seventeen ✰ rodrick heffley x reader

✰ chapter seven

"I can't fucking do this right now."

Your voice is almost pathetically shaky when you answer him. Maybe you caught a cold from the rain. (You know it's not a cold. Jess would tell you you're in denial.)

Rodrick sounds equally pathetic on the other end of the line, and at least that's a small comfort. "Will you just listen to me?"

You sigh into the receiver. "Can we do this later? Please?"

He's quiet for a long time, and you can hear his soft breathing. You press the phone hard into your ear like you'll be able to hear something if you listen hard enough, like it'll magically make him answer.

"Okay," he says simply after the pause. You hang up without saying goodbye.

You leave the phone sitting on the kitchen countertop and dig around in your wardrobe for the biggest, coziest hoodie you can find. You end up pulling out your dad's old work sweatshirt, the name of his old workshop printed in peeling letters on the back, covered in faded oil stains and ripped at the cuffs. You shrug it on anyway, savoring in the warmth. It still smells like your dad's old cologne.

You curl up in your bed. The sheets are cold and your hair is still a little wet. You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes, but you can't sleep.

Your father would've known what to do. He was so kind, so compassionate. He'd know what to say. He always did. When you would run home crying after skinning your knee on the sidewalk, he'd bandage you up and crack jokes until you smiled. When Jess would tease you mercilessly, he'd be the one to hold you close and teach you to brush it off.

The house feels a little more empty without him there, filling the air with his endless chatter and horrible jokes. Your mom got rid of the motorcycle the day after the funeral. There wasn't even a debate—one day you just walked into the garage to see a stark empty space where your father's prized possession used to be.

You can't help but wonder what he'd think of you now. You're not even sure what you think of yourself. You never could have imagined the person you've become over the past four months you've spent in Plainview.
You've gone from standing aimlessly in the crowds of dingy basement shows to playing the bass in what may soon be a band performing in those dingy basements. You want to be proud, but really you're just tired.

You fall back onto your bedsheets, but sleep doesn't come for a long time.

When the morning sun filters through your curtains, you've only had a few hours of sleep. Your body aches and groans as you push yourself out of bed and trudge to the kitchen to pour yourself some coffee.

Your mother stands at the kitchen counter, hand on the coffee pot, hair falling in her face like a curtain. You doubt she's slept, either. You grab a mug from the cupboard and pour the dregs from the pot into it. It's disgusting, but you take a sip anyway.

"Good morning, early bird!" Your mother says cheerfully, looking at you over her own mug. "Are you excited for tonight?"

You frown. "Excited for what?"

She laughs. "The talent show! Don't tell me you forgot, (Y/N),"

You feel your heart drop into your stomach. "Shit, that's today? Oh my God,"

"Language," your mother reprimands sternly. You feel your face go red and you mumble a brief apology.

She smiles softly and presses a kiss to your forehead as she walks past you into the living room. "You're going to do great tonight, sweetie. I'm already proud of you!"

You feel your heart thud in your chest but you smile brightly at her anyway. "Thanks, Mom. Love you."

Before she can reply, you set your mug in the sink and head for your bedroom.