Page 4 of The Fake Date Agreement

I can’t torture myself like this. Crying in a dark restroom that smells of stale piss is truly pathetic.

I blow my nose, toss the tissue in the toilet, and slide the lock open. Metal thumps to the floor on the other side, and I hesitate for a split second.

I push on the door.

It doesn’t open.

I shove the door harder this time. It doesn’t give an inch.

I back up as far as the toilet will let me go and throw myself at the door.

Cursing under my breath, I rub the soreness from my arm as I glare so hard at the white wood, it’s a miracle it doesn’t spontaneously combust.

I run at the door again, bounce off it, and trip as I fall back.

Crack.

I moan when my head explodes in agony.

I blink a couple of times, and things feel different.

When I rushed down the hallway, the faint sound of the crowd in the arena was distant, growing more so the farther away I walked from it.

But now it is absolutely silent.

Is the game over?

My head aches, and I feel slightly sick as I get to my feet, resting my hand on the wall to remove my other sandal. If I’d taken the stupid thing off before, maybe I wouldn’t be picking myself up off a filthy floor with a pounding head.

I warily eye the door I went to war with and lost in what should’ve been a one-sided fight.

“Hello!” I yell.

Silence.

“Is anyone there?” I call out, straining to listen for any footsteps headed my way.

Nothing.

I scream like a girl being chased by a killer in a horror movie because someone has to hear that and save me, right?

Wrong.

I fish out my cell phone from my pocket and curse the universe when the screen is black.

I was running late to the game after nearly poking my eye out when I was curling my hair. By the time I realized I only had one bar of battery left, it was too late to charge it. Now that decision is coming back to bite me on the ass, just like every decision I’ve made so far.

I shouldn’t have spent money I didn’t have on a new dress, heels, and tickets for a game I barely understand. Marc didn’t deserve it. He was absolutely not worth it.

I shouldn’t have come here at all.

Stuffing my cell phone in my coat pocket, I refocus on the door. “You are an idiot, Tobie Myers.”

I was never getting out of this stall by throwing myself at it.

The door opens the other way.

I rattle the handle, but whatever fell on the other side must be the mechanism for unlatching the lock.

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