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But it’s too late to backtrack, so I shove back my chair and shoot to a stand. At this point, I’m desperate to get out of here.
As I make for the door, I hear Liam mutter, “some things really shouldn’t be shared.”
I get the distinct feeling that he’s not talking about my untimely, bladder-related exit.
* * *
“Pick up. Please, pick up,” I mutter over and over like a mantra as the phone rings. When the real dire straits happen, a girl needs her best friend.
Eventually, a breathless “hello?”
“Prish!” I whisper-squeak, quiet as I can given my current hysteria. The sound still bounces around the bathroom like it’s a veritable echo chamber.
This is what my life has come to—locked in a toilet cubicle like I’m in one of those 90’s high school movies and it’s lunchtime on my first day at a new school and I’m trying to avoid all the good-looking bullies.
“Annie, hi!” Prisha shrieks. “How’s the new job? You killing it down there?”
“No, I’m in the bathroom—”
“Oof. Told you not to eat the plane food. I don’t know what it is about that pasta they always serve, but it goes right through me.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Be quiet, I’m on the phone!”
“Prish—”
“Sorry, not you. Alia’s screaming like a banshee. My ears are bleeding.” She grunts, moving around. “So why are you in the bathroom? Cramps or something?”
“No, I’m hiding,” I admit. Not my first bathroom hideout of late…
“Why are you—HEY, DON’T BITE YOUR BROTHER!”
I love Prisha with every last bone in my body; she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister. But I should’ve known that she was the worst person to call right now. Prish has her hands full with Alia and Rishi, her adorable, completely chaotic two-year-old twins.
“Something happened,” I continue, not knowing if she’s able to listen, but I literally can’t hold onto this information any longer. “Something crazy, you won’t believe—”
“One second.”
I stop talking and hear a series of bangs, crashes and wails at the other end of the phone. Then, silence.
“Annie, you still there?”
“Still here. What’s going on?”
“I turned onPeppa Pig, then hid in my bathroom too.” A pause. “Don’t tell Raj.”
“I swear I won’t say a word to your husband about the illegal screen time.” I laugh softly, my heart happier for having my friend on the other end of the line.
“So what’s going on?” Prisha’s voice is gentle. “Since you’re hiding in the bathroom, I’m assuming that… ooh, you’ve spilled coffee all over yourself? Or ripped your skirt in half?”
I chuckle. “How on earth would I have ripped my skirt in half?”
“I don’t know, a paper cutter?”
“Prish, what do you think happens in offices?”
Prisha has been a stay-at-home wife and mom since she married Raj, her childhood sweetheart, six years ago, and moved out of the shoebox apartment she shared with me in the city, and straight into suburban picket-fence life in Wellesley. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
