“I wasn’t sure if you were alone.”
“Sure am.” He pulls open the door and gestures me inside. I’ve been in here before, of course, but it’s not exactly my favorite place to be. It’s a typical coffee shop bathroom, with two stalls, two urinals, and two sinks. It’s clean and cramped and smells like bleach.
“Feeling better?” I ask. Now that I’m in here I can see his face and hairline are wet, like he’d just splashed them with water. I watch as he grabs a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dries off as best he can.
“Yeah,” he answers after a second. “I’m glad it’s over.”
“Are you glad you did it? Because I’m glad. You were great.”
He meets my eye in the mirror, then smiles. He’s so hot when he smiles, all white teeth and tiny creases around his eyes. He looks like a mischievous little kid who knows he’s never going to stop being bad. “I’m glad,” he says, tossing the paper towel in the trash and turning to stalk toward me. “And I’m really fucking amped.”
“Amped?” I echo, reading his intentions clearly. And quite eagerly.
“Amped,” he repeats. He backs me into the door and reaches down to flip the lock. His lips are a millimeter away from mine when someone rattles the knob, finds it locked, then knocks loudly.
“Hello? Cros?”
It’s Kellan.
“Oh my God,” Crosbie mumbles into my hair. “Whyyy?”
More knocking. “Crosbie? Are you in there? Are you okay? Where’s the manager? I need a key.”
Crosbie backs away, takes a deep breath and looks at me, adorably exasperated. “Hide in the stall,” he says with a sigh. “I’ll get him out of here.”
I can’t help but laugh, covering my mouth so Kellan, who’s probably got his ear glued to the door in a misguided show of friendship, doesn’t hear. “He’s your number one fan.”
Crosbie rolls his eyes and pushes me toward the stall. “He’s my number one cock blocker.”
I shuffle into the stall and twist the lock. A second later I hear Crosbie pull open the door to the bathroom, the outside noise rushing in along with his best friend.
“Dude!” Kellan exclaims. “Are you okay? I’ve been knocking.”
“Sorry,” Crosbie answers. “I didn’t hear. How was the show? Did everyone think it was stupid?”
“No way. It was awesome. How’d you bend that quarter?”
“I told you. Mind meld. Let’s get back out there.”
“Why was the door locked? There’s someone in that stall, man.”
“Is there? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You probably freaked him out!”
The accusation fades as Crosbie hustles him away. I count to twenty and hurry out of the men’s room, lucky not to encounter anyone coming in. The show lasts another half hour and though Crosbie’s sitting with the track team in row two, we’re so swamped with last minute food and drink orders that we don’t get another chance to talk.
The open mic wraps up at ten-thirty and once everybody’s gone, it takes another forty-five minutes for us to get the shop restored. We refold a hundred folding chairs, mop a thousand muddy footprints from the floor, and drag tables and art displays back into place. Celestia sits in the corner reading a book, and Marcela’s only slightly more helpful as she works with one hand while texting constantly with the other.
“We’re going out,” she announces at one point.
Everyone looks at her. “You’re all welcome,” she says after a second, but points to me. “But you’re definitely coming.”
“Coming where?”
“Marvin’s.” She names the popular nearby pub. “That’s where Kellan and the other track guys are, celebrating Crosbie’s big night. He wants us to join them.”
She’s obviously expecting me to turn her down, and though I’m tired, I really want to see Crosbie. I’ll just be mindful of keeping my clothes on, enforcing a two-drink maximum, and steering clear of any camera phones so Dean Ripley doesn’t wind up with a digital track record of tonight’s festivities to show my dad.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug that’s far more casual than I feel. “I can come for a bit.” As soon as I agree my phone buzzes with a text from Kellan bearing the same instructions.
Be there soon, I type back.
He responds with a smiley face, and fifteen minutes later he’s beaming at me in person and pressing a bottle of beer into my hand. “We’re going to party, Nora!” he sings. “And it’s going to be so fun!”
I glance around at the sea of blue and orange Burnham athletics jackets. The crowd is so thick I can barely tell them apart, never mind find Crosbie in the throng.
“Is he here?” Kellan whispers, dipping his head so his lips brush my ear. “Who is it? You can tell me.” He looks at the bartender, a guy in his late twenties with five facial piercings. “That guy? Interesting.”
“Wrong,” I reply. “As always.”
“I’ll figure it out soon enough.”