Page 88

I smile down at the phone in her hand as she waves it under the dryer again. “What happened?”

The girl I’d pin as a couple of years older than me attempts to pull the back off her phone case—without any luck.

Dropping her shoulders, she frowns down at it and shouts back over the whirring noise, “How long you got?”

I dry my hands with a paper towel and throw it into the trash can beside me. Next, I pull out a tube of hand cream, and finally, the room falls silent. There’s something about a bar restroom that always brings girls together. Like, in a place filled with mostly lecherous guys trying to grind against you every thirty seconds, the four familiar walls and mirrors provide a sanctuary to talk shit and sometimes bitch.

“Hit me,” I reply, handing her the cream like she’s an old friend.

She sets her cell on the countertop, pops the lid on the cream, and squeezes a small amount into her hand. “The usual—boy asks girl out, promising he isn’t like all the other douchebags and that he’ll definitely meet her right after the Blades game.” She hands me back the tube and quirks a brow. “I should have known better than to believe him when he said he wasn’t married.”

I audibly gasp. “What?!”

She nods. “Yep. Met him at the bike shop, where I’ve picked up some shifts. He asked me out, and I asked him about the tan line on his ring finger. He said he’d recently separated and was looking for some fun. I turned him down for, like, three weeks solid, but he kept coming back to order parts that I knew he didn’t need for the bike he owned. So, eventually, I caved. He was cute, and it had been a while, if you catch my meaning.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Next thing I know, I’m sitting in thisbar, waiting around for le douche, when a text from his wife lands in my message requests, saying she’s leaving him and I’m not the only woman he’s been lying to.”

“Fuck.”

She lifts her petite frame up onto the counter. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“That’s all I can think to say. Other than dickhead.”

She smiles, one that reaches her big brown eyes. She’s seriously pretty. “Yep, well, that’s it for me. I’m twenty-five, and I’ll never look at another man again. Or reply to any messages they might send.” She picks up her phone and shoves it in her bag. “Not that I have a working one to do that anyway. Or call myself a taxi home.”

“Here, you can borrow mine.” I pull out my cell to find a black screen. “Fuck.”

“Spill a drink on yours too …” She trails off, clearly realizing she doesn’t know my name.

“Kendra,” I answer.

She jumps down off the counter and straightens out the collar of her leather jacket, offering out her hand. “Collins. Nice to meet you, Kendra.”

I take it and thumb over my shoulder. “I’m here with a group of friends. I’m sure one of them can lend you a phone. You might be waiting a while to use the bar’s.”

I check myself and remember the people I’m here with are largely famous, including my boyfriend. “Are you into hockey?”

She blows out a single harsh laugh. “Fucking joking, aren’t you? Sports are not in my wheelhouse. Bikes? Yes. Sports? Hard pass.”

We’re out the door, and I’m halfway to the booths when Collins taps me on the shoulder and I spin back around.

“Thank you for this, for helping a girl out. This city can be kind of lonely, and I don’t know if I’ll see you again after tonight, so, yeah, thank you.”

I cock my head to the side. “I know that feeling all too well,babe.” Reaching into my bag, I pause when I remember my phone is toast. “Hang on. I should have a pen and paper in here somewhere.”

When I find a fine marker, I hold it in one hand and then search for a random receipt I can scrawl over.

“Just write it on here.” Collins holds out her palm to me.

“What, like back in high school?” I laugh.

She presses her lips together. “How old are you? People haven’t done this since the ’90s.”

“I wasn’t alive in the ’90s.” I chuckle, quickly writing my number across her palm. “There, just don’t wash your hands, or you’ll lose me forever.”

I expect Collins to laugh, but she doesn’t. Instead, she drops her eyes to the floor and mumbles something inaudible against the beat of the music.

Not wanting to push anything, I lead us toward the group. “Can anyone lend Collins their phone? She needs to call for a ride home.”