The Designated +1

by Ellie Cahill

  I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing.

  “You okay?” Will asked, glancing at me in the mirror.

  “I’m fine,” I giggled.

  Will turned and put a piece of folded up gauze against my forehead. “Hold this.”

  I did as he said, still snickering. He stayed focused, exchanging the first piece of gauze for one with some kind of cleanser on it, then making me hold pressure for a few more minutes while he unwrapped a bandage and some antibiotic ointment.

  “Maybe we should go to the hospital. See if you need stitches,” he said softly, more to himself than me.

  “No stitches,” I said firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Might leave a scar,” he warned.

  “Chicks dig scars.”

  Will did a double take. “Oh, I—you’re a…you do…the girl thing?”

  I grinned at his fumbling. “Why? Would that freak you out?”

  “No, I just…I thought…”

  “Hey, if some girl comes along who thinks that ten thousand freckles and a toilet scar make me impossible to resist, who am I to say no?” I teased.

  “Oh.”

  “Then again, if some guy comes along who thinks the same thing, that’d be okay, too.”

  Now he looked confused. “Oh.”

  “Relax, Brady, I’m joking.”

  He didn’t respond at first, coming close to squeeze ointment onto my forehead and plaster the bandage over the wound. I tried to hold still, but it was impossible not to breathe in his face. His big rough hands were surprisingly gentle as he patted down the edges of the bandage.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  The real answer? Yes. A lot. The cut itself was stinging and burning like crazy. What I said was, “Not too bad.”

  He scanned the rest of my face and neck, grabbing my elbow to turn my arm for further inspection. “You get hit anywhere else?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Nothing else hurt. Yet. Though it was impossible to be sure with the blood all over me.

  “Which part were you kidding about?” he said, still looking me over.

  “Huh?”

  “Before. Were you kidding about liking girls or guys?”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip. “God, I don’t know. I’ve only dated guys, but honestly? I just want…” How to say it? “I want someone who loves the complete hell out of me, you know what I mean?”

  “I get it.” He smiled absently, shifting his inspection to my thighs. “Christ, you have a lot of freckles.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “No, I remember you had them as a kid, but damn, Hadley. It’s like every inch of you is covered now.”

  “Not every inch.”

  His head snapped up to look at me.

  Why do I say shit like that? Why am I so incapable of keeping a thought to myself? But once again, my little sister instincts kicked in and I just raised my eyebrows archly and looked down my nose at him, daring him to push it.

  He didn’t, but he rose slowly from his crouched position in front of me until I had to tilt my head back to keep giving him the challenging glare.

  “I’ll let you get cleaned up,” he said. “There’s not a lot of water so be careful.” Will squeezed past me to sneak out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I took a steadying breath, not entirely sure why I felt so out of sorts.

  Chalk it up to the blood loss.

  I make use of the sink, getting the worst of the stains off my skin. There was nothing to be done about the blood on my shirt right now, but I looked less frightening without streaks down my face and a thick clot in my eyebrow.

  When I was done, I found Will waiting in the main cabin of the RV, leaning against the kitchen counter.

  “You think you’re okay to drive yourself home?” he asked. “I can take you if you’re lightheaded or anything.”

  “Who’s going home?” I asked. “I’m fine.”

  “You have a gash in your forehead,” he reminded me. “You’re excused. No more work for you today.”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Let’s get back to work.”

  We stared each other down for a long, quiet moment, and finally Will shrugged. “If you say so.”

  So we went back to the master bathroom, where I helped knock tiles off the walls, and pull out drywall for another couple of hours. It was dusty, exhausting work, and I loved it.

  When I finally saw the time and realized I had to leave or I’d be late for Claire’s bachelorette party, I didn’t want to go. Destroying things was deeply satisfying.

  I grinned at Will. “Thanks for letting me help.”

  “You’re thanking me?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it was fun.”

  “The part where old toilet water spilled on your shoes or your got your face sliced open by flying porcelain?”

  Absently, I touched the bandage on my forehead. “The rest of it.”

  Will gave me a once-over. “You might change your mind when you see what you look like.”

  I already knew there was drywall dust stuck to the sweat on my arms and legs. It had to be in my hair. Still, nothing a shower couldn’t cure. “I spend all day with dogs. This is nothing.”

  Will shook his head, laughing softly. “Well, thanks for coming out. I appreciate the help.”

  “Least I could do after giving you more stops on the wedding express.” I fiddled with my car keys, reluctant to leave. “Are you here again tomorrow?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “You don’t have to—” he started to protest.

  “Unless you don’t want—”

  “No, I’m happy to have the help, but—”

  “I don’t—” We couldn’t stop talking over each other, and I finally reached up to put my hand against his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “How do you like your coffee?” I asked.

  “In someone else’s cup.”

  “Something else then?”

  “Coke.”

  “Done.” I have him a final wave. “See you.”

  14

  Uber Is Just Organized Hitchhiking

  I was late to the bachelorette. Will had been right. I was beyond filthy. My mother was horrified when I came through the door, blood streaked and caked with dirt.

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “Are you okay? Do I need to call the police?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her.

  “What happened to your head?” she demanded.

  “Just a little scratch. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Did one of your dogs do this?”

  “No!” I said immediately. The last thing I needed was for anyone to think I couldn’t handle my dogs. Or that any of my dogs were dangerous.

  “What happened to the rest of you?” My mom looked horrified as she looked closer. “What on earth have you been doing?”

  “A friend of mine is doing some remodeling.” There, that was true. “I helped out for a little while.”

  “Why is there blood all over your shirt? Hadley, were you doing something illegal?”

  “No!” My mom can make me feel like a teenager faster than most people can tie their shoes. “Look, it was just an accident. Everything’s fine. I really have to get ready for Claire’s bachelorette, or I’m going to be late.”

  She wanted to ask more. The concern and confusion was written all over her face. But Claire was her niece and she was willing to let it go for her. Thank god.

  I did my best to hurry through a shower, but I was so dirty there were no shortcuts. Although the gouge in my forehead was the only serious wound, I did have a bunch of random scratches and bruises on my body from the day of hard labor.

  When it came time to do my make-up, I had to forgo my usual freckle-hiding foundation because of the cut on my head. I’d gotten to the point where I was comfortable with my galaxy of freckles most of the time, but if I was going out, I still wanted
that pretty, smooth complexion like in a magazine. I didn’t want the very first thing people talked to me about to be my freckles. And trust me, it was. Often. Whatever you picture in your mind when you think of someone with freckles, quadruple it. The red hair was enough of an attention getter without all that business, thank you very much.

  But tonight, I’d just have to hope that the gash in my forehead would be enough of a conversation starter. I hurried through eye make-up and some dark lipstick that hid the few freckles on my lips. A lightning fast packing job for our hotel stay in downtown Austin and I was on the road again.

  Claire and the rest of the party were already in the hotel suite when I arrived. They’d texted me the room number, but I would have been able to find it as soon as I stepped off the elevator by following the music.

  I knocked on the door and within seconds, it was thrown open by two girls I didn’t know. Before they opened their mouths, I knew they were already drunk.

  “You’re not a stripper,” one of them said.

  “Uh…no?” I said.

  “Are you sure?” the other one asked. She leaned back to shout, “Did you guys get a male stripper or a female stripper?”

  “No strippers!” came the answering cry from multiple voices.

  “They keep telling us there are no strippers coming,” the first girl whispered drunk-quietly. “But we don’t believe them.”

  “We think it’s a surprise,” the second one added in just as loud a whisper.

  “Come in, come in, come in,” the first one said, pulling on my arm. “You can help us wait.”

  “You are adorable, by the way,” the second one said. “Red hair always makes me think of Anne of Green Gables. Is your name Anne?”

  “I’m Hadley,” I said.

  “That’s too bad. You look like an Anne.”

  “Hadley!” Claire’s voice cut through my new drunk friends’ ramblings. My cousin threw her hands in the air, making the cheap veil pinned to her hair fluff with enthusiasm.

  “Claire!” I shouted, leaving my hostesses to hug the bride.

  “Oh my god, what happened to your face?” she asked.

  “There was…an exploding toilet.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I want to hear every word. But I think you should tell it to me while we drink champagne, don’t you think?”

  I smiled. “You’re the boss!”

  Since I was the last to arrive, all that was left for us to do was some pre-gaming before we hit the bars on Sixth. This party was going full cliché. There were definitely cooler places in Austin to hang out than Sixth Street, but for Claire and her out-of-town friends, it was perfect. They wanted the bachelorette experience, full stop. Claire in her chintzy veil, the girls with their penis straws, and bathroom sink crammed with ice and endless bottles of champagne.

  I had two choices: be a stick-in-the-mud hipster native and spend the evening eye-rolling, or throw myself into the role and have a hell of a time. When faced with a such a choice, I always vote for a hell of a time. So I took my pink penis straw with all due reverence and stuck it into a plastic cup filled with cheap champagne.

  Holding it up to the bride, I said, “Cheers, baby.”

  As the great Samuel L. Jackson once said, ‘Hold onto your butts.’

  We hit Sixth Street hard. I did take a small level of command and led them to some of the cooler bars at first, like The Firehouse Lounge and Midnight Cowboy. I knew we’d end up at the dueling piano bar eventually, and a stop at Coyote Ugly was all but guaranteed if they got drunk enough. But we might as well see the good stuff while they were likely to remember it, I figured.

  Everywhere we went, Claire got free drinks, and offers from men to save her from her impending marriage. Some were sweet, others were downright crude. But Claire loved it.

  It was nearly midnight when I got a text message from Will: How’s your head?

  Me: All good :) :) :) :)

  Will: You sure? That’s a lot of smileys HB.

  I took a poorly lit selfie to show him that I didn’t even have a bandage on my forehead anymore. You couldn’t miss the cut, but it wasn’t oozing, and I thought the bandage made it look even worse.

  Will: Are you seriously on The Dirty Sixth? Tourist.

  I wondered how he could have possibly known that until I realized he must have seen the neon signs in the background of my selfie.

  Me: This is the full bachelorette situation going on here.

  Will: Careful how much you drink. You had a head injury.

  Me: Thanks dad.

  Me: I wouldn’t even call it a head injury.

  Will: Just looking out for you. I feel bad you got hurt.

  Me: I’m fine, I promise.

  Will: Also, if you’re seriously planning to come back tomorrow, I don’t want you hung over. You’ll be useless.

  Me: So this is purely a selfish concern.

  Will: And?

  I sent him a gif of Harley Quinn with the lyrics to “You Don’t Own Me” flashing across the bottom.

  There was no reply for a long time while the girls and I made our way to the piano bar at last. It was inevitable. As was the headache I’d no doubt have after singing my lungs out with the rest of the drunks at the place.

  I started to feel bad as time wore on with no response from Will. If I hadn’t had so much champagne I probably would have drawn the logical conclusion that he’d gone to bed. And if he hadn’t, he was probably too busy to care. Still as I watched two guys hoist Claire onto the piano to get a special, dirty song sung just for her, I couldn’t resist sending another message.

  Me: Where are you tonight?

  Will: Are you still quoting old song lyrics at me?

  It took me a second to realize what the hell he was talking about. Me: No. Just wondering if you were out too.

  Will: Nope.

  Me: Are you in your RV?

  Will: Yes

  Me: Do you have A/C? It must be so hot.

  That earned me a series of three pictures. All of them were of small fans and from what I could see of the background, they were all attached around the bed in the back of the RV.

  Me: You’re in bed? Why aren’t you sleeping?

  Will: It’s hot as hell.

  Me: Why don’t you just go sleep at your parents’ place?

  Will: Saves me time in the morning.

  Me: I couldn’t sleep like that. Don’t know how you do it.

  Will: It’s like camping.

  Me: I don’t like camping.

  Will: You also hit yourself in the face with a chunk of toilet today so I’m not sure how reliable you are.

  Me: Ouch.

  Will: You stuff dollar bills down some guy’s thong tonight?

  Me: Not yet. But the night is young.

  Will: So you will?

  Me: No official plans. But I never rule out the possibility.

  That was the moment that one of the girls in our group passed out. Luckily she was crammed tightly between some of the other girls and she sort of slithered down to sit on the floor rather than falling. I left my phone sitting on the piano to help the other girls with her.

  “Rachel!” I shook her shoulder. “Rachel! Wake up!”

  Other bar patrons were trying to help, asking if she was all right, and if we needed anything. Rachel’s eyelids fluttered and she looked up at all of us, then immediately started to cry.

  “Is this heaven?” she asked.

  “No, sweetie, you passed out,” one of the other girls said.

  “But you’re all so beautiful!” Rachel sobbed.

  A minute later one of the bar backs came over to our little group. “Time to go ladies,” he announced, raising his voice enough to be heard over the current piano song.

  “She’s okay,” someone said. “She’s just upset.”

  “Nope. Time for your group to head out.”

  A few of us struggled to get Rachel to her feet. She was unsteady in he
r heels and her head kept wobbling from side to side.

  “Where do you want to go next?” one of the girls asked Claire as we steered Rachel out to the street.

  “I want to dance!” Claire declared.

  “Rachel’s not going anywhere,” I said.

  “Let’s just put her in a cab,” someone else said. “The rest of us can still go out.”

  Rachel slumped heavily onto my shoulder and moaned, “I don’t feel good.”

  “There is no way she can get herself to the hotel room like this.” I didn’t want to say it in front of Rachel, unlikely as it was that she would remember, but I didn’t want to come back to the hotel room later to find her drowned in her own vomit. “Someone needs to take her back.”

  “I want to dance!” Claire repeated, throwing her arms in the air.

  I looked around at the rest of the girls. I’d just met most of them tonight. Claire was my cousin and we’d been close as little girls, but we didn’t have the same friends. I couldn’t believe none of them were volunteering to take care of their friend. I couldn’t even believe I was the one holding her up for that matter. The silence among the rest of them stretched until I lost patience.

  “Fine. I’ll take her,” I said.

  “Aww, thanks, Hadley, you’re the best,” Claire gushed. “You should come back and find us.”

  “Cool.” There, that was sufficiently meaningless.

  “Text me!” Claire called, but she and the other girls were already heading across the street to find a dance club.

  Hanging on me, Rachel hiccuped in an alarming way that made me scoot my feet back in case she was about to barf. A puke-free count to ten assured me it was safe, and I led her toward the building so I’d have somewhere to prop her while I called for a ride. We weren’t far from the hotel, but I really didn’t feel like dragging her the whole way.

  When I got my phone out, there was a text waiting for me from Will: Any girls’ thongs?

  I couldn’t make sense of it, but I ignored it in favor of calling for a ride. When I had one on the way, I went back to my thread with Will and realized he was asking if I’d seen any female strippers tonight. He’d only asked about male strippers before. Clever, perverted boy. Also, what the hell was he still doing up?

  Me: I’ve been relegated to babysitting a drunk girl. Going back to the hotel.