“For real?” Ruby says.
“Oh, for real.” Pan beams, pulls me even tighter. “Seems my boy Tink here has got the magic touch.”
And he releases me. Wiggles his fingers for emphasis.
Fuck. I shut my eyes again, embarrassment burning up my neck. Stupid. I shouldn’t have bragged about that, noshitPanwould pull something like this, and I can’t…I can’t take Ruby on adate. What the fuck was I thinking?
Iwasn’tthinking, is the answer, and now any possible thing I can think of to say is only going to sound more suspicious. Goddammit. Goddammit. My jaw is tense, my wholebodyis tense, and the extra pressure over my racing heart is making me feel lightheaded and?—
—and why did he have totouchme like that?
“Thing is…” God bless her, Ruby speaks up before I can. “I don’t do blondes.” She gives a little apologetic cringe. “Sorry, Tink.” She extends a finger, boops me on the nose, and then slides my next beer in front of me, quick as a magic trick. “Enjoy!”
To my left, Pan looks put out.
“What was that for?” I say, an edge in my voice.
“What do you mean, what was it for?” Pan says, incredulous. “I’m tryna help you out.”
“I don’t need help.” I really, really don’t.
“Oh, please.” He grabs me by the chin, angles my face up at the wavy mirror panels above the bar. “Good lookin’ guy like you? Shouldn’t be sleeping alone.”
I feel my pulse give against his grip, once, twice. And swallow?—
Nope. No. Too much. I yank away from him, shove back from the bar and get to my feet. “Gotta piss,” I explain, already walking.
I do everything I can to avoid public bathrooms, obviously, but the Lagoon’s one of the few exceptions. Single-serve, no stalls. You could be doing anything in there—and I’m sure people do—with no one any the wiser.
Inside, it’s barely big enough to turn around and smells like industrial pink hand soap and bleach. The ocean waves of the wall mural are peeling a little and the light is a fluorescent ceilingdome shadowed with the bodies of trapped dead bugs. But it’s private.
Door locked, I shake myself out.
I need a reset.
And I do have to pee.
When I’m done, I scrub my hands in the way-too-hot blast of water and stare at myself.
I’m long past the jump scare stage where I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Now I just have a kind of checklist. Key spots to zoom in on: T-shirt collar centered and covering binder straps, hem loose and untucked and not resting on my ass, hair messed up enough to keep my face half in shadow. Remind myself to keep my shoulders back and walk like I’ve got a dick.
But that’s quick, all good. And I don’t really want to go back out yet. And so, because I’m tipsy, and I’m vain, I grip the seashell sink and take a good look at myself for once.
Iama good looking guy. A pretty guy, even, almost too pretty. Those lips are hard to escape. Cheekbones, too. My jaw’s sharp, but not square. The clothes, the posture, the thickened-up eyebrows do a lot to sell it. That and the binder—I threw out the hospital one and got a new one, a better one, as soon as I could, internet order with a cash Visa gift card that I tracked stop by stop and grabbed almost before the delivery guy could scan the barcode. It all works. Complete package.
But still?—
The doorknob swivels and the door bangs forward right into my arm.
“Hey!” I cry, and almost—almost—forget to lower my voice. Heart pounding, elbow smarting, I kick the door back into place with my boot heel and then slam my back against it for good measure.
“Oh shit,” comes a muffled voice. “Sorry.”
I don’t answer, just lean there for a second. Catching my breath.
I wasn’t doing anything, I remind myself. Wasn’t pants-down or shirtless or washing out my Diva Cup in the sink.
But I could have been. And that is an adrenaline blast in and of itself.
