My heart races as I seek out groups that look like they’re celebrating someone’s engagement. There’s a girl with a princess tiara and a pink “I’m 18!” sash on, woo-hoo-ing about something I can’t hear. Nope, not unless Keats’ friend Blake is some kind of a cradle snatcher.
My chest tightens. Maybe Keats has gone home. Maybe Blondie and Fake Tan have moved to another bar.
This is ridiculous. And pathetic. And I really need to go to the loo.
I head for the toilets again, pressing my hip against the door. It hardly budges an inch before closing again. Stupid hinges must need oiling.
I dig my heels into the parquet floor, place both hands and my right shoulder flat against the door and push until the shaft of light from the gap grows. Slowly, slowly the door opens, then it suddenly gives, and I find myself hurtling towards the tiled floor with no more door to prop me up.
A high-pitched squeal fills the small toilet as a hand catches my arm just before I land face first on the tiles. Despite the strong bruising grip, my helper only manages to turn me around. My momentum and weight still send me crashing down to the damp surface, and with the hand still on my arm, my rescuer slams on top of me as we both crash to the floor.
Oomph. Ouch.
My eyes flutter open, and standing by the door, is the dishevelled version of the same orange girl I saw in line before. Bathed in the Ladies’ halogen lighting, it’s easy to see her hair is mussed, her lipstick smudged, and her brows knotted into a frown.
A soft curse draws my attention to my rescuer who’s still on me. And there, looking back at me, are very, very familiar, blue “fuck me” eyes.
Chapter 3
“Hog-gen?”
My body coils at the sound of my high school nickname. I grit my teeth, glaring up at Keats McAllister. Or at least, I think it’s him under that facial hair, like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of weeks.
At the reunion last September, he’d looked ready for the pages of GQ. Now, he’s scruffy, his chestnut hair curling at his nape and over his ears and forehead—like Isabella took his interest in grooming with her when she left him.
He crawls off me, pulled from behind by Fake Tan.
“Oh, my God, are you okay?” she screeches, triggering a throb in my head.
“I’m…I’m okay,” I stammer, just as Keats answers in his Oklahoma twang, “I’m fine, darlin’.” He looks down at my stunned expression before distractedly saying, “I’ll see you outside, Kimmy” to Fake Tan.
“I’m Kelsey.”
“All right.”
Kelsey leaves in a huff, glaring at me like it’s my fault Keats isn’t interested enough in her to remember her name. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about her as he watches me with a worried expression. I wonder if I’ve hit my head and this is some kind of strange hallucination. I touch my scalp for damage.
I thought I was in the women’s toilets?I look around. There are no urinals. And then it clicks. Gross. Was he just making out in here with Fake Tan? And yuck, I’m touching the cold toilet floor!
“Here, let me help you up.” Keats steps over me, takes my hands in his and pulls.
I scramble to my feet so he doesn’t realise how heavy I am.
“Are you all right, Hog-gen?”
Hands still holding mine, he studies me and all I can think about is: He does have “fuck me” eyes. And they’re even bluer and more compelling contrasted against his unexpectedly sexy facial hair.
“I need to pee.” That’s as much as my addled brain could muster this close to him.
Keats lets go of my hand and takes a step back, an embarrassed smile on his lips as he retreats towards the door.
I didn’t mean I’m going right here, right now.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, a corner of his generous mouth turned up.
Oh, God. I probably sounded like Forrest Gump. I put my face in my hands as soon as he’s out of the bathroom. That was the longest conversation I’ve had with Keats in over ten years—the first sentence I’ve uttered to him since high school, actually—and it had the word “pee” in it.
The toilet door opens and the girl with the “I’m 18!” sash enters with a gaggle of her equally young friends. I run for one of the stalls before I need to line up again.
Afterwards, I stand in front of the lone mirror above the only sink in the women’s toilets. My hands are shaking as I straighten out my hair. The adrenalin from my brief encounter with Keats is still coursing through my body. I look back at me. My face has always been thinner but below my neck I just balloon out starting with my boobs that have been blocking the view of my feet since I was fifteen.
I sigh. There’s no way for me to tone up between now and closing time. Keats is just going to have to see me like this.
“Excuse me, are you done?” the newly eighteen asks me.
“Sure. Sorry.”
I take a deep breath before I exit the bathroom. The smell of beer and the buzz of intermingled noises greet me. I better find Jillie and ask her if she wants to catch the bus together.
“Howdy, Hog-gen.”
I jump and find Keats right in step beside me. The nickname instantly has my hackles up, so I keep my gaze averted.
“Sorry. I just wanted to check if you were okay. You took quite a fall there.”
I look at him blankly. He’s apologising about that? What about practically ghosting me for the last two months?
“I’m Keats McAllister. From high school?”
I guess he didn’t see me ogling him for the few minutes he was at our class reunion last September. He’d probably been too busy at the time to notice me in my pink froufrou dress. Probably not a bad thing. A similar outfit had looked
