As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one to watch her phone ring. The whole screen flashed and buzzed, and a picture of her mother smiling in the garden filled it for a moment. She unlocks it, mutes it, and turns it down and lays it on the table. She’d have to call her back. Right now, the table was deciding how many cups were needed for beer pong.

    Drunken calculations were being made out loud and various numbers floated through the air. It didn’t seem that important, to work out some exact number for a game that’s only real goal was to get you more drunk. She felt the sweat starting to form at the back of her neck. The air was heavy with heat and smoke from vapes and joints and bongs. She’d put too much time into her makeup for the night to have it melt off this early.

    “How about we just go with an even number, and it’ll work out?” She offers. 

    Everyone seems to like this idea enough, so with a bundle of cups and the promise of drinks and fresh air she heads out back. 

    After a while, she goes to show a picture to someone, or maybe she was trying to look something up? She doesn’t quite remember, but she realizes she doesn’t have her phone and heads inside. She’s trying to think about the last time she used it. That glimpse of her mother, shut down on the table. 

    She turns towards the living room, and immediately spots her phone. Then him. He’s sitting alone, although there are other people in different areas of the room, with his arms and legs spread over the couch in a lounged, relaxed position. He seems a bit older, lean but in his relaxed pose a tension like a cat about to strike, his fingers twitching. He’s smiling at her. She smiles in reflex.

    “They figure out pong yet?” He asks, with a flick towards the back. 

    “More or less,” She forces out a laugh for the small talk. She reaches for her phone, and notices it’s facing up. 

    “You left that here,” He points, and smiles, “I watched it for you.”

    “Oh, thanks,” She clicks the screen and there’s no notifications. Not even the missed call. She is not smiling now.

    “Anytime,” He waves.

    She hurries back outside, and feels a panic she’s not sure is justified. As she turns out, she sees that he’s still sitting, lounging, smiling, alone.

 

    When she re-enters the house it’s so she can pee quickly before heading out to a bar. The flier for this frat party, which admittedly drew her in, apparently was like a flame for horny, alcoholic moths and the place was swarmed. She was waiting in line for the only bathroom in the place, when he appeared again at the doorway. He was taller than he looked sitting, and filled the cramped frame.

    He smiles right at her, “Hey I meant to ask you, is ‘Womsday’ before Thursday?”

    Her mind raced. ‘Womsday’ was a recent typo she had made in a text to her mom.

    “What the hell?” She says, “You were in my texts?”

    He laughs, “Listen,” and pulls out his phone. “How about we go get something to eat?” He pulls up a contact screen and she sees her phone number. The name for the contact is 8.5. He scrolls to the bottom notes section that seems to be full. 

    He reads a line, “Chicken lo mein and spring rolls?”

    Her most recent Uber order. She feels nauseous and dizzy and not from the beer. The bathroom opens behind her and she darts in. As she tries to slam the door shut she feels him lean his back against it at the last moment. She pushes against the weight, but she can’t get it to fully latch and lock. She releases the pressure and he stumbles back for a moment, enough that the door opens and he inches his boots past the frame. Now she really can’t close it.

    “No peeking, I promise,” He says through the crack.

    Yeah, right. She wonders what she can do. How much he knows. She wishes she had picked her phone up. 

    She decides to try the window, an escape route she’s only ever seen in movies and never considered as a real-life exit. She’s thankful she didn’t wear a dress. For whatever reason, either he didn’t notice the noise or actually didn’t peek, he doesn’t try to stop her. 

    She’s glad to leave him and the house. She considers heading home, but she hates her apartment when it’s dark and there’s no one else there. Leaving all the lights on always made the rooms seem more vacant, but with everything off she would jump at any creak or rustle. It’s why she bothered going to this party alone in the first place. She decided to head to a local bar, the alcohol giving her more confidence.

 

    The familiar place had warm lighting, floors that sticked and crackled with every step but usually smelled like good fries. She had been there for an hour, maybe two, and was feeling ready to face her empty apartment and crash to sleep in the bed. She turned towards the door and noticed from the corner of her eyes a pair of long legs and arms spread out in a booth, lounging. 

    He was there. Smiling at her, not trying to sulk or hide his gaze. He had a half-drunk beer in front of him. He’d been watching.

    She felt her heart suddenly hit her chest and then all she could feel was her heart, a pounding in her throat and temples and hands. He was coming right for her, casually crossing the bar.

    “Hey Cass,” He starts.

    He knew her name. 

    “I know women spend a while in the bathroom, but we were getting awfully worried.”

    “What the fuck are you doing?” She steps back from him, closer to the door.

    “Now, no need to make another dramatic exit,” He says, and starts to reach into his pocket. She imagines him pulling a gun, or knife.

    “Please,” She feels her voice crack and eyes sting, “Just leave me alone.” She’s trying to look for the bartender or manager, to make eye contact with anyone, if they’d just look and see her frightened face in the corner.

    “Why’d I do that, when we haven’t had our Chinese yet?” He asks. He starts to pull his hand out. It’s bright red. His hand is bleeding from the unsheathed knife.

    No, that’s not it.

    There’s a pair of panties wound around his fingers. They’re lacy, and just like a pair she owns. 

    She notices a yellow bleach stain on the waistband. It is the pair she owns. From her apartment.

    “But would you wear these first?”

    He had already found her, already been to her home, would be there waiting for her if she went back.

    She wished she’d stayed home alone.