I heard two sets of practical shoes pulse against the tile floor until they were standing at the sink, still. They turned the faucet on and let the water run, probably staring at a sign that says Employees Must Wash Hands while washing their hands. The sound of water running was helpful, distracting, a much-needed separation from my own thoughts. I sat there and breathed deep, healing breaths, breaths a doctor or yoga teacher would be proud of, until the nausea subsided, and I started craving another drink. My last, probably until the wedding. The conversation about which wedding diet I was planning to undertake had already started. And none of them allowed drinking your calories.

I stood up and pretended to re-dress and flushed the fresh toilet water down the drain.

When I opened the stall door, the caterer and the bartender were there, no longer leaning over the sinks but standing still, hands clean and dripping wet onto the floor, the water still running like a wasteful noise machine.

I moved to the sink in between theirs and they watched me wash my hands, just standing there, silently, watching like prison guards untrusting I wouldn’t take my own life or the life of another. I rubbed my hands in boiling water like my mother had done each Sunday. It felt like they’d never be clean.

The caterer pulled a paper towel from a stray roll sitting damp and crusted on the countertop and handed it to me. I pulled back from the sink and took it, gently patting my hands so they wouldn’t get irritated and bleed from the hot water on my dry skin.

“You okay?” the bartender asked.

I nodded.

Neither of them seemed satisfied with that answer. They continued to look at me through the mirror. Did they think I was floundering? Having second thoughts? Cold feet before the wedding planning even started?

I stood up straight and let out a deep breath. Then I turned off my sink, then the other two, until the room was so quiet you could hear the heartbeat of the party happening two floors up.

“Everything’s going fine,” I said. I looked at the two of them, feeling more at home with the help than my guests. They stared, more unconvinced by the minute. “We’re good,” I repeated. “It’s all good.”

I tossed the paper towel into the bin and walked out.

NINETEEN

The sun rises on the other side of Walker Mountain, painting the sky a deep orange and shadowing me in tall black trees. I look out on the western view—the lake, the water-colored leaves, the layers of blue mountains reflecting the orange, getting lighter and lighter until they recede into the background and fade into the sky, disappearing altogether.