Chapter 37 Easton
Easton
“Harper. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
I say it to the mirror, rehearsing the lines as if she were standing in front of me. I straighten my tie—which has been choking me since my dad tied it—and adjust my stance.
Confident but not cocky.
Cool but approachable.
“Harper. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, m’lady?”
Nope. Too formal. I straighten up and clear my throat.
“Harper, I know we haven’t spoken in a few days, but I was wondering if you’d—No. If we could—Wait. Shit.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck and glower at my reflection, ruminating over my own damn incompetence. Why am I hiding in the bathroom when I should be in the gym searching for her?
I tap the counter impatiently, waiting for inspiration to come, then snap my fingers. “You up for a little spin? We can talk while we dance.”
So cringe.
“Harper,” I say again, softening my tone and leaning forward with my most serious, brooding expression. “I would feel like the luckiest dude in the world if you would—”
I stop mid-sentence, realizing I sound like I’m proposing.
Nope.
I shake my hands out. Hop a few times. Roll my head back and forth, warming up.
“Keep it light, keep it light,” I mumble to myself. “Wanna dance, Harps?”
Harps? I have never, not once, called her that. In fact, I have no idea if she has a nickname.
“Harper? This song sucks. Let’s make it suck less by dancing.”
I pause, frowning. Grab the edges of the counter for moral support, peer deeply into the mirror as if the answer will pop into my brain the longer I stare at myself.
Blinking, I catch a dark spot on my skin and lean toward it, inspecting my face for the hundredth time. Why do my eyebrows look like they’re closing in on each other? My mom waxes my unibrow; why does it look like I—
Shit.
Is that a zit?! Where the hell did that come from? I didn’t have one when I left the house, I swear to fucking god.
I make the mistake of poking it gently. Bad move. It’s like waking a sleeping bear. The redness flares, and suddenly it looks five times bigger.
“Cold water. Cold water, that’s what I need.” That will shrink the capillaries, yeah? Or do I use hot water?
Crap.
When I turn the faucet, it explodes, water over-spraying onto the counter and over the ledge, soaking the front of my pants where my thigh is pressed.
I jump back, staring down in horror at the giant wet splotch. It’s right there. Dead center. The worst possible location.
Like I pissed my pants.
“No. No, no, no, no.” I grab a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, scrubbing furiously at my pants to dry them. The brown paper towels are useless—they’re disintegrating into tiny, soggy shreds in my hands.
Plus, it looks like I peed myself. Perfect.
I toss them into the trash and scan the white-tiled bathroom. Air dryer! That’s it. Air dryer.
I rush over to the wall-mounted hand dryers, doing my best to angle myself under one without looking completely insane, then put my palm underneath to activate the motion sensor and thrust my pelvis forward.
“Come on,” I growl through gritted teeth, pressing my hips upward desperately.
It’s not enough of a breeze. Undeterred, I squat, bending my knees, trying to find the sweet spot where the air is strongest, my hand flailing wildly under the motion sensor to keep it running.
I move my hips, contorting myself into increasingly ridiculous positions to get the air to hit the wet spot while at the same time waving my hand.
It’s no use.
“Oh, you wanna play hardball?” I mutter angrily at my damp pants, determination burning in my eyes. I’m full-on gyrating, doing what I can only describe as a very questionable TikTok dance.
Twisting.
Thrusting.
Waving my arms under the sensor like I’m trying to summon a genie in a damn bottle.
And that’s when the bathroom door creaks open.
Fuck.
I freeze mid-thrust, hips still jutted forward, as Marcus walks in, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of me. For a second the room is eerily silent except for the pathetic whirr of the dryer and the sound of my dignity evaporating faster than the water mark ever could.
Finally, he speaks. “Dude, what the hell are you doing? Hiding? We’ve been looking for you everywhere. When Gabe said he saw you going to the bathroom, I thought you were jerking off.”
Jerking off?
“What?!” I shout, horrified. “No! Why would you even—What’s wrong with you?”
His eyes narrow, and then they zero in on the front of my dress pants. It takes exactly two seconds for the smirk to transform into a full-blown grin.
“Holy shit.” Marcus laughs, covering his mouth with one of his hands. “Did you piss your pants, bro?”
“Shut up. Of course I didn’t piss my pants.” I move from my spot by the wall and go to the counter, straightening my tie. “It’s water, asshole.”
I don’t warn him to be careful as he sidles up next to me; it would serve him right to have the front of his khaki pants water-stained, too. If anyone deserves a matching stain, it’s him.
Sure enough, the moment his thighs brush against the counter, water seeps into the fabric—just as I hoped it would.
“What the—” He looks down, his grin vanishing as a dark stain spreads across his thigh. “Dude! Are you kidding me?”
“Only the cool kids pee their pants.” I laugh, shoving him toward the hand dryer. “Karma is a bitch.”
He awkwardly tries to position his thigh under the weak blast of air, grumbling the entire time. “This thing is useless. It’s blowing like…three molecules of air per second.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, pretending to inspect my tie in the mirror as the dryer sputters and dies mid-puff, leaving my friend crouched in front of it in stunned silence.
He scowls, stepping away from the machine. “I give up.”
Good idea.
“What were you actually doing in here? Taking a dump?”
This fuckin’ guy. “No. I was…rehearsing how I’m gonna ask Harper to dance. And apologize.” I have several things to atone for but do not know how to make them right.
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking.
Marcus nods his approval, reaching around me to grab a paper towel and dry his hands. “Yeah—Harper has been third-wheeling it with us all night. Which is fine. But I’d like some alone time with my girlfriend. The night’s been meh, if I’m being honest. I’d love to bounce, but…”
“Are you saying the dance is lame?”
“No. I’m saying it’s not as much fun as I thought it would be. Macy is bored—we’re only staying because of Harper.”
The gears in my brain begin turning.
She deserves more than an apology; she deserves proof that I like her—the way she likes me. She deserves a night to remember, and it does not start with a slow dance.
Something bigger than my wasted words.
What I need is a grand gesture.
“I’m not joking,” Marcus blathers on, crossing his arms. “Just go out there, say something semicoherent, and ask her to dance. Worst case? She says no. Best case? You stop being the human embodiment of a wet napkin and have a good time.”
He will not shut his yap.
I scowl, swatting his words away like an annoying mosquito.
“Bro, would you shut up? Stop talking,” I tell him curtly, my brain sparking to life with an idea that’s so over-the-top outrageous it makes me want to puke in the trash can. The idea is that good. For real.
“Why would I want to stop talking?”
“ ’Cause.” A grin creeps across my face. “I have an idea.” I’m feeling so pleased with myself. “Don’t know if it’ll work yet, but if it does, I may need your help.”
“Dude, yes!” He fist pumps, lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. He’s pumping the air with so much enthusiasm, I have secondhand embarrassment for him. “Yes! I’m in, whatever it is. No questions asked.”
“You never ask questions.” I roll my eyes at the same time I fish my phone out of my back pocket. “That’s what always gets you in trouble.”
“Ouch. That stings a little. But also: True.” He has no shame.
My thumb hovers over the contact before I press it with the kind of determination reserved for people on game shows about to risk everything.
“Wait,” he says, leaning over to peek at the screen. “Who are you calling? I thought I was the wingman in this plan.”
I shake my head. “First I have to call the one person who’ll know how to help.”
Phoebe.