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Long moments pass. It’s warm in the bathroom. Sweat pops on my brow. I pull out my phone, realize the signal in here is terrible, and shove it back in my bag.
Then, the bathroom door opens and I hold my breath, listening. Someone steps in, enters the stall two down from mine, and the sound of pee hitting the water breaks the silence.
I duck down to check out the shoes. I recognize those orthopedics. They belong to Marney in marketing, without a doubt. She hated me, mainly over my never-ending requisitions, as if they were my fault and not Rhett’s. She’d rat me out in a heartbeat.
And if I recognizehershoes, then she might know mine. I stand on the toilet, kicking myself for not wearing something plain that wouldn’t give me away. I love these pink Bernie Mevs, a perfect match for my pink-and-yellow sundress, but they are too obvious and unique.
The toilet flushes, and shortly after, the outer door opens again. Is someone else here?
I wait, straining to listen, then realize the room is silent.
No, Marney from marketing just doesn’t wash her hands.
I shift carefully to get down, but I’m not coordinated enough for toilet squatting. I lose my balance, and one of my beautiful Bernie Mevs hits the toilet water with a decisive splash.
“Noooo,” I hiss, stepping to the ground and pulling my dripping foot from the bowl. “No, no, no, no.”
This is Rhett Armstrong’s fault. All of it.
But I’m going to make it onto this boat if it’s the last thing I do.
At least the water was clean. I unroll toilet paper, kicking off my shoe to dry my dripping foot. Then I do my best to soak up the wetness from the shoe. The pink is twice as dark as on the dry one. It looks ridiculous.
Damn it all.
How weird would it be to go barefoot? Weirder than shoes of different colors?
I toss the wet paper into the toilet and flush.
Stupid Rhett. Stupid firing. Stupid job.
After what feels like eternity, the door opens again. I decide to hell with it and take off both shoes, setting them on top of the metal box attached to the stall for non-flushable items. The floor was just mopped. My feet will be fine.
I don’t have to look under the door to know the person who entered is Viola, my former work bestie. She was directly involved in getting me fired, so obviously, we don’t talk anymore.
I mourned the loss of our friendship as much as the job. But I recognize the clop-clop of her Jimmy Choo mules. She wears them everywhere. She never got over finding them for five dollars at Goodwill and tells every stranger she meets all about it, whether they ask or not.
“Did you see Rhett?” Viola asks, and I realize someone else came in with her.
I duck down to look at the other person’s shoes. Black flip-flops, totally nondescript. That could be anyone.
Who would Viola come in with? We never ate lunch with anyone else. For Viola, office gossip was a blood sport, and she had no love for anyone but me.
And Rhett, of course, the subject of her never-ending Cinderella fantasy where she bangs him in his imaginary penthouse and they fly off in the private jet that also does notexist. Dougherty isn’t that rich of a company, even though this cruise is pretty posh.
Viola works in marketing with Marney. Maybe she’s with Kenna from accounting? I peer down again. I can’t tell by the ankles, but the legs are wearing capri yoga pants, and that’s totally a Kenna outfit.
Viola keeps talking. She’s like that. It can be hard to get a word in edge-wise. “See why we call him Mr. Juicy? He looks perfectly delicious in those shorts and that polo. Gawd. I’m going to juice that fruit on this cruise if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You sure?”
Yep, that’s Kenna. Her brown ponytail and make-up-free face come instantly to mind.
I peer through the crack in the door. I can only see Viola. She’s peacocking in a blue crop top and bright pink shorts with a silver sparkle belt. Her mixed blonde-and-black hair is twisted into an updo with curls popping out the top. It’s adorable.
I want to tell her it’s gorgeous, but she’s not my bestie anymore. Our falling out is as permanent as the “asshole” she once wrote in Sharpie on a white sofa at a party. The man who lived there pinched her butt in the back hall and called her “fatty.” Viola exalts her curves.
She coats her lips with a pink the exact shade of her shorts. “Mark my words. Rhett Armstrong is in the bag.”
