He shrugs. “To Chicago.”
Vodka stings my nose, and I swallow hard, barely preventing a spit take. The cackle that comes after it, however, isunstoppable, and I can already feel the weight of the argument Kat and I will have about it later. “Sorry, I’m just surprised,” I say, frantically backpedaling. “Didn’t you grow up in a suburb close to here?”
“Daniel’s parents are…protective.” Kathryn squeezes her boyfriend’s arm with one hand and tucks her curls behind her ear with the other. “Not really city people. But we’re talking about going downtown during winter break for the Christkindlmarket.” She takes a long sip of her vodka soda before throwing in, “You should come!”
And here we are, back to the feeling du jour: disappointment. I can perfectly envision how this Chicago trip will go. I’ll play the role of designated photographer, following Kat and Daniel from booth to booth of the market and snapping photos of them by the Christmas tree, all in exchange for a five-minute one-on-one with Kat during a run to the train station bathroom. Same as I did when she was dating her one and only boyfriend in high school. I have no intention of accepting her halfhearted invite, but for now, I’ll be polite. “Let me know the date and I’ll see if I can get off work.”
“Wait, hang on.” Daniel holds up a finger, the proverbial gears shifting in his head. “Kate said you work at this really cool coffee shop, right?”
“It’s called Sip, and she’s the marketing manager,” Kat brags on my behalf.
“I’m a barista,” I remind her. “The marketing stuff is just part time.”
Kat rolls her eyes and flicks her wrist to wave me off. “She’s downplaying it. They just did this enormous renovation andMurph did, like, a ton of the design work. She created all these cool videos to hype up the reopening.”
“Which is Friday,” I remind her. “Are you coming?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Kat says, speaking for both of them. “Plus I need my chaicoffski fix.”
“Oh, that’s that drink right? The one you invented?” Daniel asks me, then instantly turns to Kat for confirmation. “Am I making this up?”
“Yup, the one I’m obsessed with,” Kat gushes. “It’s, like, far and beyond the most popular thing on the menu. Murphy is brilliant about coffee. Tell him about it, Murph.”
“I don’t know about brilliant,” I say, but Kat scoops her chin, urging me into a brag session. “It’s mainly chai and coffee, so like, chai-coff-ski, Tchaikovsky. Get it? Like the composer?”
Daniel whistles through his teeth, nodding slowly, like a dying animatronic. “Damn, that’s clever.” He holds up a hand for a high five, and I accept, even though it’s literally so awkward. My best friend’s boyfriend, giving me the full fourth-grade softball coach treatment. “Kate’s tried to get the campus coffee shop to recreate it but—”
“It’s not even close to as good,” Kat interrupts. “Like, I swear, you put some kind of magic in it at Sip.”
“I’ve told you, it’s notjustchai and coffee,” I remind her for the hundredth time. “But I’ll make you one on Friday.”
“Can you make her a gallon of it?” Daniel jokes. “So she can bring it back to school?”
I breathe a laugh through my nose, draining the rest of my drink. All this talk of liquids has given my bladder a few ideas. “Hey, I have to pee.” I turn to Kat. “Do you?”
Kat shakes her head, then plucks a credit card from her tiny leather purse. “I’m gonna grab another round, though, so I’ll walk with you.”
We shove up from our barstools, and Kat kisses Daniel goodbye for what will surely be a devastating five minutes that they’re apart. Then it’s just the two of us: Kat fighting through the crowd with me just a few steps behind. For ten precious seconds, I almost forget that tonight isn’t going according to plan. It’s just her and me, like always, like it used to be. As I peel off toward the bathroom, Kat squeezes my arm and offers the tiniest smile. “Hey,” she says, “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”
“Me, too,” I agree, although I’m not sure exactly what we’re doing or if I actually mean it.
two
It’s only five minutes after 9:00 p.m., but the line for the women’s bathroom is already amusement park level long, stretching to the back of the bar and rounding a corner toward the emergency exit. If morale weren’t already low, it’d be in the shitter by now. Or at the very least, waiting in line for the shitter.
For a full verse and chorus of a song I haven’t heard since senior prom, I consider the men’s bathroom, which has no line. I could be in and out and back to the table before Kat even pays for our drinks, but not without risking the possibility of seeing a former lab partner pissing at the urinal. I opt to play it safe, stepping into line behind a chatty group of girls who are trying to do the math on the number of shots they’ve had so far. Young women in STEM, hard at work.
I look down at my phone, trying to seem busy in case anyone mistakes me for someone they want to talk to. I’ve had that annoying low storage notification for a week, and now seems like as good a time as any to clear out my camera roll. Somewherebetween screenshots of takeout menus and duplicate pictures of lattes for the Sip social accounts, a new text pops up from my mom: a picture of my parents smiling on the beach with the texttook this one earlier! wish you were here.
My breath sticks to the inside of my lungs as I zoom in on the sunset behind them. This is the first year I’ve opted out of our annual Thanksgiving Florida trip, and for what? A weekend of third wheeling? I’d be better off on the beach, letting Mom use up a full real estate commission to pay for my drinks.
By the time the line shifts up enough for me to enter the bathroom, I’ve cleared out nearly five hundred photos, most of my email inbox, and a handful of unrecognizable contacts. Even if the rest of the night is a wash, at least I did something productive. I pocket my phone as I pass through the swinging door, trying not to stare at Imani Reynolds from freshman biology, who is doubled over the sink crying, probably over the same guy she cried over in high school. Another medium-hot girl caught up in the drama of some crusty guy she grew up with. Now that’s a story I’ve heard a hundred times. I keep my head down until the last stall opens up, and I’ve hardly crouched over the toilet when a knock shakes the stall wall.
“Uh, occupied?” I say.
“No, over here.” A set of blue-painted fingernails wiggles beneath the side wall. “I’m out of toilet paper. Do you have any?”
I rip off more squares than anyone could possibly need and place them in the offending hand, then carry on with what I came here to do. When I go to wash my hands, crying Imani Reynolds is long gone, replaced with a short blonde in a black halter top and a pair of red corduroys stacked over DocMartens. She’s scrubbing between her fingers, humming “Happy Birthday” under her breath. When she reaches for the soap, our eyes lock in the mirror, a spark of recognition dancing in her pale blue eyes.
