Makes her want to open somethin’. Maybe her arms. Maybe her legs.
She ain’t proud of the thought. But it’s there. And she knows she’s blushin’.
The song’s about to end, and she ain’t waitin’. The second Andrew’s eyes slide off her, she’s movin’ down the ramp as if she’s outrunnin’ the side of her that saiddon’tandyou’re a bad, bad girl, Abigail. The same way she got in—stolen ID and a mouth full’a lies. She slides past the rope, blows past a guy foggin’ a dark corner with grape vape clouds. She don’t stop. Not ‘til she hits the hallway no girl’s supposed to be in.
No one sees her. They never do, even when she’s the biggest thing in the room.
So she keeps walkin’ 'til she reaches the private bathroom, door shuttin' behind her, lock turned, her heart hammerin’.
It stinks in here, mold and piss and beer vomit, like her daddy’s trailer back in Alabama in the summers, when she'd sweat all night on the pull-out couch.
To her right, a red thong sittin’ in the sink.
Below her, a roach lays on its back under the towel dispenser.
To her left, the toilet’s murky with God-knows-what.
In front of her, Abigail checks the mirror and hates her reflection.
Strawberry-blonde frizz, freckles runnin’ wild over her cheeks and nose and places no one asked ‘em to be. Eyes too round. Shoulders too square. Five-seven and too much. Big, soft, and wide everywhere—face, arms, chest, belly, hips, thighs.
She don’t need a stranger to call her fat. She’s been callin’ herself that since fifth grade. It never mattered how nice or well behaved she was. She still had to say sorry for takin’ up space. Sorry for bein’ loud. Sorry for bein’ the tagalong.
It’s why she stole her sister’s license six months back, slipped it into her wallet and prayed no one’d notice, then used it to slide past the bouncer out front, just to get into Vice three months before her twenty-first birthday. Worst thing she’s ever done, but not somethin’ she’d undo. Because the first night she walked through Vice’s basement door, her eyes landed on Andrew Harding, playin’ guitar like he’d fingered a siren first—sex and sin drippin’ from his fingertips.
She kept comin’ every damn nightSons of No Onewere on the lineup.
Now all the waitin’ had to be for this moment. ‘Cause the way he looked at her? It touched and struck her all at once.
She’s heard the whispers:Andrew don’t make the first move, if you want him, you better not ask. You better just do. And you do it when nobody’s lookin’.
She used to think it was a load of crap.
But tonight she’s desperate enough to try.
She wipes the sweat from between her thighs with a brown paper towel, then her pits, behind her neck, between her boobs. Every inch of her’s sweatin’ from heat, nerves, and a whole lottawhat the hell am I doin’?
She checks her reflection one more time.
Lord,she should’ve worn black. Or somethin’ looser.
She hikes her boobs higher with one hand, lettin’ ‘em spill out, thinkin’ he’ll stare there instead of anywhere else. And her shorts are ridin’ up no matter what she does. She tugs ‘em down, then up again.
She ain’t used to this. She’s used to hoodies in July and jeans in church. She’s used to layers and hidin’ and prayin’ it’s still a phase her body’s goin’ through. But she swore after high school she was gonna be different. No more hidin’, and she’s stickin’ to it.
She exhales slow, countin’ down in her head.
One… Two… Three…
She cracks the bathroom door and slips into the dark.
The back hall’s empty, the curtain just ahead.
He’ll come from those stairs, she knows it in her chest.
She stands right there against the wall, knees jelly, hopin’ she catches him before some bouncer catches her and kicks her out.
Then his boots hit the steps.
