Page 1

Ivy

"Are you crying?"

"No." I try to muffle another sob, but it echoes off the bathroom tiles anyway. Fantastic.

"Leave. Please." My voice sounds thick, raw.

"I can't," the manly voice says, and I hear movement near the sinks. "Had a crash with a waiter. Red wine everywhere. Need to get this shirt cleaned before it sets."

"Use another bathroom."

"Can't do that either. Door wasn't locked, by the way."

Shit . In my rush to escape the ballroom, I'd forgotten basic door mechanics. My head falls back against the stall wall as I hear water running, fabric splashing.

"The waiter's fine," he continues conversationally, like we're not having this bizarre exchange through a bathroom stall. "Though he did call me something creative in Italian. Involved my mother and a goat."

"How do you know how to say goat in Italian?"

"You'd be surprised at the little things I know." His voice carries a hint of cockiness that shouldn't be attractive. But somehow it is.

I wipe my eyes, considering my options. I could stay silent. Could wait him out. But something about his voice, the easy way he's handling this awkward situation...

What the hell. He's just another wedding guest. A stranger. Sometimes strangers are safer than friends.

"Was it a full tray?" I ask.

"Hmm?"

"The wine. When you crashed into him."

"Oh. Yeah. Entire tray of Cabernet. Expensive stuff too, from what I gathered by the look of horror on the event planner's face."

"So you ruined both the waiter's night and the wedding budget?"

He laughs, and the sound does something warm to my insides. "Trust me, with what they're spending on this weekend, a few bottles of wine won't make a dent."

"You sound pretty confident about that."

"Let's just say I have inside information about the cost of destination weddings on private islands."

Right. The island. I'd almost forgotten where I was, hidden in this bubble of marble and awkward conversation. Outside these walls waits reality: the party, the guests, the sight I'm trying desperately to forget.

"You're hiding," he says after a moment. Not a question.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, the crying was my first clue. Plus, bathrooms are usually where people go when they need to escape something. Or someone."

I should be offended by his presumption. Instead, I find myself almost smiling. "Are you hiding too?"

"Maybe." More splashing. "Or maybe I just really care about this shirt."

"Must be some shirt."

"It is. Custom made. Italian. Probably cost more than—" He stops. "Never mind. It's just a good shirt."

Something about the way he catches himself, corrects course, makes me curious. "So if you're not hiding, why are you still here talking to a stranger in a bathroom stall?"

"Because you sound like you could use a distraction. And I'm excellent at being distracting."

"Distracting? Is that what you call this?"

"I call it providing a public service. Emotional support for distressed wedding guests. Very noble of me, really."

"And very modest."

"Modesty is overrated. Here—" Something slides under the stall door. "You look like you could use this more than me."

A silver flask gleams against the marble floor. I hesitate.

"It's just whiskey," he says. "Good stuff. And I haven't poisoned it, if that's what you're worried about."

"Wasn't worried until you mentioned it." But I pick up the flask anyway. The liquid burns smooth down my throat, warming my chest. "This is really good."

"Like I said, I know things."

"About whiskey and Italian curse words. Interesting combination."

"I'm an interesting guy." His voice drops lower, and something in my stomach flutters. "So, want to tell me what drove you in here? Or should we stick to safer topics like my extensive knowledge of international profanity?"

I take another sip, longer this time. Why not tell him? It's not like I'll ever see him again after tonight. And something about not seeing his face makes it easier.

"I just saw my ex fiancé," I say finally. "With his new girlfriend."

"Ah." Just that one sound, but it carries understanding.

"Apparently everyone knew he was cheating. Everyone except me." My voice catches. "I found out when I overheard some coworkers talking about how obvious it was. How long it had been going on."

"Dick move. Both the cheating and people not telling you."

"Yeah." I slide down to sit on the floor, not caring about my dress anymore. "Want to know the worst part? He looks happy. Really happy. Like he's exactly where he's supposed to be."

"While you're hiding in a bathroom?"

"While I'm hiding in a bathroom," I confirm, taking another drink. "God, that sounds pathetic when you say it out loud."

"Not pathetic. Human." There's a pause, then I hear him sit too, his shadow visible under the door. "Want to hear something that might make you feel better?"

"Does it involve more whiskey?"

"Better. My mother's trying to set me up with someone here tonight. Girl from some important family. Apparently, she's perfect."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Wait for it. So this perfect specimen of suitable breeding is named Hortensia."

I almost choke on the whiskey. "You're making that up."

"I wish. Hortensia Beaumont. She collects porcelain dogs and writes poetry about trust funds."

"Now I know you're lying."

"Hand to God. Want to hear one? She cornered me earlier with her latest masterpiece. Something about golden parachutes and daddy's yacht."

Despite everything, I laugh. The sound surprises me–I didn't think I had any laughter left tonight.

"See?" His voice carries a smile. "Your night's not so bad in comparison."

"At least Hortensia's honest about what she wants."

"Yeah. My mother's approval and access to my bank account."

There's something in his tone–a touch of bitterness beneath the humor. "You sound like you speak from experience."

"Let's just say this isn't my first rodeo with carefully orchestrated matchmaking."

I slide the flask back under the door. "Sounds like you need this more than me."

"Nah. I'm an expert at avoiding unwanted attention by now. Though hiding in bathrooms is a new strategy."

"How do you usually handle it?"

"Fake phone calls. Emergency meetings. Once I pretended to be my own twin brother with a gambling problem."

"Did that work?"

"Not even close. But points for creativity, right?"

“For sure. So do you have a twin brother?”

“Nope. Details.”

“Right.”

"So what's your usual escape strategy?" he asks. "Or is this your first time hiding from reality in a luxury bathroom?"

"Usually I just..." I trail off, realizing how boring my normal life must sound. "I work. A lot."

"Workaholic, huh? Therapy stuff."

"Says the guy pretending to have an evil twin to avoid dates."

"Hey, he wasn't evil. Just financially irresponsible." He shifts, his shadow moving under the door. "What kind of work?"

"Hotel renovation and interior design. I handle high-end properties."

"Is that why you're at this wedding? You're not actually a guest?"

"No, I..." I pause, wondering why I'm telling him this. "I did the redesign for this place. The bride loved it so much she added me to the guest list. I should've said no."

"But you didn't want to seem ungrateful."

"Something like that." I'm surprised by how well he reads the situation. "Brought my best friend as my plus-one for moral support. His boyfriend was out of town, so he agreed. Fat lot of good that did–last I saw him, he was chatting up one of the groomsmen."

His laugh echoes off the tiles. "Smart man. Though his timing could use work."

"Tell me about it." I take another sip of whiskey, feeling warm and slightly reckless. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything except my evil twin's social security number."

"Why are you still here? Talking to me?"

There's a pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice has lost its playful edge. "Because you sound like someone who needs a friend right now. And maybe I do too."

His honesty catches me off guard. "We're not friends. We're just two people hiding in a bathroom."

"Sometimes that's better than friends. No history. No judgment. Just... this."

"This?"

"Yeah. This moment where we can both be honest because tomorrow we'll be strangers again."

I let his words sink in. He's right–there's something freeing about talking to someone who doesn't know my baggage, my history, my tendency to always pick the wrong guys.

"Okay then," I say. "Honest moment? I'm terrified I'll never trust anyone again."

"Because of the ex?"

"Yeah. But I think it’s that on top of… my father." The words slip out before I can stop them. Must be the whiskey. "He cheated on my mom for years. Everyone knew. Even me, eventually. But she never left."

“Ouch.”

“And the worst part? I get it now. I understand why she stayed. That scares the hell out of me.”

"So you're afraid you'll turn into her?"

"I'm afraid I already have. Missing all the signs. Making excuses." I close my eyes. "God, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I'm a great listener?"

"Because you're safe." I tap the stall door between us. "Can't judge what you can't see."

He's quiet for a moment. "What if I told you I have my own trust issues?"

"The ones involving Hortensia and your mother?"

"The ones involving expectations. Money. Power." His voice turns serious. "Everyone wants something. It's exhausting trying to figure out what's real."

"Is that why you're hiding from her? Hortensia?"

"I'm hiding from what she represents. A life planned out by other people. A future that looks perfect on paper but feels like a prison."

The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. "You sound like you've given this a lot of thought."

"Had plenty of time to think. Especially lately." There's rustling as he moves. "The shirt's probably ruined anyway."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be. This conversation is worth more than Italian cotton."