Page 17 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

T he bar Perry suggested we meet at reminds me of the hotel in Chicago where I’d perform, back before I relegated piano to a hobby. It’s upscale and refined and elegant, filled with professionals, wearing suits and sipping on drinks.

How normal people unwind at the end of a long workweek rather than jetting off twenty-five hundred miles to gamble and party.

Choosing to do exactly that was a devil-may-care decision that’s precisely the sort of behavior I should expect from Kit Kensington.

So, I can’t figure out why I was surprised by it. Disappointed even .

I skirt around a few tables, tucking my bag under my arm so it doesn’t bang into anyone.

There’s an upright in the far corner opposite the bar, but the bench sits empty. I study the instrument for several seconds, trying to remember the last time I played a piano.

I have an old keyboard that I hauled from New Haven to Chicago, then from Chicago to New York, but I haven’t unwrapped the protective cover since my latest move. There’s not much space to leave it assembled in my current apartment, but I’m not sure that’s why I haven’t set it up.

Since I switched jobs in Chicago, I’ve rarely played.

I didn’t have to once it was no longer my source of income.

And when I chose to play, it was a reminder it was no longer my job.

Maybe that was a necessary lesson to learn about practicality.

Or maybe I gave up too easily. I was so focused on all the ways I was failing; I never considered the way Kit framed things.

I was never thriving as a professional pianist, but at least I was one.

“Would you like a table, miss?” a uniformed waiter stops to ask me. “We fill up fast on Fridays.”

“Uh, in a minute. I’m going to use the restroom first.”

I’m a half hour early. I told Perry six, expecting Kit to stay late, like he normally does. Sitting alone for thirty minutes doesn’t sound very appealing. I’d rather stand all night.

The waiter nods. “Restrooms are down the hall, to the left.”

“Thanks.”

I follow his instructions, continuing down the hallway and entering the women’s room. It smells faintly of lavender and lemon, which should be a calming scent. But my palms are damp and my heart rate rapid as I pause in front of the mirror to dig a lipstick out of my purse.

I’m not sure I should be here.

Talking to Perry in the Hamptons was pleasant.

He was friendly and polite, and when he asked for my number—in case any positions opened at his firm—sharing it seemed harmless enough.

So did agreeing to meet him for a drink tonight after he texted, suggesting a Chicagoan-to-New Yorker support group meeting.

He’s attractive, respectful, and kind, yet I haven’t been able to summon any excitement about tonight.

I’d claim the lack of interest as a side effect of Isaac’s betrayal … except I don’t have any issues with feeling excited around Kit.

I knew Kit before everything happened with Isaac , I rationalize.

I just need time to get comfortable around Perry.

And then, hopefully, I’ll experience some attraction.

I haven’t slept with anyone since Kit, and although I’m concerned it’ll be an inevitably disappointing experience, it might make working together more tolerable.

Should make the temporary bout of insanity that resulted in me in his bed feel farther in the past.

I slick my lips with a fresh layer of pink, then rip off a piece of paper towel to dab at the corners of my mouth. The bathroom door swings open, revealing a woman close to my age.

She glances around the restroom, then focuses on me. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but could I borrow a tampon?” She grimaces. “Unexpected appearance, and I’m in the middle of a work happy hour.”

“Of course. One sec.” I set my purse on the counter and start digging for the striped bag I keep an emergency stash of pads and tampons in.

I can’t find it. I took it out to refill … when? I can picture the striped bag sitting on the bathroom counter, but I can’t remember pu tting it back in my purse.

I can’t remember … I can’t remember the last time I had my period.

Dread slithers down my spine, landing in the pit of my stomach with an uncomfortable lurch. My chest and neck feel hot, like a heater is being blasted my way. My hands and feet feel numb. The tips of my fingers tingle.

Numbers blur as I frantically try to count backward. I saw today’s date dozens of times at work, yet I can’t recall it right now for the life of me.

The woman’s staring at me, waiting expectantly.

I have to wet my lips and clear my throat before I can manage speaking.

“I-I’m so sorry. I don’t have any with me.” I force those two sentences out, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. The numbness is spreading too fast for me to keep up.

“No worries. I’ll make do. Thanks for looking.” The woman continues walking, heading into one of the bathroom stalls.

I remain frozen.

There’s no way that I’m …

I haven’t had sex since?—

The tiled floor tilts, rapidly enough that I have to slap a palm against the cool counter to remain upright. My head spins, traveling back in time to another bathroom with a wet dress and a fluffy robe.

A fluffy robe Kit untied.

He wore a condom. We had sex three times that night, and he wore a condom each time.

Dates might be blurry, but I can clearly recall stepping over the wrappers when I snuck out that morning. Underwear-less .

But a condom is a flimsy piece of latex, not a solid guarantee to prevent pregnancy. I’ve known that since Mrs. Miller’s PowerPoint presentation in middle school. But I’ve never known it. Not until—possibly—right now.

I cling to that possibly like a life raft.

Possibly is the only way I’m going to make it out of this restroom without having a panic attack.

I drop the lipstick back into my bag and hobble toward the door. The floor feels unsteady, but I know it’s really me. I’m unsteady.

I walk through the bar and into the lobby like I’m in a trance. It’s louder and busier than it was when I first arrived, but all the commotion whooshes around me like a wind tunnel.

I’m desperate to get out of here and also terrified to leave. Once I’m outside, I could go to a pharmacy. I could find out for sure. Could convert possibly to a yes or a no.

My phone’s fallen to the very bottom of my bag. I dig for it as I walk. I finally locate the device and pull it out, right as I collide with a wall.

A wall that turns out to be the guy I’m supposed to be on a date with tonight.

Perry’s face stretches in a broad smile when he recognizes me. It dims when he registers which direction I’m headed in.

“I’m so sorry.” The apology spills out in a torrent of words. “I’m not feeling well. Can we reschedule?”

Perry blinks a couple of times, clearly taken aback. “Oh. Of course.” His hands drop from my biceps, where he steadied me. “Are you okay? Can I help you get home?”

“I’m okay, thanks. I think—I think it was … something I ate.”

Perry nods sympathetically. “Food poisoning? ”

The remaining blood drains from my face as I recall the recent times I’ve felt nauseous and chalked it up to stress or nerves or … food poisoning.

Keep it together, Collins.

“Probably. I’ll text you, okay?”

Perry’s, “Okay,” trails behind as I rush out the door.

Probably to throw up.