need,” he says, pulling my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. A few seconds and several swipes later, the catchy opening bass solo of “Windy” by The Association funnels out of the speaker.
He’s accessed my “Bubble Yum” playlist, consisting of all the bounciest pop songs of the sixties.
The gesture is sweet, and honestly, watching Owen jump around the girls’ bathroom singing “Who’s peeking out from under a stairway” is rather comical, but I’m far too depressed to even crack a smile.
I take the phone back from him, turn off the song mid-chorus, and return it to my pocket. “Thanks, Owen, but I’m not in the mood.”
“That’s the whole point of the ‘Bubble Yum’ playlist,” Owen argues. “To change your mood! You said so yourself.”
“Yeah. I did. Back when my biggest problem was a B minus on a calculus test and my sister’s Urban Dictionary obsession. My life is over now. Over. I can never show my face out there ever again.”
Now the tears are falling for a third time. Gosh, who opened the floodgates today?
I don’t understand. Yesterday my life was amazing. And just like that, it’s turned into total cow plop.
I grab for another paper towel and dab at my nose.
“Let me see,” Owen says.
“What?” I turn, and before I can react, Owen’s hands are on my cheeks, holding me still. His face lingers close to mine. Closer than I think we’ve ever been before. I glance down. His eyes are determinedly focused on my swollen lips, his brows knitted in concern. I’m actually surprised by how warm his hands are. Did he stick them in his armpits before he came in here, or are they always that warm? I’ve known him for seven years. How come I’ve never noticed the temperature of his hands before?
“I think the swelling’s going down,” he assesses, sounding remarkably like a doctor.
His eyes drift up and, for a brief moment, land on mine. I can see the tiny flecks of brown in the green. I never noticed that before either.
It’s weird, yet oddly not weird, to be this close to Owen.
And then it feels weird that it’s not weird.
Owen suddenly seems to become aware of our proximity and steps back, his warm fingers sliding from my face.
“Thanks,” I mumble lamely, and look away.
He takes an exaggerated deep breath and glances around the bathroom. “So this is what it looks like in here?”
“Does it live up to your fantasies?”
He scowls. “Only pervs fantasize about the girls’ bathroom.”
“So you’re calling yourself a perv?”
He flashes me a mischievous grin.
And just like that, we’re back to being us.
“I don’t get it,” I complain. “What is it about the girls’ bathroom that’s so enticing? It’s not like we come in here, strip off all our clothes, and dance naked together.”
“Shhh,” Owen whispers desperately. “You’re ruining it.”
“People pee in here. Among other things.”
“La la la!” Owen sings, covering his ears. “I’m not listening!” He waits to make sure I’ve finished talking and then slowly lowers his hands.
“Sometimes I come in here and it smells so bad it’s like a rhinoceros took a huuuuge—”
“LA LA LA LA!” His hands fly to his ears again.
I laugh. Owen watches me, his face breaking into a beatific grin as his hands lower once more.
“What?” I ask, tilting my head.
“You’re laughing.”
I scoff. “Yeah, because you’re acting like an idiot.”
“Mission accomplished.”
I Can’t Help Myself
1:50 p.m.
The bell rings and Owen ducks out of the bathroom before anyone wanders in. I take a few minutes to collect myself. The swelling hasn’t completely gone down but it’s definitely chilled out a bit, thanks to the Benadryl. Now it just looks like I’m addicted to lip-plumping gloss, as opposed to looking like I just got out of the ring of a heavyweight boxing championship.
If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.
I comb my fingers through my hair, trying to give it a bit of lift. It’s still limp and yarnlike from my jaunt in the rain this morning. But really, the only thing that needs help right now is my attitude.
Owen is right. I need to snap out of it. Change my mood.
I remove the index cards from my back pocket, rip them in half, and toss the pieces ceremoniously into the trash can, watching them scatter like giant snowflakes against the black liner, landing among the other discarded items.
Rhiannon’s speech. In the trash where it belongs.
I swipe on my phone and press Play on the song that I so rudely dismissed.
The Association