Page 9 of That Secret Something

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” I said, heading for the door.

Rebecca pulled me back by my arm. “Not so fast. There’s no running from this one, Jess. Let your hair down.”

“It is down,” I slurred.

She laughed, lighting up her features. “I mean live a little. Come on.” She placed her hands on my bare shoulders, giving them a squeeze. Her eyes flicked between mine, daring, expecting something.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with,” I said, ignoring my insistent bladder.

“That’s the spirit.”

We split into two teams—Rebecca and the main man himself, George Beecham, on one side, and a couple of people whose names I couldn’t remember on mine. The whole idea of beer pong had never appealed to me. I wasn’t good at sports, nor was I enamoured with the idea of drinking copious amounts of alcohol and making a fool of myself. Yet, here I was.

After partaking in a round of jelly shots—George insisted—I fidgeted, bouncing on each leg in the need-a-pee dance. George set up his shot, missing by an inch. Rebecca booed him, and my team pushed me to the front.

“You look scared, Grant,” she teased, eyeing me from the opposite end of the table.

I fought a smile. “I’m not scared. I’m just bored.”

Oohs rang out from around the table, where a small crowd had gathered.

“Live a little!”

I sighed, plucked a ball from a plastic cup, and threw it. It spun through the air, landing in one of the back cups with a splash. Then it was me in the air, and the boys on my team lifted me on their shoulders like I’d won them the cup final. My bladder protested against the sharp movement. I pinned my legs together, using everything I had to keep everything where it should be.

“Bloody hell!”

“We’ve got a beer pong pro!”

They lowered me down, and I caught Rebecca’s smirk right before she downed the contents of her cup.

I needed to move. Fast. Or my bladder was going to burst.

A boy on my team took his place at the front, and I used the distraction to weave through the crowd and into the living room. I pushed through sweaty bodies to find the stairs, then climbed them on my hands, the pain in my abdomen building. If I didn’t get there soon, I was going to pee. If that happened, Kieran’s chlamydia rumour would be minuscule news in comparison.

The first two doors I tried were bedrooms, with people making out, but with nowhere to pee. The Beechams’ artistically placed houseplants were looking more appealing by the minute. At last, I found it: the white-tiled wonderland of the Beechams’ bathroom. I ran to the toilet, hiked up my dress, and let it go.

Oh my god. Sweet, sweet bliss.

I hung my head forward, relieved that I wasn’t going to piss my pants in front of everyone I knew, and let out a deep breath.

Then the door swung open.

Rebecca walked in, and I screamed, trying to cover myself with my hands.

“Jess, are you alright?”

“What the hell, Rebecca? Why didn’t you knock?”

“I’m sorry, I—why didn’t you lock it?”

“Turn around!”

She spun round, holding her hands up in a mock arrest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The music thumped quietly in the background.

I sorted myself out and flushed the toilet, letting part of my pride swirl away down the pipes with it. How humiliating.

“Can I turn back now?” she asked.

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