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After about ten minutes of relentless knocking, people give up and stop trying to get in. The small, narrow bathroom grows quiet except for the music flowing from the living room and my gasping sobs. The silence helps me settle down. I twist around to turn splash some cold water on my face, but then catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.
“Oh my Gosh,” I mutter in horror. “I look awful.”
Awful might be an understatement. My cheeks and eyes are swollen and red from all the crying I’ve done. My hair doesn’t look sexy like Taylor said but like a matted rat’s nest. And the giant red stain on my shirt looks like I spilled a vat of blood all over me.
Panicking that someone will see me like this, I quickly splash some water on my face, comb my fingers through my hair, and then slip off my shirt and dip it under the faucet. I scrub at the stain for a while, using soap and water. But all that seems to do is soak my shirt. Great. I didn’t think this through very well, which is very unlike me.
Giving up on getting the stain out, I ransack the drawers for a blow drier but come up empty-handed. There’s no ceiling fan, so I open the window and hold the shirt outside, praying the light breeze will dry the fabric enough that I won’t have to walk out of here looking like I just got done participating in a wet T-shirt contest.
“Would you shut up?” Benton’s clipped voice suddenly floats through the other side of the door. “I’m taking care of it, okay?”
“Hurry up,” a girl whines. “I have to go like really, really bad.”
He mutters something low enough that I can’t understand him, but it must make the girl angry because she snaps, “Screw you, Benton. I’m never coming to one of your parties again.”
“And they say wishes don’t come true.” His arrogant attitude rings through his tone.
“I hate you!” The girl yells. There’s loud smack and then something hits the door hard. “Why are you such an asshole all the time?”
“I have my reasons,” Benton replies, sounding in pain.
“Well, one day everyone’s going to get tired of your shit,” she says. “Then what’re you going to do?”
A beat of silence goes by and then soft bangs hit the door.
“I can’t deal with this shit anymore,” Benton mumbles. “I don’t even know why I do this. I hate all these fucking people.”
When no one answers, I wonder if he’s talking to himself. Not wanting to impose on a moment he probably thinks is private, I turn away and focus on drying my shirt. But then I hear the lock click and whirl around just in time to see the door swing open.
Benton storms into the bathroom, his eyes flashing with anger, his hair askew. “I don’t give a shit what your deal is. Get the hell out of my bathroom….” He trails off when he sees me, his gaze sweeping up and down my body. Amusement fills his eyes. “Okay. When they said someone locked themselves in the bathroom, I didn’t think I was going to walk into this.”
It takes me a second to process what’s happening, that I’m wearing nothing but my white and blue polka dot bra and my shorts, and that Benton is more than noticing.
“Shit!” The curse word rolls off my tongue as I spin around to face the window. I start to bring my shirt back in to put it on, but the wind kicks up and my fumbling fingers lose grasp of the fabric.
I watch in horror as my shirt blows through the parking lot and disappears on the other side of the railroad tracks just across the street. I feel like I should be crying—and I want to—but I think I might be in shock or something.
God, could this night get any worse?
All I wanted to do was try something different, but I failed epically. Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe this disastrous night is my punishment for the final words I said to my mom.
Maybe I deserve this.
Locked In
I expect him to leave and let me live my shame in peace, but he doesn’t.
Awkward silence fills the air and I cover my face with my hands, shaking my head at myself. “God, I suck at being a party girl.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says. “But it’s not.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumble. “Everyone likes you.”
He laughs hollowly. “No one likes me, Zhara. I’m an ass.”
“Your friends do.”
“Yeah, well they’re my friends. They kind of have to.”
“Well, at least people don’t make fun of you.” I cringe as a warm breeze blows through the open window, tickling my bare flesh and painfully reminding me I’m still shirtless. “Everyone thinks I’m this uptight, good girl who doesn’t know how to have fun.”
“Is that why you came here?” he asks condescendingly. “To prove to everyone that you know how to have fun.”
“No. I came here to prove that to myself.”
“Oh.”
Silence stretches between us again and then the door clicks shut. Thinking he’s left, I turn around, then startle back.
Not only is he still there but he doesn’t have on a shirt.
I quickly cross my arms over my chest and shuffle back until my back collides with the wall. “What are you doing?”
He tosses me the shirt, but I keep my arms folded and it pegs me in the face.
He heaves a frustrated sigh, scoops up the shirt, and holds it out to me. “Would you just take the damn shirt? I’m trying to be a gentleman, something that doesn’t happen very often.”
I hesitate, then grab the shirt from him. “Thanks.” I hug the shirt against my chest. “Can you turn around while I put it on?”
His gaze flicks up and down my body then he presses his lips together and faces the closed door. I hurry and tug the shirt over my head, my heart thrashing in my chest, about to burst with panic and a bit of anxious excitement. I’m not sure where the excitement’s stemming from, at least that’s what I attempt to convince myself. Deep down, I know it’s from the fact that I’m standing in the same room with Benton while I have my shirt off. Sure, he’s not looking at me and yeah, I couldn’t handle it if he turned around, but the situation is new and different and breathes air into my lungs for the first time in a long time.
“All right, you can turn around now,” I tell him after I get the shirt on.
The fabric of his shirt smells like cologne and laundry detergent and kind of like the strawberry drink he gave me earlier. It smells good, like really, amazingly, I-could-breathe-it-instead-of-air good. I wonder if all guy’s shirts smell this good.
When Benton faces me again, his eyes briefly move up and down my body again before he focuses his intense gaze on me. “So, what happened?”
I fiddle with the hem of his shirt, which reaches me mid-thigh and covers up my shorts. “Nothing.”
He stares me down, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. The movement makes me hyperaware that he’s shirtless, and I can’t help but notice Benton is fit and toned with lean muscles that carve his stomach and arms. He’s nice to look at. Like really, really nice. I’ve never thought I had a type before, but I think that might be because I never hung around anyone outside of my circle.
Benton suddenly arches a brow and gives me this knowing, arr
ogant look. That’s when I realize I’m openly gawking at him.
I tear my attention away from him and focus on the mirror, trying to get a grip over myself.
“You good?” Benton asks with a hint of laughter in his tone.
I bite down on my lip, my skin blazing like a wildfire. “Yeah, I’m fine.” When my voice cracks, I consider maybe jumping out the window. Anything to get out of this awkward situation.
“Okay then.” He pauses and I cross my fingers that maybe he’ll leave and let me out of this uncomfortable situation. But he stays put. “So, why were you hiding out in here and hanging your shirt out the window?”
“Because I spilled my drink all over myself,” I lie, not wanting to cause any drama by mentioning the girl who purposefully bumped into me.
“Did you spill it on yourself? Or did someone else?”
How the heck does he know? “Does it really matter?” I dare a glance at him. “It’s just a shirt.”
“So what if it’s just a shirt. If someone spilled a drink on you on purpose, it should matter.” He straightens his stance. “You can’t just let people walk all over you.”
“I don’t.” The lie aches in my chest, heavy and weighted as the pressure builds. “I just don’t like getting mad about silly things. And besides, didn’t you just tell me that people suck and that I should ignore them?”
“You should to a point, but you shouldn’t let people shove you around and spill drinks all over you.” He shakes his head, seeming angrier than he should be over the situation. “There’s a difference between ignoring some stupid asshole running off their mouths and letting people hurt you.”
I hug my arms around myself. “No one hurt me. They just bumped into me and made me spill my drink. It’s not a big deal and I don’t know why you’re acting like it is. You don’t even like me.”
He shrugs, not arguing. “I don’t hate you or anything.”
