“Harper? This song sucks. Let’s make it sucklessby dancing.”
I pause, frowning. Grab the edges of the counter for moral support, peer deeply into the mirror as if the answer will pop into my brain the longer I stare at myself.
Blinking, I catch a dark spot on my skin and lean toward it, inspecting my face for the hundredth time. Why do my eyebrows look like they’re closing in on each other? My mom waxes my unibrow; why does it look like I—
Shit.
Is that a zit?!Where the hell did that come from? I didn’t have one when I left the house, I swear to fucking god.
I make the mistake of poking it gently. Bad move. It’s like waking a sleeping bear. The redness flares, and suddenly it looks five times bigger.
“Cold water. Cold water, that’s what I need.” That will shrink the capillaries, yeah? Or do I use hot water?
Crap.
When I turn the faucet, it explodes, water over-spraying ontothe counter and over the ledge, soaking the front of my pants where my thigh is pressed.
I jump back, staring down in horror at the giant wet splotch. It’s right there. Dead center. The worst possible location.
Like I pissed my pants.
“No.No, no, no, no.” I grab a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, scrubbing furiously at my pants to dry them. The brown paper towels are useless—they’re disintegrating into tiny, soggy shreds in my hands.
Plus, it looks like I peed myself.Perfect.
I toss them into the trash and scan the white-tiled bathroom.Air dryer!That’s it. Air dryer.
I rush over to the wall-mounted hand dryers, doing my best to angle myself under one without looking completely insane, then put my palm underneath to activate the motion sensor and thrust my pelvis forward.
“Come on,” I growl through gritted teeth, pressing my hips upward desperately.
It’s not enough of a breeze. Undeterred, I squat, bending my knees, trying to find the sweet spot where the air is strongest, my hand flailing wildly under the motion sensor to keep it running.
I move my hips, contorting myself into increasingly ridiculous positions to get the air to hit the wet spot while at the same time waving my hand.
It’s no use.
“Oh, you wanna play hardball?” I mutter angrily at my damp pants, determination burning in my eyes. I’m full-on gyrating, doing what I can only describe as a very questionable TikTok dance.
Twisting.
Thrusting.
Waving my arms under the sensor like I’m trying to summon a genie in a damn bottle.
And that’s when the bathroom door creaks open.
Fuck.
I freeze mid-thrust, hips still jutted forward, as Marcus walks in, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of me. For a second the room is eerily silent except for the pathetic whirr of the dryer and the sound of my dignity evaporating faster than the water mark ever could.
Finally, he speaks. “Dude, what the hell are you doing? Hiding? We’ve been looking for you everywhere. When Gabe said he saw you going to the bathroom, I thought you were jerking off.”
Jerking off?
“What?!” I shout, horrified. “No! Why would you even—What’swrongwith you?”
His eyes narrow, and then they zero in on the front of my dress pants. It takes exactly two seconds for the smirk to transform into a full-blown grin.
