17. Leah
17
Leah
T hirty-plus ounces of Diet Coke and dancing —bad combo. My bladder may burst at any second. Great idea, Leah. Brilliant. Let’s add peeing in your borrowed dress to your list of adventures with Cooper Bailey.
Cooper looks at me as if I’m condemning him. I can’t remember if he’s apologized again, or if he’s said something new. And in this moment, I don’t care. Condemn, forgive, whatever. Someone get me to a bathroom.
“Leah?” he says.
“What?” I bark.
“Are you okay?”
I clench my pelvic muscles. I am frozen in place. And clenching. I cannot move. Or I just might wet myself in Andrea’s fancy dress and at Paula’s dumb, inescapable wedding. The only thing filtering through my very small brain this second is this: gusset .
It’s time.
It’s my only hope.
I had planned to never ever try out the trap door in this dress. But then I also didn’t plan to stay as long as I have. Paula and some guy she met in Cabo were saying “I do” while we were all shanghaied and taken out to sea!
“Leah?” Cooper says again.
“I was starving,” I blurt, my lips the only unfrozen, unclenched part of my body. “I didn’t plan to stay this long, and they haven’t fed us!”
“I’m hungry too,” he says with a sigh, attempting to sway to the music once more.
But I am a statue. There will be no swaying. No moving at all. Do you understand my frozen body, Cooper Bailey? No. Moving.
“No,” I say between gritted teeth. “I was . And then I ate your almonds and drank a gazillion ounces of Diet Coke.”
“Okay…” he says, one understanding word, but the man is clearly confused.
“Do you have any idea how fast Diet Coke goes through a girl?” I ask him because he’s not grasping the seriousness of this situation. “The combination of a small bladder, a tight dress, salty almonds, and more Diet Coke than anyone should ever consume in one sitting has created a… a calamity .”
“A calamity?”
“Yes,” I groan. “I have to pee.”
He’s trying to understand—I can see it in his wrinkled brow. There’s a great big brain in that head of his—somewhere. “And that’s a calamity?” he says.
“Yes! It’s bad, okay?” I lock my gaze on his, wishing looks really could kill. I’m guessing if Cooper Bailey were dead on this dance floor, no one would notice me running to the bathroom while I peed all over myself.
“I truly want to understand,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. I think he means it. He might even be willing to die on this floor if it meant helping me. Oh, how I wish that were an option.
With gritted teeth, I growl out the words, “Do you know what a gusset is, Cooper Bailey?”
“A gusset?” he repeats as if he were an old, broken record player, stuck on repeat.
Why would he know what a gusset is? Men can pee standing or sitting. Pants on or off. They have it so darn easy.
And sure, a few hours ago I didn’t know what a gusset was either. But that’s completely beside the point.
“Yes, a gusset. Peeing in this dress involves a gusset, Cooper. It’s not going to be pretty, simple, or easy.”
He blinks, and I wait for his next dumb question. He has no clue what I’m talking about. But then, Cooper surprises me. “What can I do?”
I’m not getting out of here without help. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He looks around the dance floor and into the dining room. “The women’s restroom is across the room.”
Of course it is. “So far?” My brows cinch. “Where is the men’s room?”
“To my left.” He tilts his head in that direction. “A few feet.”
I snarl, staring right at Cooper. “Men always get the breaks. You know that, right? Peeing is so easy for men.”
“I’m gonna go with—yes. Because you might be right. But mostly you look a little crazed right now. I’m scared.”
Of course I’m right. “You should be scared. Very, very scared.”
With his mouth in a tight line, he nods at my roundabout threat. “So, are we headed to the bathroom? Do you need assistance? ”
I still have one arm draped around his neck, and I use my close contact to flick his earlobe. But it’s the wrong move.
Clench, clamp, constrict. Come on, body, don’t fail me now.
“Ouch,” he says.
“Don’t be a baby.” It’s possible I should stop calling him names, seeing how he is my only life-line on this boat. The only one attempting to help me. Not to mention, he’s been fairly decent all night long.
What I need is a dolly cart and for Cooper to wheel me out of here. “Sorry.” I shut my eyes and clench. “Okay, on the count of three, we’re going to move.”
“Slow and steady?”
“Yep.”
We take two steps toward the dining room, and I know I’ll never make it to that far away women’s restroom.
“Nope,” I say, and Cooper freezes in his tracks. “Not gonna work.”
“The men’s room is a one-room, locked-door situation,” he says, one of those beautiful brows lifting.
I wrinkle my nose. The men’s room? Really? But my bladder is reminding me by the second that it’s a ticking time bomb. “All right, let’s move.”
Cooper holds me as if we’re dancing, but we don’t circle, or sway, or flow to the music. We slide, smooth and steady. We make our way through the crowd, inching left toward the men’s bathroom on this boat. Cooper keeps time with me. Not too fast, not too slow. Bless him.
I suck a breath through my lips as we approach the door and chant to myself with each puffed release, “Kegel, Kegel, Kegel.”
Cooper twists and pushes on the knob of the door, but— “Someone is already inside.”
“No, they are not,” I growl. I flatten my palm and pound on the door. “Time’s up. Move on,” I tell the man inside. But my bladder feels that pound. I pull in a small gasp and pray the flood stays at bay.
Cooper bangs three hard knocks on that bathroom door. “Let’s go, buddy.”
Twenty seconds of Kegeling and clenching later, a man finally exits the room.
“There we go,” I say. “Move out. My boyfriend really has to go.”
“Why me?” Cooper whispers, and he’s so close that his minty breath invades my senses, tickling my earlobe.
The better question is, why did I make him my boyfriend in this scenario? ‘Friend’ would have sufficed.
Andrea never finds out , I tell myself and The Universe. Ne-v-er.
The man—that thankfully neither Cooper nor I know—peers from me to Cooper. “It’s all yours.”
The next few minutes are a blur. I lock myself in that men’s bathroom, peer around at the urinal on the wall—ick, and the toilet in the corner. I slide myself over to the toilet, all while becoming the gold medalist of Kegeling.
On my phone, I pull up instructions on how to use a gusset. Propping the phone onto the TP dispenser, I read, Kegel, and move. All while praying my bladder doesn’t combust on me.
Step one: Lift the dress.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Here we go.” I hike my dress up, cram my eyes shut, and wrench. With the yank, my dress pulls up and over my Colorado-sized booty with a riiip . Sure, the split in my dress just tore two inches higher, but miracles occurred, and my dress is now up and over my bottom. I heave out a small sigh, Kegel, and move on to step two.
Simply pull to adjust the opening of the gusset as you sit down .
There is nothing simple about this. I’m hovering. I’m pulling. I’m adjusting. All in high heels, by the way. The serial killer of all footwear.
It’s a far from perfect process, and I will be washing my hands for a solid three minutes once this is over. As well as suggesting Andrea burn her shapewear. But… whew . I make it. I release every ounce of liquid inside my bladder, promising it that we will never consume Diet Coke again.
It’s a lie.
But it helps ease my anxiety at the moment.
I stand at the sink, my dress still gathered around my waist, using enough soap for this entire boatload of people. I rinse, repeat, and… search.
No paper towels.
No hand dryer.
Now that I think about it, that soap dispenser is questionably full.
Do men not wash their hands?
“Ewww.” I wrinkle my nose. “Disgusting.” Using my wrist, I turn off the hot water. I shake my hands out—far in front of me, but they’re still wet.
I peer around this bathroom. You’d think it would be a little nicer for the kind of boat we’re on. I mean, it’s okay. But no hand dryer? No paper towels? I used the last of the TP five minutes ago. I can’t even dry my hands on cheap, flimsy toilet paper.
How often does this place get cleaned, anyway? Suddenly there are unwashed fingerprints on everything—the wall, the door, that urinal. And with the realization, I wash my hands one more time. Landing myself in the exact same predicament that I was in sixty seconds ago. Wet hands and dress gathered around my waist.
Great .
I didn’t kill myself getting in here—the men’s bathroom of all places—and using a gusset just to end up in a wet dress! Besides, is there any chance I’ll be able to get the skirt down on my own.
No. There isn’t.
That’s it. I refuse to leave this bathroom with PJ out there ready to sue and make a mockery of me in any way possible.
Then—a tap on the door. “Hey, is everything okay in there?” Cooper asks.
I turn, my eyes zoning in on every single mark on that metal exit doorknob touched by all those unwashed hands. I can’t touch that doorknob—not without washing my hands again. I’m never going to make it out of here. Not without help. It’s the vicious, never-ending, unwashed-hands, doorknob cycle that men all over America are causing.
I peer at myself in the rectangular mirror above the sink. Sure, my dress is up around my waist, but with my shapewear on, I’m not really showing off anything. It’s like I’m in spandex. At the gym. Or the pool.
Right?
And if I want out of this bathroom— ever —I’m going to need help from PJ-saving, almond-offering, stupidly cute Cooper Bailey.