“But you do, right? You have friends you can confide in. Talk about your love life or whatever. Share your secrets.”
“A few,” Eve said, though she hadn’t done a great job of maintaining those friendships in recent months. She hadn’t told Jane or Peggy or Liza about her porn problem, and she certainly hadn’t mentioned her crush on Amanda. The only person she could imagine confiding in about her feelings for Amanda was Amanda herself, and that wasn’t possible at the moment. They hadn’t really talked since their fateful dinner at Enzo, even though they saw each other every day at work. When they did communicate, they were both a little guarded, very proper and professional, as if neither one wanted to venture into any gray areas, or get anywhere near the other’s personal boundaries.
“You know what the problem is?” Margo said. “I missed out on the bonding periods. I didn’t grow up with a tight group of girls, didn’t have any women roommates in college, didn’t get to swap sex stories with co-workers at lunch. No Mommy and Me classes, no hanging out with a neighbor while our kids had a playdate. The only woman I could ever talk to like that was my ex-wife, and she refuses to be my girlfriend. She wants me to be happy, but she doesn’t want to go clothes shopping or hear about the cute guy I have a crush on. Can’t really blame her, I guess.”
“That’s gotta be complicated,” Eve said.
Margo nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.
“When I was a guy, I used to get so jealous when women went to the bathroom together. One of them would get up, and then her friend would get up, too. Sometimes two friends. It was like a conspiracy. And I’d be like, What’s going on in there? What kind of secrets are they telling each other?”
“Nothing too exciting,” Eve said, though she’d actually had some interesting bathroom experiences over the years. Sophomore year of high school, Heather Falchuk pulled up her shirt and showed Eve her third nipple, a little pink island at the bottom of her rib cage. Her college friend Martina, a recovering bulimic, used to have Eve accompany her to the bathroom so she wouldn’t be tempted to purge after a big meal.
“I know it’s stupid,” Margo said, running her finger over the lip of her wineglass. “It’s just one of those things I always wanted to do.”
*
Julian had made it through two-thirds of the pitcher when the extent of his inebriation made itself clear to him.
“Oh, shit,” he told Dumell.
“What?”
Julian’s laughter sounded hollow and faraway in his own ears. “I’m pretty fucking wasted, man.”
“I can see that. You been sucking it down pretty good.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Julian leaned toward Dumell. It felt to him like something important was happening. “I never had a black friend before. You think that makes me a racist?”
Dumell thought this over, scratching the corner of his mouth with the tip of a thumb.
“I hope you’re not driving home,” he said.
Julian shook his head and pointed to the floor.
“Got my trusty skateboard.”
“Where you live?”
“Haddington.”
“That’s five miles away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You really commute on that thing?”
“It’s better than nothing.”
Dumell didn’t dispute this. “Is it fun?”
“Fuck yeah. You know that hill on Davis Road? Over by Wendy’s? Sometimes I’m going faster than the cars. Feel like a superhero.”
“Ever have an accident?”
“Nothing bad. If I see trouble coming, I just hop off.”
“I get that,” said Dumell. “But you can’t always see it coming, right?”
Julian picked up his glass—it was half-full—and then put it down without drinking.
“Only bad thing that ever happened, some jock assholes from my high school kidnapped me.”
“Kidnapped?”
“They threw me in their car, drove me to a park, and duct-taped me inside a Port-A-Potty.”
Dumell’s eyes got big. “You shitting me?”
“Nope.”
Julian shot a venomous glance across the table at Mrs. Fletcher, but she didn’t notice. She was too busy sucking up to the professor, who was apparently her new best friend. Mrs. Fletcher’s dickwad son had been one of the kidnappers.
“Why would they go and do that?” Dumell asked.
“Why? Because one of these jocks was being an asshole at a party, so I threw a drink in his face.”
“Crazy motherfucker,” chuckled Dumell. “How long were you stuck in there?”
Julian shrugged. It had only been a couple minutes—his house key cut right through the tape—but it felt like forever. The stench of that open toilet had been seared into his nostrils for months afterward. He could still smell it now if he tried hard enough.
“Too fucking long,” he said.
Julian shot another hateful look at Mrs. Fletcher. He wanted to say something mean, to let her know what a horrible bully she’d brought into the world, but she was standing up now, not even looking in his direction as she headed off to the rest room with Dr. Fairchild in tow.
“Damn,” said Dumell, who was watching the women walk. His voice was low and appreciative. “She looks good.”
“Which one?” asked Julian.
“Damn,” Dumell repeated in that same soft voice, which wasn’t really an answer.
*
With only one stall and limited standing room, the women’s rest room at PLAY BALL! wasn’t ideal for girl talk. Eve made a magnanimous after you gesture, inviting Margo to avail herself of the facilities. She checked her phone while she waited—there were no texts or emails of note—and reminded herself that it was rude to speculate about the particulars of the professor’s anatomy.
It’s not important, she thought. Gender’s a state of mind.
Margo flushed and emerged with a slightly tipsy smile on her face.
“Mission accomplished,” she announced in a singsong voice, turning sideways so Eve could slip past. “Your turn.”
Eve really did have to pee, but she was overcome with a sudden attack of shyness the moment she sat on the toilet. She had no problem going with strangers nearby, but it was harder when people she knew were within hearing range. It was all because Ted, in the early days of their relationship, had once teased her about the force of her stream.
Jesus, he said. Who turned on the faucet?
Years later, when their marriage was falling apart, Eve had mentioned this incident in a couple’s therapy session, to which they’d each brought a list of unspoken grievances. Ted had no recollection of making this comment, and was mystified that it could have bothered her for so many years. It was a dumb joke, he told her. Just let it go already. But here she was, seven years divorced, and still brooding about it.
“Eve,” said Margo. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of Dumell?”