I swallow back the pain and the fear and push open the door. With my back to him, I shrug. “It was a free class. Two hours. I had a crush on the instructor. He told me I was a natural at self-defense. He said I had good moves.”

Jake grunts a laugh. “I’m sure he did. Men tell women whatever it takes to get into their pants.”

When the sting of the truth starts to hurt, I step into the nasty stall, hating that the walls don’t go to the ground or block the sound of me peeing.

“I can’t see anything.”

He points the flashlight into the foot gap at the bottom of the wall.

“Thank you.” I almost choke on the words, but he walked me up the hill and now he’s holding a flashlight for me.

“What do you say?” I hold a squat to prevent from touching anything as I tinkle.

“You’re welcome.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not talking about the flashlight. What do you say to women to get into their pants?”

Again, no toilet paper. How did I forget to grab a few tissues? I shake and pull up my panties and pink silk night shorts. I open the door, feeling all kinds of disgusting.

No toilet paper.

No sink.

Who lives like this? Aren’t there laws that require a sink with a toilet? Maybe only flushable toilets.

Flushable toilets … best invention ever.

Jake stands from his squatted position where he held the flashlight for me.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t shake your head. Why were you looking at me like that? Is it my hair?” I smooth both palms over my fragile locks. I need my hairdresser like a heart attack patient needs a heart surgeon.

Hairdresser STAT!

“What’s up with your hair?” He inspects my head with the light like I had done to his perfect feet, only I don’t think the grimace on his face has anything to do with my perfect hair. “Why are you messing with it all the time? Scratching your scalp all the damn time? If not lice, is it psoriasis? A yeast infection?”

“Jeez.” I shove the light away. “I told you not to mention my hair. Don’t talk about it, don’t look at it, and whatever you do don’t touch it.”

He brings the light back up to my head.

“Stop!” I try to shove him away again.

“Fair is fair. You were inspecting my feet for a really long time.”

I don’t need a mirror to know that all the blood has drained from my face. How the hell does he know that? “What?” I whisper.

Taking one step closer, he aims the flashlight between us so his flip-flop clad feet are illuminated. “When you were searching for the keys, you stopped to stare at my feet, and…” he smiles “…the rest of me.”