See Me After Class(6)

His tongue runs over the front of his teeth as I notice him exhale sharply. Oh . . . someone is getting annoyed. I guess it’s okay since he already doesn’t like me.

“I’d prefer it if you don’t relieve yourself on my hardwood floors.” He gestures to the bathroom. “Take care of yourself.”

“As if I’d pee on your floor. Do you really think that low of me?”

“You’ve been crossing your legs and bouncing this entire conversation. I don’t know much about you, but I do understand that’s the universal signal that you’re about to wet your pants.”

I glance down at my legs and . . . well, would you look at that? My legs are crossed and bouncing.

What’s going to happen when I uncross them?

Will I . . . wet myself, like he said?

I glance up at him. There’s a knowing look in his eyes as he stares back at me.

Peeing my pants in front of him would be positively humiliating.

We can’t have that.

With a shaky laugh, I say, “You know, I believe I do have to go to the bathroom, but I can’t quite tell where I’m at in the whole ‘bladder is about to explode’ process. Do you by any chance provide motorized trips to the bathroom?”

“Jesus,” he mutters, walking toward the door. “If you pee on my floor, clean it up.” And then he takes off into the backyard.

Calling after him, I say, “I’m going to take that as a no.”

The door shuts behind him.

“Yup, that’s a no.” I sigh and look up at the door. Twenty feet, you can do this.

Keeping my legs twisted tightly together, I bunny-hop my way to the bathroom, grateful he left, because, if anything, I need to save a little bit of dignity, and watching someone bunny-hop to the bathroom doesn’t necessarily scream “put together.”

Although, drinking five glasses of champagne doesn’t either.





“I think we’re drunk,” Stella says, resting her head on my shoulder as we share a lounger and stare at the dark abyss that is Lake Michigan.

Keiko left a while ago, stating she needed to get home to ensure she “acquired an adequate amount of sleep.” Once Keiko left, Kelvin Thimble left, too. Stella was right, he does have a thing for her, and even though Keiko is completely oblivious, in my drunken state, I noticed. You know . . . since he stared at her from afar for the entire party.

“That was established an hour ago,” I say, crossing my legs at my ankles.

“What time is it?”

“Dark,” I answer. “It’s dark time.”

“Is it quiet or is it just me?”

My eyes are drifting shut as I answer, “No, seems quiet. I think it’s because everyone saw how much we need a little shut-eye.”

“What considerate co-workers.”

“With that kind of consideration, I think it very well might be a great school year.”

A throat clears above us just as I get comfortable, ready for a brief nappity-nap.

“I think there’s someone standing next to us,” I say, eyes closed.

“I think that was the ocean lapping against the rocks.”

“It’s a lake, you dumbass.” I laugh.

“That’s what I meant.” Stella giggles.

“It was neither,” a male voice says above us.

Uh-oh . . .

I open one eye and slowly look up to find Arlo standing over us, a displeased look on his face.

Whispering to Stella, I say, “It’s the guy who doesn’t like me.”

She jackknifes off the lounger and sits up, her hair sticking out on the right side. Scrambling to right herself, she says, “Turner, lovely party. Send my praise to the grill master. That brisket was phenomenal.”

“The party was over twenty minutes ago.”

I lift up as well and look behind us, noticing the empty backyard. “Huh, I guess it is.” Smiling, I lie back down. “That champagne was top notch.” I snuggle into the lounger. “Thanks for the invite . . . even though you don’t like me.” I pull on Stella, who sinks back into the lounger, as well. I snuggle to her back and shut my eyes.

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Why? Is this your bed?” I ask, eyes still closed. “We could make room for you.” I pat the small space behind my rear end. “See, right here. Take a seat.”

“Did you drive here?”

“Aren’t you chatty now?” I sigh and turn to look up at him. “No, I took an Uber. So no need to worry about my car taking up curb space. All good.” I wave my hand at him. “We’re good, really. You’re relieved of your hostess duties.”

“Host,” he says.

“Huh?” Stella’s face twists in confusion.

“Hostess is the female noun for someone presenting an event. Host would be proper in this context since I’m a man. I would expect you to know something as simple as that, Miss Gibson. But alas, you’ve made the mistake all night.”

“Who called the dictionary police?” Stella asks, thumbing toward Arlo.

Even more irritated, Arlo says in a deep, threatening voice, “Miss Gibson, Miss Garcia, you have ten seconds to get up and start vacating my property.”