoulder blades. I told Wren I’d make us dinner for our first official roomie night, and I really wanted tonight to be special, but I’m exhausted.
Climbing out of my car, I grab the bag of groceries and my necktie off the back seat. Maybe I’ll feel better after a shower and some food.
As I approach our door, I notice a long cylindrical box leaned up against the siding. It looks like Wren’s mattress made it.
I push the front door and set the bag on the coffee table. “Wren, you here?” There’s no answer, but I can hear water running from her bathroom.
Returning outside, I study the box a little closer. It’s long and thin. It’s addressed to her, so I pick it up, and I’m surprised by how light it is. I back through the door and place it up against the wall inside.
I move to the pantry and begin putting the groceries away.
My mind is still reeling about work, and I’m distracted.
Grabbing the jar of pesto from the bag, I attempt to place it on the shelf at the same time my phone chimes.
Without thinking, I grab for my phone, causing the jar to fall and shatter all over the floor. Welp, there goes dinner.
The text isn’t even from my dad or brother, just some spam.
Fuck me, dude.
I carefully clean up the mess of sauce and sweep up the glass. When I’m sure it’s completely taken care of, I head to the shower to wash off my day. The last thing I want is to be in shit mood when I’m hanging out with Wren, and I currently feel like shit.
The warm water pelts against my muscles and runs through my hair, my mind drifting back to work. They must think I’m the biggest fucking joke, and as much as I should want to quit, it’s just pushing me harder to prove them all wrong.
I turn the faucet off and climb out to dry myself. Pulling on gym shorts, I make my way back into the living room, shirt in hand.
“My new mattress came,” Wren says, standing next to the box with scissors.
She’s wearing blue plaid pajama pants, a tiny tank top, and her wet hair is pulled to the side in a long braid.
Her eyes run down my body and stop at the V-shaped cut that disappears below my waistband.
Her eyes linger there for a second too long, so I clear my throat, causing her to jump.
Her gaze finds mine, and her whole face turns pink.
“You okay?” I ask, smirking.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine? Just trying to figure out the best way to get it out.”
“Get it out?”
“The mattress. How to get the mattress out of the box,” she says, embarrassed.
“I know. What else would you have been referring to?” Her eyes shift to my crotch, and I let out a laugh. Her face turns a shade brighter. “You sure you ordered a mattress? I mean I know I’m strong, but it seemed awfully light when I carried it in.”
“It’s one of those foam ones that they shrink wrap really small, and then when you open it, it expands into a whole-ass mattress. Here, help me get it into my room and onto my bed frame.”
“If you say so,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head. I walk over and grab the box before she has a chance, carrying it into her room one handed.
There is no way this is a mattress.
We work together pulling it from the cardboard, and she carefully cuts the plastic shrink wrap. It flops open.
“What the fuck?” she shrieks. “This is supposed to be a mattress?”
“Kinda looks like one of those mattress toppers.” I shrug.
She cuts her eyes at me. “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t order a mattress topper. I ordered a mattress.” She storms out of her room, so I follow. Grabbing her laptop, she plops down on the sofa and wildly begins to type on the keyboard.
“See,” she says, flipping the screen towards me when I sit down next to her.
“Deluxe ultra soft 100% authentic foam with cooling feature queen size mattress…” She reads the insane description on the product, pointing at each word.
Her other hand bumps the mouse pad, and the cursor reveals the rest of the description.
“Topper,” I finish reading for her.
“No, it didn’t say that when I ordered it,” she says, frantically.
“I bet you just missed it because it cuts off after the word mattress.”
“God, I’m such an idiot. I saw mattress and one hundred dollars, and I was sold.”
“You really think a 100% authentic foam mattress with cooling feature would only cost a hundred dollars,” I say, laughing.
“Stop it,” she says, swatting at me. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny. What does 100% authentic foam even mean?”
“I don’t know,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “I guess I’ll just return it and buy an actual mattress. Goodness, what a mess.”
“You can take my bed until the new one comes. I don’t care.”
“No,” she says firmly. “This is my fault. If I wasn’t so cheap, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I’ll just swing by the store tomorrow and grab an inflatable one to sleep on until it gets here.”
“Okay, but I really don’t mind.”
“I appreciate it, but it’s fine.” She begins typing in the search bar and hits enter. A dozen or so links to top-rated mattresses pop up. I watch as she scans them, biting her lip.
“Buy yourself a nice one. You deserve a good night’s sleep.” She shifts her eyes toward me. “Or, I can buy you one if you’re worried about the money.”
“Absolutely not. This one looks nice and it’s not very expensive.”
“Wren, the models don’t even look comfortable on that thing. Look at that guy; he’s grimacing.”
She giggles.
“If you don’t want me to buy it, I understand, but buy yourself something nice,” I encourage her. “Like this one.” I move my hand to the mouse pad, and our fingers brush. I freeze, and so does she.
“Sorry,” I say, as she pulls her hand away.
“It’s fine.” She smiles. “Which one were you going to say?”
“This one.” I click on a nice mattress that is moderately priced. “It’s not the most expensive option, but it has good reviews and doesn’t look like it’ll cause you to need a chiropractor.”
She hesitates.
“Buy it,” I urge, and, to my surprise, she adds it to the cart and begins to check out.
“Just to clarify, this is not a mattress topper,” she says, when she gets to the confirm your order page.
“It’s a mattress,” I verify, and she presses the purchase button.
“So, now that that’s taken care of, what’s for dinner?” she asks. “I’m starving.”
My heart sinks.
“I was going to make pesto chicken pasta, but I dropped the pesto jar when I got home. I’m sorry.”
“It’s no big deal. Accidents happen,” she says. “Did you get anything else?”
“I didn’t,” I say, desperately trying to come up with an alternative idea, and then it hits me. “Would you want to go to Waffle House?”
“Yes,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “Let me throw on a sweatshirt and some shoes. Waffle House sounds perfect.” She jumps up, and when she returns, she’s still wearing her pajama pants, but she’s thrown on a black sweatshirt and tennis shoes.
“What’s Va–lar–is,” I ask slowly, trying to pronounce the word across her chest.
“It’s a fictional city in a book I like.”
“Hmm, I’ve never heard of it,” I say. “Would I like the book?”
“Do you like books?” she asks.
“I like comic books.” I laugh. “Do you read a lot?”
“Yeah, mostly fantasy or romantasy books, but I do like to read.”
“Romantasy?” I question, as we walk out to my car.
“They’re fantasy books with a love story and some spice.”
“Spice?”
“Yeah, like sex.”
Wren Dawson just said the word sex, and I’m officially the least mature man on the planet.
“Got it, but it’s fantasy. So, is it like aliens having sex with aliens?”
“That would be more like sci-fi.” She gestures to her shirt. “Like this book is humans having sex with men that have bat wings and magical powers.”
“That sounds cool.”
“I think it is,” she says.
“It’s not that cold out; why the sweatshirt?” I ask when we’re almost to the car.
“Have you ever eaten in a Waffle House?” She giggles. “If I were you, I’d go grab a jacket. They keep them freezing.”
I don’t think I’ll need a jacket, but an idea suddenly pops into my head, and I turn around heading back to our door.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “Good call on grabbing a coat.” I toss her my keys and head back to the apartment to grab a surprise along with my jacket to hide it in.
When I get back to my car, she’s already started it and taken over the music. One Direction blares through my speakers, and it’s not my usual taste in music, but it’s not bad. We don’t talk much on the quick five minute drive, but in my periphery I can see her dancing as she sings along.
I park in the empty parking lot, and we make our way inside the brick building, where we are greeted by the only waitress working and a very grumpy looking line cook.
“Sit anywhere, y’all,” the waitress says. I follow Wren over to a booth and sit across from her.
“I’m so hungry,” she says.