It Sounded Better in My Head - Nina Kenwood Page 0,11

probably two minutes, waiting for something to happen. I imagine standing up, slipping over, hitting my head on the edge of the tub, and no one finding me until the next day, when it’s too late to save me. That would be a very sad way to die, in the dirty bathtub of a stranger.

There’s a chorus of loud shouting and laughter as a new group of people arrive, clomping down the hallway, carrying bags of clinking bottles.

‘Heeeeeeyyyyyyy!’

‘Yo!’

‘You’re finally here!’

‘Bro!’

I recognise Owen’s voice and I feel so much relief my body actually sags against the side of the tub.

There’s more noise and then someone tries to open the bathroom door and rattles the handle.

‘I hate to be rude, but there’s a line of people needing to piss out here,’ a voice says from the other side of the door.

‘Some chick has been in there for, like, half an hour,’ says another voice.

‘We’re about to start peeing in sinks out here!’ a third voice chimes in.

Surely they would pee in the garden before they used the kitchen sink. People just don’t think sometimes.

I stand up, not knowing what to do. I pull the toilet paper out from my armpits and flush it down the toilet. I immediately regret doing that, because now they’ll think I’ve been on the toilet all this time.

I walk to the door and unlock it, opening it a crack. Six faces stare back at me. One of them is Owen, another is Alex, and the rest I don’t know.

‘Natalie!’ Owen says. He looks like he is very pleased with himself for remembering my name.

Alex leans forward. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look concerned before.

‘Yes, I’m fine. I haven’t been in here for half an hour. It’s been ten minutes. I needed somewhere quiet to make a phone call. Sorry.’ I’m babbling, and I can feel that my face is red.

All six of them continue staring at me. I need to walk away now, but that means walking back into the party. I am frozen, unwilling to give up the safe oasis of the bathroom.

Owen steps forward, pushes the door open and walks into the bathroom.

‘Turn around,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘I’m about to pee.’

He’s already standing over the toilet and unzipping his fly. I am a prudish only child who grew up with a bathroom to herself and no brothers, so there’s no way I can remain in the room with a guy peeing. Also, it’s not a thing a guy would do in front of a girl he wants to maybe kiss at some point, so my fantasy of hooking up with Owen Sinclair takes a further step away from the realm of possibility. Or maybe Owen is so self-assured, has lived a life of such untouchable male privilege, that he can pee in front of someone with full confidence that he could still kiss them later.

I leave the bathroom and walk about five steps before I’m at a loss where to go, again. This time there is a familiar face to bail me out. Alex is putting beers in the fridge in the kitchen. I hover nearby, forgetting all my wariness about him. No longer is he somebody I don’t trust. Now he’s my lifejacket, my safety net, my I-will-hang-on-to-you-like-grim-death fellow partygoer.

‘What were you doing in the bathroom,’ he asks when he sees me.

What kind of outrageous question is that?

‘I told you. Making a phone call.’

‘Not hiding?’

‘Definitely not hiding.’

‘Okay. Just seemed like you might have been hiding.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Good.’ He finishes putting the beers in the fridge and waves to someone across the room.

Owen walks out of the bathroom, running his hand through his hair in a way that makes it obvious he knows how great his hair is. It’s weird to look at someone and know they are probably very vain and they just peed in front of you but still be attracted to them.

‘Hey, having fun?’ he asks me.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘Cool,’ he says, very clearly looking over my shoulder for someone better.

My heart is pounding. What happens now? Do we keep talking? Owen walks out of the kitchen and into the lounge room.

I follow him, and hover in the background. There’s a free chair in the far corner, and I sit in it and smile at people, trying to catch someone’s eye, trying to see an opening to say something. There’s none, in part because the chair has been pushed off to the side and wedged half behind a shelf, so