Изменить стиль страницы

He looks over my shoulder and, by the way he’s closing his eyes while his upper body shakes tells me that he’s spotted her.

“She looks…determined,” he says.

“Yeah, she’s a bit of a freak,” I tell him. “So, what brings you here?”

If I can’t think of anything intelligent to say, I can at least bat back the same questions he’s asking me, right?

“My brother-in-law,” he says. “He and my sister come to these things all the time and try to ‘meet’ each other by smell.”

And that’s fantasy number two. Okay, so it’s not why he’s here, but at least he’s familiar enough with the concept of the open-eyed-blind-date that it shouldn’t be too weird if I suggest it sometime in the future.

And now I’m thinking about Dane again.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They’re really not weird people, I actually think it’s kind of romantic.”

“It is romantic,” I tell him. “It’s just—I’m still in the process of getting over someone right now, and everything is making me think of him.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “If it helps at all, I know what that’s like. I got divorced a few months back. This is actually the first time I’ve really gone out since it happened.”

“It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”

We sit through an uncomfortable silence for a little while.

“Would you like another drink?” he asks. “It looks like you’ve got quite the tolerance.”

“Not so much,” I tell him, “but I would love another drink.”

If I’m going to get Dane off of my mind for good, this is probably how I’m going to have to do it: one good-looking fireman at a time.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tracers

Dane

I don’t know how long we’ve been swimming, but I’m pretty sure I’m starting to play chicken with the “don’t get too drunk” rule. I’m not getting mean or even slurring my words that much, but I have to admit, I’m pretty sloshed.

Wrigley’s off at the other end of the swimming pool, cackling with one of her old friends.

Me, on the other hand? I’m making another trip to the drink table and trying to figure out what I can have that’s going to keep the buzz going, but not put me over the edge.

Before I can decide, though, Wrigley’s hand is on my shoulder and she’s telling me that we’ve got to get out of here right now.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Someone’s coming,” she says. “Someone our guys in the hall can’t detain or turn around. Grab your shit and come with me.”

I should have known tonight was going to end this way.

I grab my clothes and Wrigley grabs my hand. She leads me to the women’s showers and whispers for me to get dressed.

It’s completely dark in here right now, I can only assume to throw whoever might go to the pool that there aren’t a bunch of recently-naked drunk people hiding in the women’s locker room.

“Did someone grab all the liquor?” I ask in a whisper.

“It’s taken care of,” a man’s voice answers from my left.

I guess we’re all in here.

If it’s a woman coming for a swim, it does occur to me that we’re probably going to give the poor lady a heart attack, all of us crammed in here. I can’t vouch for whether everyone’s clothed or not, the way Wrigley basically threw me into the room.

“If the guards think everyone works here, I don’t know why we’re worried about someone finding us. Everyone’s dressed, right?”

Wrigley answers, “The guards think we work here, but that’s not going to hold up for very long when someone who actually belongs here blows the whistle.”

“Is there a back way out of here?” I ask as quietly as possible.

“Yeah,” someone says, “but it’s in view of the door. If they’re coming down this hallway or they get in the pool—”

The sound of a nearby door opening silences the room. I lean toward the only minor source of light—the crack beneath the door—and listen for high heels.

There are footsteps and they’re coming closer. I have no idea if it’s a woman or a man and even if I did, it’s so dark in here that I couldn’t mount any kind of escape anyway.

What’s worse? I really have to piss right now.

Wrigley’s still holding my hand, so I use that, coupled with the memory of her height relative to mine to lean down and whisper right in her ear. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

There’s no response other than a squeeze of the hand.

The footsteps have ceased, but that doesn’t mean the coast is clear. No doors have opened since the sound of the footprints, so whoever’s out there is still out there.

I’m crossing my legs as best I can and trying to think of anything but water, streams, rivers, lakes, reservoirs, waterfalls, rivers, sprinklers, hoses, bathtubs, sinks, rain, the Pacific Northwest, oceans, swimming pools, showers, warmth, green tea, or the movie Labyrinth, but I wouldn’t have that list if those weren’t the first things that cross my mind.

Wrigley notices my squirming and squeezes my hand again.

In return, I squeeze her hand nine times: three short squeezes, three long squeezes and three more short squeezes. All I can do is hope she’s got at least some familiarity with Morse code.

I feel her other hand on my shoulder, pushing down. I bend my knees and, a moment later, feel her breath against my skin.

“You’re just going to have to hang in there,” she says. “We can’t risk someone hearing you.”

Well, she knows what my ordeal is. That’s got to be in my favor somehow.

But, as I start thinking about tributaries and rivulets, sandboxes and childhood embarrassment, I’m about to my breaking point.

I squeeze Wrigley’s hand again, more frantically this time and she’s immediately pulling me. There is no way for me to know if I’m going to run into something, so all I can do is trust Wrigley to know where she’s going and know how to lead me there without having me end up stubbing my toe on something and, with the resulting profane yell, betraying our presence.

After a few dizzying turns, Wrigley stops and puts her hand on my shoulder again, bidding me bend down a bit.

“Aim for the side of the bowl,” she says. “Sound really carries in here.”

“Thank you,” I tell her. “How am I supposed to—”

She puts something cold and flat in my hand. Before she lets it go, I feel her move it and the screen of her cellphone nearly blinds me.

“Make it fast,” she says, “and don’t use the cellphone to find your way back. Whoever’s out there might be able to see the glow under the door.”

With that, she points at a stall and as quickly as I can, as quietly as I can, I make it inside.

My zipper’s down and ah, sweet relief.

I’m careful to keep a good hold on the cellphone and everything’s going great. That is, right up to the moment when, out of pure habit, I lift one foot and flush the toilet.

Fuck.

Twenty-some-odd people shift nervously in the adjoining room, and I’m just hoping whoever was in the pool room has already left. That pipe dream is shot to shit when I turn around to find Wrigley pushing her way into the stall, telling me to get on the seat and keep my head down.

“She heard you,” Wrigley whispers as she somehow manages to work her way onto the seat with me.

“How does she know the toilet was flushed by someone who isn’t supposed to be here?” I ask.

Nobody’s supposed to be here,” she answers. “Nobody comes in this late, not to the pool, anyway. Why do you think we wait until after midnight to go swimming?”

She has a point.

“How do you know she heard me?”

“She asked ‘who’s there’ right after you flushed,” Wrigley answers. “How else did you think I knew it’s a woman?”

“Maybe she won’t come in here, though,” I say.

I should really learn how not to jinx things.

There’s a rush of bare feet over the hard floor, everyone’s rushing for the entrance to the hall.