“I’ve done weirder things for people I’ve just met.”
“How many meet-cutes have you had?”
It doesn’t seem like an appropriate time to confess to a stranger that one of my professions is fabricating romance for money, so I simply shrug.
She sits back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her shoulders sag with the slow, cautious relief of someone who thinks the storm might’ve passed but isn’t ready to commit to the diagnosis.
“So by a nine-month hangover, you meant you’re?—”
“Pregnant,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Four months. This is morning sickness. Which is a lie by the way. A filthy fuckinglie. It’s notmorningsickness. It doesn’t care what time of day it is and it doesn’t care that I’m at a funeral. It’s mean and relentless.” She braces one hand against the stall wall. “Help me up?”
I grip her elbow and guide her to standing, keeping my hand steady until she’s got her balance. She’s small—five-three, maybe—and also wearing flats. She barely reaches my shoulder. I guide her to the sink and turn on the cold water before grabbing two of the fancy rolled towels. I soak them then wring them out.
“Here.” I hand her one for her face and press the other gently against the back of her neck. “Cold compress. Helps with the nausea.”
She holds the towel to her face and lets out a sound that’s part relief, part surrender. “I would’ve settled for ‘not a serial killer’ but it seems my luck with men has improved. You’re a downright hero. Why are you so good at this?”
“Lots of practice.”
She peeks at me over the towel. “Lots of pregnant women in your life?”
I chuckle. “No.”
The woman eyes me up and down. “Okay. But I’m assuming looking like you do there are lots ofwomenin your life?”
“Wow. Bit judgy of you.”
She nods in agreement. “Yes, but that was a positive judgment. A compliment.”
“Compliment adjacent,” I clarify. “You just basically called me the male version of a slut.”
Her jaw drops. “That’s a little sexist of you.”
“What?” I’m genuinely floored and confused.
“There’s no male version of a slut. A slut is a slut. Slutty is not gender exclusive.”
I blink at her. “Say slut one more time,” I deadpan.
She flashes me a wicked smile. “Slut.”
We both break face at the same time, letting free our hearty chuckles. Hers light and melodic. Mine, like a gorilla grunt echoing off the bathroom walls.
I lean against the counter, giving her space. “My mum has severe chronic pain and has to take a lot of medication. If she put her pills in a bowl, it’d look like she was eating cereal. It’s hard on her stomach. I’ve held more hair than a salon and I’m a whiz at making a cold compress out of anything.”
“Anything?”
“Soak a small nappy under the sink and freeze it. Works across the forehead or behind the neck like a charm.”
“A nappy, like a diaper?” Her face twists up in disgust and a wave of nausea crosses her expression.
“Nah, yeah. But to clarify, I meant aclean, unusednappy.”
“That seems more reasonable.”
Her expression softens. She lowers the towel and dabs carefully at the mascara streaks. “I’m sorry about your mom. Why is she in so much pain?”
“Car accident. She was thrown through the front windshield.” I leave it at that because this is not my day to break down. “She’d like you. She loves anyone who makes her feel less alone in the vomiting department.”
