“Hey Annie!” Julie says when she answers my video chat call. “What’s up?”
My best friend’s brown hair is pulled into a messy bun—her classic writer hair style—and she’s sipping coffee while on her back patio. Her patio isn’t a usual patio. It faces Lake Sterling, and it’s huge, nearly the size of the entire house. She has beautiful patio furniture, so it’s like an outdoor living room. It’s where she likes to get some writing done, outside facing the lake, the sun warming her skin.
“I’m sorry to bother you but…” I stop, swallow, and then get the courage to say it. I don’t want to be a burden, but I don’t have much choice right now. “Can I come stay with you for a few days?”
“Of course,” she says, setting her coffee mug down. “How did you find the time off work to come visit?”
“I was laid off.”
Her eyes widen on my phone screen. “Oh Annie! I’m so sorry!”
And I lost my apartment, I think. But I can’t bring myself to tell her that second bit of bad news right now. I don’t want to put all my problems onto my best friend. I just need a few days with her so I won’t rack up a ton of debt paying for hotel rooms, and also so I have a friendly face to cheer me up. Then I’ll find a new job, and I’ll get a new apartment. I just need a few days.
We talk a bit longer, mostly about how her new novel is coming along. When our call is over, I set my GPS for her adorable lakefront house in a super tiny Texas town called Sterling that’s about six hours away from Dallas, and I set off on my adventure. Okay, maybe it’s not anadventure. It’s not a new job and it’s not an official place to live, but at least I have something to do. It sure beats sitting here in this gas station parking lot.
Once I’m only about forty-five minutes away from Sterling, I have to pee. I wish I could push on and wait until I’m at Julie’s house, but when nature calls, you must answer. I exit the interstate and find a gas station that has a diner next to it. Since gas station bathrooms are extremely yuck, I walk over to the diner, needing to pee more urgently with each passing second.
This little diner has only one unisex bathroom. And it’s currently locked. I can see the light on underneath the door, so I step back and wait. And wait. And wait.
Maybe you need a key or something to get inside this bathroom? Walking back to the counter, I ask but the waitress tells me there’s no key, so someone must be using the bathroom.
I walk back and tap lightly on the door. “Hello?”
“Uh, just a minute,” a male voice says from the other side.
Then it sounds like a hair dryer turns on. I lift an eyebrow. All kinds of sounds come from the bathroom, but not normal sounds. No toilet flushing sounds like what you would expect. The sink turns on once. Then I hear some clanking and moving. Then the sound of a long zipper, like maybe the zipper on luggage?
What on earth is going on in there?
I knock again. “Other people need to use this restroom,” I call out.
“Just a minute!” the voice says again.
I grit my teeth and try not to do a classicI have to pee danceright here in the back of a small diner.
I knock again.
“Almost done.”
The zipper sound happens again. I am seriously considering abandoning all hope and running to the gross gas station bathroom next door, but then the door opens. A stupidly gorgeous man steps out, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a blue and black button-up flannel shirt on top, the buttons undone. He wears a blue beanie on his head, but dark hair pokes out the bottom.
He’s also wearing sunglasses, even though he’s indoors. The way he turns to look at me, and that stupid grin he gives me tells me he probably doesn’t have a vision disability. So he’s one of those people—people who wear sunglasses inside because they think it makes them look cool. News flash: it does not.
My eyesight must be playing tricks on me, however, because he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And surely, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen wouldn’t be this much of a selfish jerk.
“Finally,” I snap, refusing to let my expression reveal that I think he’s hot.
“I wasn’t in there very long,” he says, looking away. He reaches back into the bathroom and carries out two suitcases. That explains the zipper noises, I guess.
“This is a bathroom, not a changing room, you know. You’re not special. You’re supposed to pee and get out, just like everyone else.”
“Sorry you had to wait,” he says, not looking at me. In fact, it’s almost like he’s deliberately not looking at me by focusing on the floor instead. Why? Does he think he’s better than me? Does he think that his suitcases and stupid sunglasses are more important than having basic human courtesy and letting other people use the restroom?Ugh.
“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” I snap, stepping out of his way so he can haul his dumb suitcases down the small hallway.
“I’m sorry,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s all yours now.”
He still isn’t looking at me, and I don’t know why. Plus I don’t have time to analyze it. All I know is that he’s rude. And I hate him.
