Chapter 2: Wet Look and White Lies
The scent of lemon cleaner and shame still felt etched into her skin, even after a shower so hot it left her lobster-pink and raw. Missy stood in the center of her studio apartment, a towel wrapped tightly around her, and stared at the plastic grocery bag on the floor. Inside it, the evidence: the ruined blue jeggings, the sodden red underwear, the yellow shirt, all knotted together like a corpse. She’d scrubbed the bathroom floor, the chair of her desk, anywhere she might have touched. The apartment smelled aggressively of pine now, a poor mask.
Her phone, facedown on the bed, had buzzed intermittently for two hours. Chloe. Mom. A group chat she’d muted. She hadn’t touched it.
A sharper, more insistent buzz. She picked it up.
Chloe: Emergence required. Put on something that doesn’t smell like despair. I’m outside. 5 minutes.
Missy typed a reply. Can’t. Plague. Literally.
Chloe: I have tequila. And I saw Brian from your poli-sci class walking this way. He’s wearing those cargo shorts you hate. The threat is real.
A weak, watery laugh burst out of Missy, startling her. It felt like cracking ice on a frozen pond. She looked at the bag of clothes, then at her closet. Something that doesn’t smell like despair.
What did that even look like?
The bar was a cave of murmured conversations and swallowed laughter. Red leather booths absorbed the low light, their surfaces sticky with generations of spilled drinks. A flickering neon sign for a whiskey brand buzzed and popped, casting a jumpy blue glow over everything. The air was thick with the smell of beer mats, fake citrus cleaner, and the cloying sweetness of a hundred different cocktails.
Missy felt her wet-look red leggings squeak against the vinyl booth as she slid in. The sound was obscenely loud in her own ears. She’d paired them with a simple black bodysuit, the neckline high, the long sleeves covering her arms. It felt like armor, or a costume. The fabric was tight, constricting, a deliberate pressure. Her hair was down, a messy brown curtain she could hide behind.
Chloe was already there, a beacon of defiance in a glowing white crocheted bodysuit that made her purple hair look electric under the blacklights. Two shots of pale amber liquid sat between them, sweating rings onto the scarred wood.
“You look like you’re about to storm the Bastille,” Chloe said, pushing one shot toward her.
“I feel like I’ve been thrown from it.” Missy’s voice was hoarse. She eyed the tequila. The salt and lime were notably absent. “What’s this? A punishment?”
“It’s a palate cleanser. For the memory. Drink it fast.”
“My palate is fine. It’s my entire life that needs cleansing.”
“Start with the drink. Smaller problem.”
Missy picked up the shot glass. The coolness of it was a shock. She thought of the warm pool on the linoleum, the cold seep of denim. She downed it in one gulp. The fire that roared down her throat and bloomed in her stomach was a beautiful, welcome violence. It almost, for three full seconds, drowned out everything else. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes watering.
“See?” Chloe said, knocking hers back without a flinch. “Better. Now, the post-mortem.”
“No post-mortem. I want a burial at sea. No eulogy.”
“Too bad.” Chloe signaled the waiter for two more, holding up two fingers. “We have to talk about it. Or it fossilizes. It becomes the thing that defines you. ‘Missy, you remember, she’s the one who…’”
“Don’t.” Missy’s hand shot out, grabbing Chloe’s wrist. “Don’t say it. Please.”
Chloe looked at her hand, then at her face. Her expression softened from its performative toughness. “Okay. Okay, sorry. But you have to give me something. I was there. I saw you just… shut down. I’ve never seen you like that. It was scary.”
The word ‘scary’ landed differently. It wasn’t about embarrassment. It was about dissociation. Missy let go of her wrist, retreating back into the shadow of the booth. The second shots arrived. She didn’t wait for a prompt this time. She took it, the burn less shocking now, more of a familiar, glowing ember in her chest.
“What is there to say?” Missy whispered, tracing the wood grain with a fingernail. “It happened. It was biological. My body betrayed me in the most fundamental, humiliating way possible in front of the entire intellectual future of the philosophy department. Aldridge probably failed me on principle for contaminating the exam. My answer to the categorical imperative was literally sitting in a puddle of my own… my own…” She couldn’t finish. She took a sharp breath. “There’s no spin. There’s no ‘and then I owned it and everyone clapped.’ It’s just a dark, wet, smelly fact.”
Chloe was quiet for a minute, spinning her empty shot glass. The blacklights made her white outfit and teeth glow. “You know what Brian Carlson did freshman year? At the Fall Fling?”
“I don’t care.”
“He projectile vomited a full foot of cheap vodka and orange soda directly into the hair of the Dean’s daughter. From across a table. It was a perfect arc. People called him the ‘Vomit Comet’ for a semester. Now he’s president of the economics society. No one remembers.”
“This is different, Chloe. This wasn’t drunk. This wasn’t a party. This was a final exam. In silence. It was… it was a total loss of control. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s human.”
“It’s gross!” Missy’s voice hit a register that made a couple at the next booth glance over. She lowered it to a furious hiss. “I am gross. I sat in it. For two hours. I can still smell it on me. I scrubbed my skin off and I can still smell it.” The tequila was unlocking the tears now, hot and insistent behind her eyes. She blinked rapidly.
“Hey.” Chloe’s voice was firm. “Look at me. You are not gross. You had a medical-level stress response. Your body went into full-system failure. That’s not a moral flaw. That’s biology being an asshole.”
“My biology is a traitor.”
“Your biology is underpaid and overworked. Cut it some slack.” Chloe tried a smile. It was wobbly.
Missy didn’t smile back. “I have to go back. There are three more exams. I have to sit in those same rooms. People will know. They’ll look. They’ll whisper. The TA who took my paper… his face… he was so disgusted he could barely touch it.” She buried her face in her hands, the vinyl of her leggings squeaking again with the movement. “I can’t go back. I just can’t.”
The silence that followed was filled with the bar’s ambient noise—the clink of glassware, the dull thump of bass from a speaker, a sudden burst of laughter from a celebrating group near the door.
“Okay,” Chloe said finally, her voice quiet but solid. “Then what’s the move? You’re three credits from graduation. You can’t quit.”
“I can hide. I can take incomplete. I can change my name and start a goat farm in Vermont.”
“You’re allergic to goats.”
“I’ll get shots!” The absurdity of it finally punctured the despair. Missy lifted her head, a tear tracing through the freckles on her cheek. She let out a shuddering, wet laugh that was mostly a sob. “Oh my god, Chloe. What am I going to do?”
“First, we’re going to drink some water,” Chloe said, flagging down the waiter for two glasses. “Then, we’re going to get some disgustingly greasy food. Then, we’re going to go back to your place, and we’re going to figure out a plan. One that doesn’t involve livestock.”
“I don’t have a plan. The plan is Peru.”
“We’ll make one. But right now, you need to pee.”
The word was a bucket of ice water. Missy froze. The casual statement, the simple biological imperative, now felt like a taunt, a landmine. Her bladder, comfortably empty, seemed to clench in phantom sympathy. The memory of the locked door, the ‘Out of Order’ sign, the agonizing pressure, rushed back in a nauseating wave.
“I don’t… I’m okay,” she stammered.
“Miss, you just drank two shots of tequila in ten minutes. Your kidneys are kicking into gear. Go. It’s okay. The bathroom is right there.” Chloe nodded toward the back of the bar.
Missy followed her gaze. A narrow hallway led to a single, weathered door. A flickering plastic sign above it, the kind with replaceable letters, read ‘RESTROOM.’ The ‘O’ was dim, blinking on and off arrhythmically. RESTR M. RESTRO M. The effect was disorienting, menacing.
Her heart began a slow, heavy thud against her ribs. It was just a bathroom. A bar bathroom. Probably gross, but functional. But her legs felt fused to the booth. The squeak of her leggings seemed to mock her. What if it was locked? What if it was out of order? What if someone was in there, taking forever? The familiar, panicky sensation began to curl in her gut, unrelated to any current physical need, a purely psychological reflex.
“I’ll wait,” she said, her voice thin.
“Missy. Look at me.” Chloe waited until she did. “It’s a bathroom. It flushes. I promise. I’ll stand guard if you want. But you have to prove to yourself that you can. Right now. Or this thing wins. It becomes a thing.”
Chloe was right. It was already becoming a Thing. A pathology. The thought of developing a full-blown phobia of public restrooms on top of everything else was the final, ridiculous straw.
“Okay,” Missy whispered. She unsnicked her legs from the sticky vinyl with a sound that made her wince. She stood, a little unsteadily. The tequila hummed in her veins, a false courage.
She walked toward the hallway. Each step was an effort. The flickering light played tricks, stretching her shadow then swallowing it. The music faded, replaced by the hum of a cooler and the drip of a leaky tap. The smell shifted from booze to something earthier, mildew and urinal cake.
She reached the door. It was, of course, locked.
A soft, choked sound escaped her. Not again. It couldn’t be happening again. She pressed her ear to the fogged glass panel. Nothing. She jiggled the handle. It was solidly locked.
The panic, trained and eager, rose in a hot flood. Her breath hitched. She turned, ready to flee back to the booth, back to safety, back to a life where she just never drank liquids again.
Then she saw it. A small, hand-written note taped to the wall beside the door, not on it. The handwriting was loopy, feminine. ‘Door sticks! Give it a good shoulder check. xxx’
Missy stared. She took a deep, ragged breath that smelled of mildew and hope. She turned back to the door, set her shoulder against the solid wood, and pushed.
It flew open with a groan and a bang, revealing a surprisingly clean, if tiny, bathroom. The toilet was there. White. Normal. Waiting.
She almost cried with relief. She stepped in, locked the door behind her, and leaned against it, her forehead pressed to the cool wood. She let out a long, trembling sigh. The victory was microscopic, private, and absolutely immense.
Back at the booth, Chloe was demolishing a basket of fries that had arrived. She looked up as Missy slid back in. “Well?”
“It sticks,” Missy said, grabbing a fry. “The door sticks. You have to shoulder it.”
A slow, real smile spread across Chloe’s face. “See? Not out of order. Just sticky.”
Missy popped the fry in her mouth. It was salty, greasy, perfect. “Just sticky,” she repeated, the words tasting like a temporary truce. The memory of the exam hall was still there, a dark, heavy stone in her pocket, right next to the ghost of the crumpled ‘Out of Order’ sign. But for now, the stone felt a fraction lighter. For now, the door had opened.
For now, the door had opened. The greasy fries and the acidic tequila settled into a precarious peace within her. They paid the tab, the mundane ritual of splitting a bill feeling oddly grounding after the emotional freefall of the afternoon. Chloe linked her arm through Missy’s as they pushed out into the night.
The air was cool, a relief after the bar’s sticky warmth. Streetlights painted the sidewalk in uneven pools of jaundiced yellow. Their footsteps echoed in a companionable rhythm. Missy focused on the sound, on the solidity of Chloe’s arm hooked through hers, on the simple act of moving forward.
“See?” Chloe said, her voice cutting through the quiet residential street. “World didn’t end. You peed in a bar bathroom like a champion.”
“A champion who shouldered the door like a SWAT team,” Missy replied, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. It felt strange on her face.
“Technical merit points. I’m giving you a nine.”
They walked another block in silence, the normalcy of it seeping into Missy’s bones. The sharp edge of the horror was blunting, shifting into a heavy, achey shame she could maybe carry. Then, a low, deep gurgle sounded from her abdomen. It wasn’t nerves. It was a distinct, internal shift, a seismic grumble that commanded attention.
Missy’s steps faltered.
She pressed her free hand low against her stomach, over the black bodysuit. The greasy food, the liquor, the day’s relentless torrent of adrenaline—it all convened into a single, urgent, and decidedly downward consensus.
“You okay?” Chloe asked, feeling her hesitate.
“Yeah. Fine.” Missy forced her legs to move. The need was a spark, instantly fanning into a flame. It was different from the bladder desperation. This was a deep, dense pressure, a gathering storm that brooked no argument. She clenched internally, a useless, automatic defense.
Another half a block. The pressure intensified, becoming a tangible, insistent presence. Her breath hitched. She uncoupled her arm from Chloe’s, pretending to adjust the sleeve of her jacket. She needed to focus, to calculate. They were still seven blocks from her apartment. Each step jostled the precarious equilibrium inside her.
“So, I was thinking,” Chloe said, oblivious, kicking a pebble. “We email Aldridge. We tell him you had a severe, documentable gastrointestinal… episode. It’s medically adjacent. He has to give you a make-up.”
“A gastrointestinal episode,” Missy repeated, her voice strained. The phrase was horrifically apt. Every syllable seemed to synchronize with a fresh cramp. She swallowed hard. “He’d want a doctor’s note. I am not getting a doctor to certify my… my…”
“Public meltdown?”
“Chloe.”
“Sorry. Your acute biological distress event.”
The cramp clenched, a fierce, unmistakable fist. Missy stopped walking entirely. She bent slightly at the waist, a hand splayed across her lower belly. The streetlight above them flickered, casting her shadow into a spasm on the pavement.
“Whoa, seriously, are you okay?” Chloe was in front of her now, searching her face. “You’re white.”
“I need to get home,” Missy gasped. The words were tight, squeezed out between shallow breaths. The urgency was total, all-consuming. It dwarfed the earlier humiliation. This was primitive, immediate, and threatened a catastrophe that would make the lecture hall seem like a minor spill.
“Okay. Okay, we’re close. Just six blocks.” Chloe’s voice was calm, but her eyes were wide. “Can you walk?”
Missy nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. She straightened up, every muscle in her lower body locked in a rigid, clenching revolt. They moved again, but their pace had changed. It was no longer a stroll. It was a desperate, hobbled procession. Missy walked with a stiff-legged gait, each footfall measured and careful, as if carrying a fragile, overfull vessel.
Three blocks left. The pressure was a living thing, demanding release. Sweat beaded on her upper lip despite the cool air. She could think of nothing else. Not the exam, not the urine, not Peru. Only the geometry of distance, the impossible stretch of sidewalk, the mounting, explosive urgency in her gut.
“Talk to me,” Chloe said, her hand hovering near Missy’s back. “Distract you.”
“Cannot talk,” Missy managed through clenched teeth. A fresh, sharp pang made her suck in a hissed breath. She stopped again, doubling over. “Oh, god. It’s… it’s happening.”
Her eyes scanned the dark street in wild, animal panic. Neat houses with pristine, locked doors. Trimmed hedges. No alleys. No welcoming, open businesses. Just residential silence and endless, impassive fence lines. The sheer, civilized indifference of the environment was a new kind of terror.
“We can run,” Chloe said, her own panic starting to bleed through.
“I can’t run!” The whisper was a plea. Running was unthinkable. Any jostle would be the trigger. It was a matter of physics now, of muscle fatigue versus inexorable internal pressure. She took a step, then another, a whimper escaping her. The end was in sight—her apartment building’s rooftop sign glowed in the distance—but it was a mile away, a continent away.
Another cramp twisted, vicious and final. Missy froze, utterly still. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her own elbows. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts. The storm had reached its peak. The levee was about to break.
“Chloe,” she whispered, the name a confession of utter defeat. “I’m not going to make it.”