by Noir, Roxie
“I saw a documentary.”
“Wiseass.”
That, at last, gets a smile.
“I was curious, so I picked up a manual,” he says. Step, step, turn. “It was like reading a car crash. I couldn’t look away.”
“Did they work?” I ask.
“HEY, ARE YOU OKAY IN THERE?!”
The woman on the other side of the door is back.
“YEAH,” I shout.
“I GOT THE BARTENDER!”
“DON’T USE THAT LOCK, IT’S BUSTED!” the bartender hollers. “I GOTTA GO CALL THE LOCKSMITH.”
“IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT!”
That’s my new bathroom friend, shouting from behind me.
“WHAT?”
“IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT!”
“WHAT?”
“THALIA!” shouts Margaret’s voice. “ARE YOU OKAY?”
I want to shout no, I’m trapped in a men’s bathroom with a very handsome stranger and I’ve been making a damn fool of myself for at least ten minutes now, but that’s too many words to shout.
“I’M FINE!” I holler.
“WE GOT SECOND PLACE!” she shouts. “WE WERE IN FIRST BUT THEN THERE WAS A SPORTS ROUND.”
The handsome man and I look at each other.
“Congratulations,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, then turn back to the door. “GOOD JOB! YOU GUYS CAN LEAVE IF YOU WANT, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WAIT HERE FOR ME.”
“LET ME TALK TO VICTORIA AND HARPER,” she shouts, and then I hear footsteps heading away from the door.
“What was that about Sunday night?” I ask the man, because it seemed important at the time but we skipped past it.
“Only emergency locksmiths are open,” he says, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair again in what’s clearly a stress-related gesture. “It’s gonna take hours. Shit. Why the hell haven’t they replaced the lock if they know it’s busted? Can’t they chop the door down with a fire axe or something? Give me an axe, I’ll do it.”
“Heeere’s Johnny,” I say. It gets a smile.
“Point taken,” he says, then turns slowly, looking around the bathroom.
When he gets to the window, he pauses, then glances over at me.
I shake my head.
“Too small,” I tell him.
“It’s not.”
“It’s too high.”
“I can get you up there.”
Now the buffalo are tap-dancing in my ribcage.
“You can go,” I say.
He looks at me like I’ve just casually suggested he light his own pants on fire.
“I can’t leave you here alone,” he says.
“Just toss my phone back through,” I say, shrugging. “And maybe a burger. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, I was unclear,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not leaving you trapped in a men’s bathroom.”
There’s that jello-in-my-chest feeling again.
He strides to the window and reaches up. His fingers find the crank, and after a few seconds of pushing, he turns it.
The tiny window starts moving, dislodging dirt and dust as it opens inward.
“See?” he says.
I flatten my hands against the front of my skirt. My not-indecent-but-definitely-on-the-short-side skirt.
“If you lift me who’ll lift you?” I ask.
The window’s all the way open and he steps back, brushing his hands against his jeans and giving me a relieved grin.
Hello, dimples. Hi. I missed you. You’re nice.
“I can manage,” he says. “Come on.”
My palms are sweating again, and I’m tempted to say something like oh really it’s fine, it’s so high up can you even lift me but that’s not really a question. He can definitely lift me.
Will I manage to keep my dignity while being hoisted through a window and wearing a skirt? Unclear.
“All right,” I say, and walk to the window.
He’s already standing there and he pushes away the garbage can, crouches, laces his hands together, and holds them out.
“Grab onto my shoulder for stability,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”
I raise one foot to put it into his hands, then frown, bend down, and take my heeled boots off.
“Thanks,” he says as I put my slightly damp bare foot into his warm, strong hands and try not to think about how gross I am. “On three. One. Two —"
“Eeeee!”
I don’t mean to make that sound as he lifts me, but I do. I grab onto the concrete ledge of the rather small window and, without thinking too much, stick my head through and my upper body follows until half of me is sticking out, into the alleyway behind The Tipsy Cavalier, and half of me is still in the men’s bathroom.
I could think about the fact that Mister Handsome Dimpleface might be looking up my skirt, but I choose not to. Instead I put all thoughts of dignity aside and very, very carefully scootch until I’ve got one knee through the window, then the other, my whole body balanced sideways in this precarious position.
Then I take a deep breath and flail toward the ground, feet-first.
By God, I almost make it, only I stumble a little as I land and wind up on the asphalt, one knee roughed up but otherwise fine.
“You all right?” he calls.
“Fine!” I call back, getting to my feet.
“I’m tossing your shoes over,” he says, and a moment later, my boots come out.
As I’m putting them back on, he appears, head first, then maneuvers himself around properly and drops lightly to the ground like it’s nothing.
Then he looks at me and grins.
“That was something,” he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. “God, I thought we’d be in there for — your knee is bleeding.”
I look down at it. I’m scratched up, but it’s no big deal. There’s, like, one drop of blood.
“My landing sucked,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, and before I know it, he’s on one knee in front of me, two light fingers on my shin as he examines the scrape.
I bite my lip as nervousness spikes through me. Nervousness and something else that spikes as I look down at the top of his head, watch his big, gentle hands as his fingers just barely graze my skin.
Without warning, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. Whether he’d be gentle like this or a little rough, what his stubble would feel like on my face, whether he’d pull away early and leave me breathless, wanting more —
“I didn’t think it was that far down,” he says, apologetically.
“It wasn’t,” I say, with a quick laugh. “It’s no big deal. Really.”
“Still, I’m sorry,” he says, and then he stands.
Right in front of me.
Like, eight inches away. The buffalo stampede in my chest is going over a cliff.
“Listen, it was a trying time,” I say, trying to make a joke. “We’re lucky we made it out alive.”
That gets a smile and the smile gets dimples and the dimples get a skipped heartbeat from yours truly.
“You’re right, we’ve been through a lot together,” he says. “Thalia, right?”
I blink in surprise, then frown slightly.
“Is that some pickup artist trick?” I ask, breathless. “You somehow find out a girl’s name without asking her and then you use it in some kind of neurolinguistic —”
“Your friend shouted it through the door,” he says.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling like an idiot.
“Of course,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He just looks at me, half amused and half expectant, and I find myself staring at his lips, his jaw, the way that his hair is just a little too long and curls against his neck —
“If you want, I could tell you mine,” he says.
I’m not having a smart day, am I?
“I think this story’s better if I simply
refer to you as my mysterious bathroom stranger,” I tease.
“It might be,” he concedes. “But we’re out of the bathroom now, and I’d rather ruin the mysterious stranger part.”
“Don’t tell me you’re about to hand me a copy of your memoir.”
“No, just ask you on a date,” he says, and the smile is back and the dimples are back. “I’ve got tickets to the sculpture show at the Botanic Gardens for tonight, and my brother just backed out.”
“Light Cantatas?” I ask, surprised. I tried to get tickets last week, but it closes tonight and everything was sold out.
“That’s it,” he says. “If you really want, you can keep calling me a mysterious stranger, but it seems like that could get burdensome when you’re telling your friends what a great time we had.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Hold on,” I say. “You’re making a lot of assumptions. What if I have a terrible time?”
“So you’re saying yes.”
“That was a trap,” I say, still laughing.
“No, that bathroom was a trap,” he says. “This is me asking you on a date where I may or may not tell you my name, according to your wishes.”
“Even if my wishes are —”
“YOU’RE ALIVE!”
I whirl, mid-sentence, at Harper’s voice echoing through the alley, and half a second later she emerges into the orange light of the street lamp at a half-run.
“You stopped answering through the door and we thought you’d drowned in the urinal!” she goes on, practically falling on me to wrap me in a drunk bear hug.
“The urinal?” I ask.
“We didn’t really think that,” Victoria calls from behind her, walking like a normal person. “Obviously, we deduced that you escaped.”
“She was worried,” Harper whispers into my ear. “Though not actually about the urinal. We all know you’re much more likely to drown in a toilet, there’s more water. Or maybe the sink, though that probably depends on what kind of sink the men’s bathroom has. I wasn’t brave enough to go in there when I had to pee.”
“Can you let me go? I can’t breathe,” I whisper back.
“Sorry,” she says, and releases the hug as Margaret and Victoria walk up, and even though they’re both also drunk, they’re managing to play it cool a little better.
Sort of. All three of them are very obviously checking out my bathroom friend while trying to act like they’re not checking him out, and while I can’t blame them I’m the tiniest bit annoyed.
“Hi, guys!” I say, probably sounding a little too perky. “Check it out, I’m alive!”
“Did you go through that window?” Victoria asks, eyeing the window I just went through.
“I was getting claustrophobic, so I talked her into it,” Mysterious Handsome Stranger says.
It’s like he’s giving them permission to finally look at him, because three sets of eyes simultaneously swivel in his direction.
Harper’s the first one to find her voice.
“Well, thank you for your service, my good sir,” she says. Her voice takes on a haughty, formal tone that she only ever uses when she’s drunk and trying to hide it by sounding like she’s conversing with the Queen of England. “Clearly, Thalia here is deeply in your debt. My name is Harper, by the way, and I am her friend.”
She reaches out one hand, and Handsome Bathroom Man takes it.
“Pleasure to meet you, Thalia’s friend Harper,” he says, and in the low orange light, I can see one dimple sink halfway in a smile as Harper continues to shake his hand.
Then she clears her throat.
“And you are?” she finally asks.
Behind her, Margaret sighs.
Bathroom stranger cocks his head in my direction, eyebrows raised, teasing half-smile on his face, and looks at me.
Now they’re all looking at me: Handsome Stranger laughing, like we’ve got a secret, my friends just puzzled.
“All right,” I finally tell him. “I guess the mystery is over.”
Chapter Three
Caleb
The corners of Thalia’s lips quirk, then pucker slightly, like she’s trying not to laugh and failing, and even in the ugly orange streetlight, I find it nearly impossible not to stare at that single, tiny motion.
I’m starting to wonder if there was something in the cherry coke I drank. Maybe the bartender used moonshine cherries by accident or slipped in a shot of everclear or something, anything to explain what’s happening.
Her friend tightens the handshake slightly, and I remember that there are others present.
“You could always cover your ears,” I tell Thalia. “If you like it better this way.”
“But what if you’re eaten by a giant carnivorous plant at the gardens?” she asks, her lips quirking again. Jesus. “I can’t just tell the cops that a mysterious stranger went missing near the Venus Flytraps.”
“Venus Flytraps don’t get nearly big enough to eat people,” says the white friend with sideswept dark bangs and shoulder-length hair.
“Read the room!” the black friend with a huge silver necklace hisses to her.
“But they don’t,” the first girl says defensively.
“We’re all in a great deal of suspense,” says the third friend — the blond still hanging onto my hand — in a very official tone of voice. “And this situation also seems steeped in sexual tension, which is certainly odd because Thalia’s never —”
“Just tell me your name,” Thalia interrupts her, stepping forward. “Also, Jesus, Harper, you can stop shaking his hand now, he gets it.”
Harper clears her throat, gives my hand one more jiggle, then lets go.
“Caleb,” I tell Thalia.
She laughs. I don’t know why, but she does, and I like it.
“All that for two syllables that aren’t even weird?” she says. “I thought you were going to say your name was Dinglehopper or Spacecraft or Egbert or something.”
“Spacecraft is my middle name,” I say.
“And yet, you choose to go by Caleb?”
She’s still laughing, her head slightly tilted, her hair draping over one bare shoulder, black strands against bronze skin.
“I’ve made a lot of puzzling life choices,” I tell her.
It’s true. I have a Ph.D. in mathematics. No one in their right mind goes to grad school.
“Like jumping through a bathroom window instead of waiting sensibly for rescue?”
“Like going to bar trivia when I barely drink and don’t watch sports or follow pop culture,” I say.
“Fucking sports questions,” mutters the white friend with the bangs.
The blond who shook my hand for too long pets her head.
“I already subscribed to the SportsCenter newsletter so we can study for next time,” she says, soothingly.
“We’ll make flashcards,” says the black friend with the necklace.
“Nerds,” says the first girl, lovingly, then looks over at Thalia. “Are you going to introduce us to your new hot flirt partner or do we all have to do awkward handshakes?”
“My handshake was fine,” mutters the blond one.
“Right, sorry,” says Thalia, standing up a little straighter.
The movement pushes her breasts out, against her tank top, and as hard as I try not to notice, I do. I think I notice every single movement she makes, like I’m tuned to her frequency.
“Harper, Victoria, and Margaret,” she says, pointing to the blond white girl, the black girl with the necklace, and the white girl with the bangs. “This is Caleb Spacecraft.”
“Pleasure, Mr. Spacecraft,” says Victoria.
“That’s his middle name, dumbass,” whispers Harper. “We just established that.”
“No, the pleasure is all mine,” I insist, matching Victoria’s tone.
“Thank you,” says Harper, and curtsies.
Thalia and I look at each other, her lips quirking again like she’s trying not to laugh.
> “You never did answer me,” I tell her.
“Certainly not, and I’m offended you even asked,” she says, folding her arms in front of her.
It catches me completely off-guard, and I hesitate for a moment.
“All right,” I say, nodding. “Well, it’s been —”
“That was a really bad joke! Sorry,” she says, unfurling her arms and stepping toward me, then stopping. “Shit. I’m sorry, it was funnier in my head but it was just awkward in person, which happens kind of a lot.”
Fuck it, I’m charmed. There’s something about this girl, sweet and prickly and guileless and clever all at once. She’s beautiful. She’s unexpected. She’s interesting.
“And also, I forgot the question,” she admits, her voice softer now.
“I wouldn’t want to offend you,” I tease.
“I’m harder to offend than you might think.”
“Then asking you on this date probably doesn’t move the needle,” I say, moving another step toward her.
“Oh! Yes,” she says, and laughs. “I mean, no, it doesn’t offend me. I thought I already answered you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Go on the date,” one of her friends stage-whispers, and both of us turn our heads at the same time.
I’d forgotten we had an audience, even though they’re standing a couple of feet away. If they could, I think they’d be munching popcorn.
“I’m going!” she hisses back. “I just said yes, chill out.”
“Woohoo!”
“Atta girl.”
Victoria just grins and gives Thalia a thumbs-up.
Thalia turns back to me.
“I’m sorry about my comrades,” she says.
* * *
Thalia’s watching a glowing purple flower as it moves up the trellis. The paper blossom is tentative, hesitant, its petals slowly unfurling under the power of the heat lamp above, the light inside it pulsing in answer as it climbs upward.
“How is this working?” she whispers, her eyes still glued to the art, her face glowing with the violet of the flower’s inner light and the re-orange of the heat lamp above, striking her like a low desert sun.
She’s entranced by the flower, one hand halfway extended and then halted, fingertips touching lightly, lips parted, her whole body paused like she wants to touch it and knows she can’t.