"Evan?" I keep my voice low.
She gasps. "Winch! Get the hell out of this bathroom."
"Not without you." I run my finger along the crack in the door. "C'mon. You asked, I told. I knew you wouldn't like what you heard, but that's my truth. If it makes you feel better, I was picturing this exact moment in my head every time I wanted to pick the phone up and call you last week, so that's a big part of why I didn't."
Her sigh stops short. "You predicted this?"
"Not Carey's specifically. Not all the details. But you finally hearing about me, all about me, and wanting me gone, out, done? I knew that was coming. Because being with you? I thought it would probably be amazing, but I had no idea, you have no idea, how hard I've fallen for you already."
I wait, but there's no sound except the cautious movement of her feet, edging closer to the stall door. I think I hear someone swing the heavy outer door open, but it's a false alarm. Someone will come in soon, though, and I'd love to get out of the bathroom with her before I cause a ruckus.
"Every time I think I heard the worst version of your story, it gets even worse." One eye peers through the crack at me. I can hear her voice, clear and summer-creek-sweet. "I get that you're keeping me in the dark to protect me. But you have to stop. I have to know. Everything. All of it. Every piece. No matter how bad you think it is."
I can see her fingers toying with the stall bolt. I want her to slide it open.
"Alright. Full disclosure. I swear. But you gotta come out of there. I can't talk to you about this in the girls' bathroom. I don't need to get arrested for this."
It's meant to be a joke, to break some of the deep, pitch black ice that's surrounded us, but she slides the lock over and steps out, her eyes flashing.
"You don't need to get arrested for this. But you'll get arrested again, right? If Remy needs it, you will, and that's kind of okay with you?"
I look down at my spit-shined shoes and think about the night before, Remy's crazed behavior, the neighbors I had to pay off, the family I had to reassure. He's running wild and wounded as hell, and it's only a matter of time before he gets his ass caught in a bear trap so big and sharp, no amount of money or apologies will manage to smooth it over for him.
"I might."
Her frown is the last thing I want to see, and I wonder how frequent that look on her face will be with me.
"You wanted honesty." I take her hand in mine, pull her to the door and brace it open a crack. "C'mon. I'll let you play Twenty Questions with me, alright?"
The faintest glimmer of a smile breaks back over her face, and I go loopy at that look.
"What if it takes more than Twenty Questions to figure you out, Winch?"
Her dark hair brushes my arm as she leans with me to check up and down the hall.
"Twenty-thousand Questions then. You happy with that?"
It's all clear, so I pull her through, past the tables with plates left for the busboys and the mismatched, half pulled-out chairs, and out into the baking sun.
"Twenty thousand?" She rubs her slightly pointed chin. "Will that be enough?"
I shrug and twine my fingers through hers. "I think I'm pretty simple. But we can find out. Wanna walk and talk?"
I'm edgy, nervous and a little excited to try and pull this off. I want her. I've never wanted anything so much, and I like a fight, a challenge. Maybe I can do this, keep her, let her know it all and still manage to win her over.
"Sure." She nestles close to me despite how damn hot it is, and I think about the long litany of ‘fucks’ I listed outside the bathroom. Maybe they were all premature. She clears her throat.
"First question: when do you plan to stop taking care of Remy so you can start your own life?"
And maybe those ‘fucks’ were as warranted as I initially thought.
I watch the cracks in the sidewalk as she practically skips by my side, waiting to see if I can pass this test. It was shitty of her to start with a trick question, but I still need to answer and do it honestly.
"I'm gonna have a life and take care of Remy until he's back on his feet."
I wish I had my cigs, but I've been cutting back since Mama found a pack in my bedroom and went on a screaming tirade about lung cancer and my Great Uncle Pepe and his voicebox.
"I do work, Evan. It's for my family, but I don't just get handed a pile of money for sharing my dad's last name. I work long, crazy hours, and I get fair money for what I do."
"If you didn't do what you do for your family, what would you want to do? For yourself?"
A little bit of a breeze comes rushing down the street and lifts the hair off the back of her neck, exposing skin that's glistening with sweat.
I direct her around another uneven break in the concrete, using any excuse to drag her closer and keep my hands on the warmth of her skin.
"If I didn't work for my family?"
I watch two guys jog down the street in matching lime green spandex outfits. A group of college girls in flowery skirts with big sunglasses and shiny hair walks by and giggles. The breeze whips through again and flags clang on their flagpoles. I'm trying to answer these questions like I'm playing a game of chess, but my head
