She drops her phone to the hexagonal tiles, debates setting it and herself on fire, and thunks her forehead against the wall. If this is what desperation feels like, she is really not a fan.
Deep breaths. Some cool water on her face.
Fifteen minutes later, there’s an urgent knock on the door.
“Occupied!” she yells out. “There’s another bathroom near the Sephora!”
A pause, and then: “Wilder?”
9
“Is everything okay?” Nick asksafter she unlocks and opens the door, though he can probably answer that question for himself. He debates for a moment before stepping inside the bathroom. Ramona just stares at him. Blinks a few times. He makes his voice as gentle as he can, as though she’s a deer he’s afraid to spook. “I came as soon as I got your message. Sorry, there was traffic.”Stating the obvious.
She’s wobbly as she lowers herself to the floor, eye makeup smudged, giving her the look of someone at the end of a long night of partying as opposed to some midday shopping. He’s seized by an overwhelming urge to give her a blanket and a bowl of soup.
“What are you doing here?” she says, wrapping a strand of her hair around two fingers.
Nick’s brow furrows. “You called me.”
“But—I left a voicemail, I assumed you were gone for the day, and I—I shouldn’t have called.” When she tries to get to her feet, she stumbles, off balance.
“Whoa there,” he says, reaching forward to catch her arms.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. Her hair sways across her face. She’s determinedly not making eye contact, almost like she’s embarrassed. He has about a thousand questions, but he’s not sure which ones he has the right to ask.
“Nothing to apologize for.” Slowly, he helps her back down to a seated position and crouches next to her.
She’s shaking.
Ramona Wilder, international pop sensation and UCLA freshman, was hiding in a mall bathroom trembling, and despite all the frustration she’s brought him since the quarter started, it’s a punch to his heart.
It doesn’t make sense that she called him, but she did. And here he is. Maybe that doesn’t make sense, either.
After they snapped at each other, he had to take a few minutes to cool down. He had another class to teach, and he didn’t want them to get any version of him that was less than his best. Ramona had riled him up once again, though this time he thought he might have gotten the upper hand. Or at least the upper few fingers. So why hadn’t it felt better?
The first time he listened to her message on his office phone, he thought it was some kind of prank. Then he played it again, already zipping up his bag, her voice sounding urgent and self-deprecating and a little afraid. He’d have to be a real asshole to ignore something like that.
It’s happened a few times over the years, a student calling to ask if he can DD. Mostly freshmen going too hard being away from home for the first time. But this—this feels different.
Only now does it dawn on him that they’re enclosed in a tight space, no matter how luxe this bathroom is, with fancy lotion andperfume bottles lined up on the counter and a basket full of breath mints and mini deodorants. He can barely wrap his mind around the fact that the girl in front of him is the same one who flunked his pop quiz earlier today. Who leaned across his desk and told him off the first time they met.
“Do you have any water in there?” he asks, gesturing to her monstrous purse.
“Would be smart, wouldn’t it.”
Without missing a beat, he passes her an unopened bottle from his messenger bag.
“Sparkling?” she asks, and though he shakes his head, she downs half of his evidently inferior still water in a single gulp. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I’m sure you love seeing me like this. The big bad world taking me a down a few notches.”
“I can assure you, I don’t.” In fact, he’s relieved to have this opportunity to do something nice after what happened earlier. That stupid remark he made about her next album cover. He stretches out his legs, trying to get comfortable in this bizarre situation. “What happened?”
Ramona braces her elbows on her knees, dropping her head to her hands as she lets out a groan. “Group of preteen girls stopped me in the mall. I haven’t had that happen in a while. I…don’t go out much these days.” She lifts her head, takes another sip of water. “It was a lot, and I guess I got overwhelmed. This used to happen before I’d go onstage—I can’t breathe, and my whole body locks up. My therapist is out of town and my best friend wasn’t answering, and…”
Her words twist at something deep inside him. “And then you called me.”
“Well, it was either you or my private-jet salesman.” When he doesn’t respond, she adds, “That’s a joke. I don’t have a jet.”
Nick scrapes a hand down his face, wishing he’d shaved this morning. It just doesn’t compute—there must be dozens of people who’d drop everything at a moment’s notice to help her out. Surely it was the proximity of UCLA, the assumption that if he was still at work, he could be there soon.
