Page 65 of 72 Hours of You

The famous guy (who we now know is Filip Street, thank you, IMDb) stumbles over Peter and spills his drink down the back of Peter’s shirt. “Aw, man, what the hell?”

Filip pulls down his sunglasses. “My B, my broseph.”

Peter frowns and the star guy saunters off to dry-hump an extra without looking back.

Peter shakes out his shirt. Now he’s got a brown stain down the back of his white waffle. Like syrup. I start laughing. And then I can’t stop. Oh my god. The little beer bubbles are floating up into my brain and pop-pop-popping.

Peter stands and leans into my ear, the trace of a smile on his face. “Oh, you think that’s funny? This thing cost me thirty dollars.”

I keep laughing and suddenly I realize that my hand is on his chest and I am touching him and I can feel the little square pattern of his waffle shirt in my palm.

Peter looks down at my hand, which is still there, on him, and then he puts his hand over mine and his fingers are warm and strong and then we’re moving and it takes me a second to figure out what’s happening. We’re dancing. And it’s hot in here and it smells like stale beer and sweat, and people are pushing against us and he’s still just looking at me and god help me I’m looking back at him.

And then he says something but I can’t hear him over the noise so he bends down to me and he says, “I like being here with you.” And my ear is kind of tingling and he’s not moving his head, and he’s right there and so am I. And our faces are so so close. And I can’t tell if it’s him leaning down or me leaning up but now our faces are even closer and I can feel his heart beating under my hand and—

“I have to pee!”

Peter leans back. “What?”

“I, uh … too many beers. Bathroom!” God I hate myself.

Peter gives me a thumbs-up and I turn and push through the crowd so that I can make it to the bathroom and piss away the awkwardness of the last ten seconds of my life.

Thirty-Five

SHOCK OF THE CENTURY, the bathroom is disgusting. The toilet paper is on the floor in a puddle of muddy water. The stall is littered with Sharpied notes about dicks and where to put them, who’s a whore (Janie and Sam), and how life really is lovely if you think about it. Classic shit.

I hover over the seat, wiping with a Starbucks napkin I find crumpled in my purse and saying a silent “thank you” to Jules for being unreasonably obsessed with PSLs.

I flush and go to wash my hands. They have one mirror that’s cracked down the middle like maybe someone punched it. No judgment. I look myself in the eyes. When you go back out there, be normal. You can do it.

I hit the soap dispenser about fifteen times before I finally get something. I’m rubbing my hands with watered-down soap that barely makes any bubbles when my Apple Watch buzzes. My hands go rigid, the water running, the tiny soap bubbles sliding off into the drain below. His name lighting up the little square on my wrist.

My heart thumps aggressively against my chest. Fuck. No. Shit.

My hand shakes a little as I dry my hands off with the last brown paper towel. I get out my phone from my purse. My fingers are still wet and soapy and it takes me three tries to swipe up.

Please call me. It won’t be like last time.

I promise.

Just … please.

Call me.

It’s him. It’s Charles. My heart is screaming, clawing at my chest to get out. The text goes blurry, and I slowly, carefully, shutter my phone and let it slide out of my cold hands back into my purse.

I have to go home. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of my fucking skin.

I push open the bathroom door and the blast of music and laughter hits me like a fist to the gut. There’s a back exit. Right there. I walk toward it and put my hands on the cool metal.

But then I freeze.

And without thinking about it, I turn and walk into the crowd. I’m scanning, scanning, scanning.

Finally, I see him. Peter. He’s so tall. And I just need to get to him. His eyes find mine and the smile slips from his face, and then he’s pushing his way through the crowd too until he’s standing in front of me again. I open my mouth to say something, to explain, but before I can he hugs me. And in that moment, I’m just so fucking grateful he doesn’t ask if I’m okay or what’s wrong. He’s just … there.

“It’s an honor, you know,” he says into my neck, “to be the one you look for in a crowd.”