corner of the book in my hand slams into my full bladder, and my vision from earlier comes to life. Every. Horrifying. Detail. Like a pathetic five-year-old child, I wet myself. I manage to stop the Niagara Falls portion of the flow, but I pee myself nonetheless. Frickin’ perfect.
Lying with my face smashed against the rough airplane carpet, I squeeze my eyes, willing this to be a horrible nightmare, when two hands grip my shoulders. They pick me up effortlessly and place me on my feet. Mortified is not a strong enough word to describe my current state of being. My underwear is sodden, the front of my skirt is damp, and there’s a pretzel bit stuck to my eyebrow. Still, that doesn’t hold a candle to the level of horror I experience when I turn to find Hot Guy in front of my face.
His eyebrows pull together. “You okay?”
An animal sound explodes through my lips, something between a caw and a yelp, as I spin away and dash for the still-green vacant sign. I slam the door and fight with the stupid bar thingy to get it locked, then I whirl around looking for those god-awful paper toilet covers. The bathroom reeks of some sort of foul I can’t describe. The guy before unleashed a whole lot of awful in here. I dance from foot to foot, knees knocking, as I get the cover down. Underwear off, skirt up, and the stream flows before my butt hits the seat.
It keeps flowing. And flowing. And flowing.
I stretch the neck of my fitted white T-shirt and stick my nose inside while the marathon continues. I pick the pretzel bit off my eyebrow and fling it on the floor. There must be something seriously wrong with me. Here I am, trying to start fresh. New me, new life. And I can’t make it a minute without creating havoc. Maybe it’s all the pot my folks smoke. No matter how many times they’ve denied it, I bet Mom smoked boatloads while pregnant with me. Boat. Loads.
When the trickle ends, I stand and stamp my foot on the flush button then step back to avoid being sucked into the atmosphere. Although nose-diving to earth might be preferable to facing Hot Guy Who Saw Me Pee when I leave the bathroom. I could lock myself in this tin can until we land. Unfortunately, it smells like a Taco Bell meal gone wrong.
With no other option, I prepare to exit the lavatory. I remove my underwear and cram it into the trash. Barely. I dampen some paper towels and blot the front of my skirt. Luckily, the blue and purple floral pattern is busy enough to hide the wet splotch stretched across the fabric. I shove two wads of paper under my armpits to soak up my stress sweat. After shaking out my red hair and retying it into a ponytail, I wash my hands a third time. Finally, I shove the latch to Vacant and push the door.
I almost yank it shut.
Hot Guy Who Saw Me Pee is leaning against the side of a seat with his arms crossed. His are eyes locked on the bathroom door…and me. Double shoot.
He straightens and shoves his hands into his pockets. I try to hurry past him, but he steps in my way. Taller than me by a head, he dips down toward my ear. “You should watch where you’re going when you’re running inside an airplane, Ginger.”
What the…? Ginger? Is Hot Guy making fun of my hair? To my face?
This weird, hyper-ticking thing starts in my jaw as I ball my hands into fists. He’s too broad to bolt past, and the longer I stand here, the angrier I get. As if every kid who ever called me names has morphed into this one tall hot guy staring me down.
With my nails biting into my palm, my whisper-yell explodes before I can stop it. “I should watch where I’m going? Maybe you shouldn’t sprawl across the entire aisle, Mister…Man.”
Wow. I just said that. I called Hot Guy Mister Man. I can’t even get angry right.
Mister Man, Hot Guy…whatever, he looks more amused, a suggestive smile on his lips. He leans closer, his brown curls flopping on his forehead. “I was joking, all right? I’m sorry about the tripping thing. Seriously. You sure you’re okay?”
Before I can answer, a girl pokes her head around his shoulder. “Excuse me. Mind if I get by?” She nods toward the bathroom.