The Cheat Sheet

“Is she okay?” I’m already pushing my way in.

The woman follows closely behind me toward the closed stall. “Yeah…if you consider incredibly drunk okay. She was talking my ear off while trying to get that beer stain out of her shirt, and then all of a sudden she went white as a sheet and fled to the stall.”

My heart tugs. Bree can’t handle her liquor. I should have made sure she eased up earlier. I force-fed her a plate of fries (I say force because her attention span is the size of a gnat when she’s drunk and I had to continuously remind her to take bites), but I’m not sure it was enough to soak up everything she drank tonight.

I get to the closed stall and rap my knuckle against the door twice. “Bree? You okay? Can I come in?”

“NATHAN?! Hiiiii.” Her voice is breathy but happy. At least I know she’s not passed out in there or throwing up.

“Yeah, it’s me. Can I open the door?”

I’m aware of the woman still hovering behind me. I want to ask her to go away. She doesn’t need to be witnessing this, but that’s the thing about fans—they don’t believe in giving celebrities privacy. They seem to be under the impression that we “signed up for this” and our private lives should be an open, all-you-can-eat entertainment buffet. But Bree didn’t “sign up” for this and I know she doesn’t want anything to do with the spotlight, so I’m very protective of her in public situations. I’ll be her bodyguard any day.

“Sure, QB! Mi casa is su casa.” Bree is the friendliest drunk you’ll ever meet. If at all possible, she gets more adorable with every shot she takes. I have to be careful with her, though, because one time she literally tried to give the keys of her apartment to a man experiencing homelessness and told him he should have it instead of her. She’s generous to a fault—which is ironic considering that’s what she says about me.

“Can you slide the lock open?” I ask her softly.

“OH!” She chuckles loudly, and I glance over my shoulder again. Brunette is still there, smiling tensely with a wicked gleam in her eyes that I don’t trust. I adjust my body, trying to form a privacy wall with my back.

“Oops. That’s the flusher. Hey Nathhaannn…where do I find the lockey thing? It’s too dark to see anything in here.” Oh geez. She’s so far gone.

“Open your eyes, Bree.” I tap the door. “The lock is over here.”

She gasps loudly—probably when she realizes her eyes were shut. “You’re right! There it is! Oh wow, that’s a spinny room.” I hear the click of the lock and get ready to open the door then remember the woman behind me again.

I look back at her with what I’m hoping looks like a soft smile. I have to be very careful when dealing with anyone in public not to do anything that could be misconstrued as aggressive or angry—basically anything that could go viral on Twitter and reflect badly on my career. Gossip is one thing, but a story about me yelling at a fan is another.

“Sorry, do you mind?” I ask, hoping she can read between the lines that I’m politely asking her to get lost.

She smiles wider and shakes her head. “No, not at all. Go right ahead.”

Not what I meant.

It’s fine. I’ll just need to scoop Bree up and get her home. Well, to my home. No way am I sending her to her place like this. I don’t trust her not to get up and go for a city adventure in the middle of the night.

I open the door of the stall to find Bree sitting on the toilet—thankfully with her pants on or she would be mortified tomorrow—slumped over against the stall wall. Her knees are pressed together but her feet are wide, arms dangling at her sides, a line of colorful woven bracelets drooping down her wrists. She looks like a kid who tried to stay up too late and couldn’t handle the heat. The giant wet stain slashed across the front of her shirt adds to the effect. She’s so cute, even like this. I wish I could lean forward and kiss her. Just a quick peck to let out a little of how I feel about her. It’s been bottled up for so long it physically hurts, but I don’t have permission to be that man in her life.

I squat down in front of her, taking one of her hands. “Hi pretty friend, how are you feeling?”

She smiles with her eyes closed again. “SO good. And my new friend Cheryl is reallllllly nice. Did you meet her?”

I look back at the woman, and she gives a wry smile. “It’s Kara actually.”

I turn back to Bree. “Yeah, I did. Kara told me to check on you.”

“Good.” Her eyes fly open. “And don’t worry. She was really concerned about your problem”—her eyes widen and sink down to the vicinity of my crotch then shift back up to my eyes—“but I set her straight and told her not to believe that lying, shaming witch.” She tries to bop me on the nose but taps my cheekbone instead. “Erfffectyle dips—” She pauses and frowns. “Dips—” She tries to get the word out two more times then gives up. “Your ding-a-ling is nobody’s concern!”

Okayyyy, yep, time to go.

“Well, my ding-a-ling and I thank you for that. What do you say we go home now?”

She pouts. “Whaaatttt. But it’s a party!” Her eyes belong to a puppy, and the side of her face is plastered to the stall wall. It’s going to leave a textured print behind.

“I think the guys are all partied out. It’s time for some sleep because we have practice in the morning.” I stand up and extend my hand to Bree. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She takes my hand and stands, swaying dramatically as she goes vertical, and then promptly sits back down. “Ashhhhually, I’ll stay here. It’s too twisty up there,” she says while swatting a lazy hand through the air.

“Come on, you got this.” I bend down and help her up, wrapping her arm around my waist and making her lean into me. I’d just carry her out, but I have a feeling that would make a scene and end up on the cover of every gossip site tomorrow. So instead, I try to hold her up while we clumsily exit.