He escorts me away from our booth toward the bathrooms. This is nowhere close to the dazzling seduction I’d had in my mind when I first texted.
“And I’m not shy anymore, you know,” I blurt. “I’m… I’m gregarious and effervescent.”
He has the decency to keep a straight face, but I can detect the mirth bubbling just underneath. “No one’s accusing you of being shy…，” he says, regarding me seriously. “And you’re extremely fun and… fizzy.”
I swat his arm. I want to tell him that the greaseball fat kid he knew back then is dead. That I’m exciting now. Desirable. That admirable people have made all sorts of terrible decisions with me.
The line for the bathroom spills out of the red-lit hallway and wraps around the old-school jukebox. I lean on it, pushing the buttons that flip the CDs. I want piano music. Something keen and unsentimental. I want Ravel, but I’m also open to Jason Mraz.
I turn around and almost collide into him. Patrick’s eyes widen. His lips are inches from mine. It occurs to me how preposterous it is that our mouths had to travel this far over this many years without ever once touching. I press my mouth on his. After a moment, he pulls away.
“All right, killer,” he says affably. I can’t tell how mortified to be about the brush-off. It doesn’t matter. My light is on now. I’m sparkling above this moment, this room, this entire city. All I know is that whatever else happens tonight, Patrick will like me before it’s through.
I flip the pages of the CDs in the jukebox. When I see the Cruel Intentions soundtrack, my palms sweat. I turn back to Patrick.
I feel like I’m in a dream. My fingers caress his cheek. Possibly with more force than is required.
His hair’s curling in the back from the humidity. I reach out and touch it this time.
50 Cent comes on. There’s a wall of screaming to “In Da Club” at our left.
Just then the bathroom door opens somewhere behind him, a bright slice of yellow light. I cut the line, grab him by the wrist, and pull him into it with me. I need him to pay attention. To see me as I am now. The bathroom’s covered in a thousand stickers that are tagged over with a thousand different Sharpies and smells so overwhelmingly of pee that I feel like I can taste it.
“Hi,” he says. “This is a variant on the original plan of peeing separately, but it can be remedied.” Patrick grabs the door to leave.
“Stay for one second. I can’t hear you out there.”
“Oh,” he says. “We’re here to talk.”
It occurs to me that my makeup’s running down my face. There’s no wall mirror. Only one of those plastic handheld ones. This one’s black and chained to the faucet. The glass has been broken out of it.
“Wow. Metaphor much?” I ask.
He smiles indulgently. It really does smell so much like pee. I gag slightly.
Someone knocks at the door.
“Just a second!” I call out, laughing.
Right then the unmistakable trill of a Tinder match erupts from his pocket. His hand shoots to his phone.
“Oops!” I blurt jokily. “Guess the night’s looking up.” Even in my soused fog, I know this is not going smoothly. I’m trying to be a good sport, to be fun, carefree.
“Sorry,” he says, and looks at me with such compassion I want to hit him. I wish he’d made a joke. Suddenly I’m weepy. I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves for his date.
I reach for him and kiss him again. A Hail Mary pass. His mouth is warm and bittersweet from his cocktail and I know this is the weirdest thing to think about, but it’s the perfect moisture level. God, he probably remembers to drink water throughout the day or something annoying. Again he pulls away.
I keep staring. Boldly. He leans into me then, grabbing the back of my neck and kissing me. His other hand is on my hip. I grab him by the waist of his pants and pull him toward me. I kiss his neck. It’s briny and slick. I wonder if the Tinder girl he matched with is prettier than me.
“Okay,” he says, breaking away again when I squirm the tips of my fingers down his pants. I’ve never had sex in a bar bathroom, but I’m game. Patrick is safe. I just don’t want to leave. I can’t face going back to that apartment. Either apartment.
More urgent knocking at the door.
“All right,” he insists, pulling away and reaching for the lock. “I’m calling it. I’ll put you in a car if you want.” Then he kisses me lightly again before turning. “This is not the place,” he says firmly, as if convincing himself. Before he leaves, he looks at me as if he can see all of me. As if he’s privy to something I don’t know about myself.
I close the door on him.
God. Maybe he’s religious. Fuck that. Maybe he’s one of those good Catholic boys. Or maybe he’s just not into me.
I hover pee, thighs burning in my heels, and then wash my hands for a long time, grateful for the cold water on my wrists, grateful that I can’t see my reflection. I’m sure my face is sticky. I don’t want to touch my face, this bathroom is so filthy.
Now that I’m taking a breath, I’m glad we stopped. I like Patrick so much. Even if his ethics feel like poetry in that the meaning behind the words evade me.
When I open up there’s a girl on her phone, dressed like a nun. She shoots me a look like, “Seriously?” and then slams the door in my face.
I’m surprised to find Patrick waiting in the hall. “Jayne,” says a voice from behind. I look over. Patrick turns too. It’s Ivy.
“There you are,” she says. She’s wearing blue lipstick and a matching boa.
“Hey,” I say, throwing myself into her arms and hugging her. “What are you doing here?” I run my palms through her soft feathers. I’m so happy to see her. It feels like a miracle that we’re reunited like this.
“Jayne,” she scoffs, pulling away. “You literally told me to meet you.”
I did. I had. I feel Patrick’s eyes on us. I’d texted her when I was scared that he wasn’t coming.
“Fuck.” I smile and roll my eyes. “I’m so wasted.”
“Okay, well, come with me to Pete’s.” Ivy pulls out her phone to show me. “His Halloween parties are mental.” The IG stories are full of beautiful bodies in lowlight heaving to loud house music. Pete is Benzo Pete. Or Pedo Pete. This creepy forty-something A&R who last year tried to guess my age and was delighted that I was nineteen.
“You said you weren’t going to hang out with him anymore.”
“Jayne.” She says in singsong, teeth flashing, “I have shrooms.”
I sense Patrick’s attention on us. The thought of him meeting Ivy is intolerable somehow. I don’t want my worlds colliding.
“I can’t.” I take her hand in both of mine, but she snatches it back. The idea of partying with Ivy and returning to my body three days later turns my stomach.
“You’re the worst.” She turns on her heel for the bar.
I force myself to smile. “Let’s get some air.” I link my arm gamely in Patrick’s and march out without meeting his eyes. My chin dimples from the effort of keeping my mouth shut. My nose clogs. I cannot let myself cry.