The Book Boyfriends Collection: Wither, Wait For You, The Edge of Never. Lauren DeStefano

       Eleven

      Now I remember another reason I don’t like soda: it makes me have to pee. The thought of being trapped on that bus with just a tiny matchbox restroom in the back forces me straight toward the facilities inside the terminal. I chuck the half-full soda in the trash on my way.

      Passing up the first three stalls, because they’re disgusting, I close myself up inside the fourth and hang my purse and bag on the hook mounted at the top of the blue door. I spread a good layer of toilet paper over the seat so I don’t catch anything; do my business fast and now comes the strategic part. With one foot propped on the toilet seat to keep it from flushing on its own because of the sensor, I fumble the button on my jeans, reach out to get my bags from the hook and then open the door, all still with one foot propped awkwardly behind me.

      And then I jump out fast right before the toilet flushes.

      Blame it on MythBusters; I was mortified for months after the episode on how the toilet really does spray invisible germs on you when it flushes.

      The fluorescent lights in the restroom are duller than the ones in the waiting area. One flickers above me. There’s two spiders burrowed behind webs tangled with dead bugs in the corner wall. It stinks in here. I step in front of a mirror and look for a dry spot on the counter to put my bags and then I wash my hands. Great, no paper towels. The only way I’m drying my hands is by that obnoxious blower hanging on the wall, which never really dries anything, but just spreads the water around. I start to wipe my hands on my jeans instead, but I hit the large silver button on the hand drier and it roars to life. I wince. I hate that sound.

      As I’m pretending to dry my hands (because I know in the end, I’ll be wiping them on my jeans anyway), a moving shadow behind me catches my eye in the mirrors. I turn around and at the same time the hand drier turns off, bathing the room in silence again.

      A man is standing at the restroom entrance, looking at me.

      My heart reacts and my throat goes dry. “This is the ladies’ restroom.”

      I glance at my bags on the counter. Do I have a weapon? Yeah, I did at least pack a knife, though little good it’ll do me when it’s several feet away inside a zipped-up bag.

      “Sorry, I thought this was the men’s room.”

      Good, apology accepted, now please get the hell out of here.

      The man, wearing dirty, old running shoes and faded jeans with paint stains on the legs, just stands there. This isn’t good. If it really was an accident that he came in here, surely he’d look more embarrassed and would’ve already turned tail and left.

      I march over to my bags on the counter and I notice from the corner of my eye that he takes a few more steps toward me.

      “I … didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

      I throw open my bag and dig around inside of it for my knife, while at the same time trying to keep my eyes on him.

      “I’ve seen you on the bus,” he says and he’s still drawing closer. “My name is Robert.”

      I swing my head around to face him. “Look, you’re not supposed to be in here. It’s not exactly the place for conversation and I suggest you leave. Now.” Finally, I feel the contours of the knife and grip it in my hand, keeping my hand hidden inside the bag. My finger presses down on the thin metal piece to set the blade free from the handle. I hear it click open and lock in place.

      The man stops about six feet from me and smiles. His black hair is oily and slicked back. Yes, I remember him now; he’s been on every bus change with me since Tennessee.

       Oh my God, has he been watching me all this time?

      I pull the knife out of the bag and hold it up clutched in my fist, ready to use it and letting him know that I will not hesitate.

      He just smiles. That scares me, too.

      My heart is banging against my ribs.

      “Get the hell away from me,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I swear to God I will fucking gut you like a pig.”

      “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, still smiling eerily. “I’ll pay you—a lot—just if you suck my dick. It’s all I want. You’ll leave the bathroom about five hundred dollars richer and I’ll get this image out of my head. We’ll both get something out of it.”

      I start to scream at the top of my lungs when suddenly another dark shadow catches my eye. Andrew barrels into the man, hurling his body over a two-foot space and onto the long counter. His back crashes into one of the mirrors. The glass shatters and shards rain down all over the place. I jump back and shriek, pressing my back against the hand drier, waking it up again. My knife fell from my hand at some point. I see it on the floor, but I’m too afraid to move right now to pick it up.

      Blood drips off what’s left of the mirror when Andrew pulls the man off the counter by the front of his shirt. He pulls back his other hand and buries his fist in the man’s face. I hear a nauseating crunch! and blood pours from his nose. Andrew rains blows down on his head, one hit after another until the man can’t hold his head up straight and it starts to bob and sway drunkenly on his shoulders.

      Andrew lets go and the man’s body falls against the floor. I hear his head thump against the tile. Andrew just stands there hovering over him, maybe waiting to see if he’s going to get up, but there’s something disturbingly untamed in his posture and his enraged expression as he stares down at the unconscious man.

      I can hardly breathe but I manage to say, “Andrew? Are you alright?”

      He snaps out of it and jerks his head around to face me. “What?” He shakes his head and his eyes narrow under lines of disbelief. He marches over. “Am I alright? What kind of question is that?” He fastens his hands around my upper arms and stares deeply into my eyes. “Are you alright?”

      I try to look away because the intensity in his eyes is overpowering, but his head follows mine and he shakes me once to force me to look at him.

      “Yeah … I’m fine,” I finally say, “thanks to you.”

      Andrew pulls me into his rock-hard chest and wraps his arms around my back, practically squeezing the life out of me.

      “We should call the cops,” he says, pulling away.

      I nod and he takes me by the hand and pulls me with him out of the restroom and down the gloomy gray hallway.

      By the time the cops get here, the man has disappeared.

      Andrew and I agree that he probably slipped out right after we left. He must’ve gone out the back while Andrew was on the phone. Andrew and I give the cops a description of the man and our statements. The cops commend Andrew—sort of vacantly—for stepping in, but he really just seems to want to stop talking to them altogether.

      My new bus to Texas left ten minutes ago and so once again I’m stuck in Wyoming.

      “I thought you were going to Idaho?” Andrew says.

      I