“Holy shit.” Marcus laughs, covering his mouth with one of his hands. “Did you piss your pants, bro?”
“Shut up. Of course I didn’t piss my pants.” I move from my spot by the wall and go to the counter, straightening my tie. “It’s water, asshole.”
I don’t warn him to be careful as he sidles up next to me; it would serve him right to have the front of his khaki pants water-stained, too. If anyone deserves a matching stain, it’s him.
Sure enough, the moment his thighs brush against the counter, water seeps into the fabric—just as I hoped it would.
“What the—” He looks down, his grin vanishing as a dark stain spreads across his thigh. “Dude! Are you kidding me?”
“Only the cool kids pee their pants.” I laugh, shoving him toward the hand dryer. “Karma is a bitch.”
He awkwardly tries to position his thigh under the weak blast of air, grumbling the entire time. “This thing is useless. It’s blowing like…three molecules of air per second.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, pretending to inspect my tie in the mirror as the dryer sputters and dies mid-puff, leaving my friend crouched in front of it in stunned silence.
He scowls, stepping away from the machine. “I give up.”
Good idea.
“What were you actually doing in here? Taking a dump?”
This fuckin’ guy. “No. I was…rehearsing how I’m gonna ask Harper to dance. And apologize.” I have several things to atone for but do not know how to make them right.
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking.
Marcus nods his approval, reaching around me to grab a paper towel and dry his hands. “Yeah—Harper has been third-wheeling it with us all night. Which is fine. But I’d likesomealone time with my girlfriend. The night’s been meh, if I’m being honest. I’d love to bounce, but…”
“Are you saying the dance is lame?”
“No. I’m saying it’s not as much fun as I thought it would be. Macy is bored—we’re only staying because of Harper.”
The gears in my brain begin turning.
She deserves more than an apology; she deserves proof that I like her—the way she likes me. She deserves a night to remember, and it does not start with a slow dance.
Something bigger than my wasted words.
What I need is a grand gesture.
“I’m not joking,” Marcus blathers on, crossing his arms. “Justgo out there, say something semicoherent, and ask her to dance. Worst case? She says no. Best case? You stop being the human embodiment of a wet napkin and have a good time.”
He will not shut his yap.
I scowl, swatting his words away like an annoying mosquito.
“Bro, would you shut up? Stop talking,” I tell him curtly, my brain sparking to life with an idea that’s so over-the-top outrageous it makes me want to puke in the trash can. The idea isthatgood. For real.
“Why would I want to stop talking?”
“ ’Cause.” A grin creeps across my face. “I have an idea.” I’m feelingsopleased with myself. “Don’t know if it’ll work yet, but if it does, I may need your help.”
“Dude, yes!” He fist pumps, lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. He’s pumping the air with so much enthusiasm, I have secondhand embarrassment for him. “Yes! I’m in, whatever it is. No questions asked.”
“You never ask questions.” I roll my eyes at the same time I fish my phone out of my back pocket. “That’s what always gets you in trouble.”
“Ouch. That stings a little. But also:True.” He has no shame.
My thumb hovers over the contact before I press it with the kind of determination reserved for people on game shows about to risk everything.
