The bad news: the burble of an overflowing toilet a few stalls down made it difficult to sustain a single romantic thought.

The good news: I wanted to think about something other than where, when, and how Logan would propose. I couldn't give him the enthusiastic, "Yes! Oh, God, yes!" he expected.

At least, not in that regard.

Feeling a migraine coming on, I pinched the bridge of my nose.

I wanted to be out jogging with the track team along the Charles River Esplanade. I wanted mowed parks in crisp August sunshine, the fatty-sweet sizzle of pan-seared filet mignon on the balcony tables at Dad's steakhouse. I wanted that last inhale of summer bliss before the fall chill funneled through Boston's wind tunnels and I buried my face in scarves. Instead, my nose wrinkled in dismay as the bathroom's watery stench drew strength from poor ventilation and moist humidity.

"Becky," I murmured in sweltering desperation. Unable to wait for a cab home, she'd dragged me into the bowels of our university's public library for her fourth pregnancy scare in half a year.

"I need to know," she hissed. "If we leave now, I won't tell you the date."

"Yours or mine?" I snapped, then at her abrupt silence apologized. "Maybe I like surprises."

"Then you wouldn't have stopped at CVS."

I slouched in the stall's tiled corner. "You owe me for that, by the way."

Becky was the sort of feisty, redheaded stepchild of a guardian angel who'd nicked a bottle of the good wine, christened herself #blessed, then sauntered down from on high with a smile capable of knotting even a serpent's tongue. A little wickedness was good for the soul, she'd purr, and bleach (plus or minus a thumping round of antibiotics) generally took care of the rest.

Dewy condensation seeped through my tank top. What I wouldn't give for bleach right now.

Two weeks into the semester, on one of summer's last gorgeous afternoons, and I stood cramped inside a bathroom stall shared by a college roommate so nervous it'd taken her twenty minutes to pee. Then she'd dropped the tester in the toilet, panic-flushed, and here we waited, because she was convinced she could squeeze out a few more drops. 

Being a bio major, I'd suffered through the sloshing sample cups of urinalysis. Hated that marginally more than I hated standing near Becky like she was my mom's Pomeranian, Ellebelle. Just like the perky pup, Becky seemed perfectly content to accomplish anything but the business she was so desperate to do twenty minutes ago.

From her perch on the toilet seat Becky's fingers drummed my calf. "Hey, it's gross, but mark my words, the morning after your bachelorette party I'll be holding your hair. Consider us even."

My hand felt clammier than the wall as I swatted hers away. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The last dream wedding I planned was my Barbie's."

I had more money in my old piggybank than my current bank account. Apartment fees, textbooks, and looming student loans had minimized my monthly grocery budget, let alone wedding plans. Logan's family made and lost more money in a month's worth of stock trading than my parents made in an entire year, but the thought of them paying, knowing Mom would contribute more insults than dollars and on my own I could afford a nice second-hand dress, left me feeling as though I'd owe them, or worse: they'd pity me.

"Logan's proposing," Becky sang. The girl on the porcelain throne sat drenched in a nervous sweat. The first test, the one lodged in the pipes three doors down, had been positive. Behind a glistening sheen, her hazel eyes were serious. "You're gonna have to answer him."

"Look," I continued, "I'm pretty sure your bladder will survive the ride to the apartment. I could use fresh air."

If the wind blew just right, the back bedroom would be filled with the subtle sweetness of the Kelleher Rose Garden. Roses, came the unwanted thought. There were roses when I'd walked with Josh that sunny afternoon, pink blossoms spilling through greyed posts in the sand. He'd  pushed one against my sunbleached hair. A stray thorn cut my ear, a little nick I'd itched and scratched and reopened until it'd become the tiny ridge of a scar I caught myself anxiously rubbing today.

Would Logan have roses when he proposed?

A telltale tinkle interrupted my thoughts.

I unpocketed my cell and set a timer.

My bridesmaid-to-be thrust the pregnancy test forward with hands so white her milky complexion seemed tan.

"Two minutes," she said.

I pressed into the tile, nudged her skinny wrist away. "Nope."

"Please, Al. I don't have the bladder capacity for a third attempt."

And I didn't have the patience. My shoulders tightened. I mustered a grumpy, "Coach is gonna yell when he hears I skipped."

"A track team running five miles without their captain? Hope no one's shoelace comes untied."

"It's called being responsible. You need to—"

"Stop doing this, be more careful, use protection, yada, yada. Got it." Becky brushed side-swept bangs off her face. All the better for me to glimpse her exaggerated eye roll. "Just take it, okay?"

Support was a crucial component of friendship. Even in antiquated, noxious bathrooms. Coach would blow a gasket, but Coach only had me  two seasons, tops. Fifty years from now, Becky and I would be a couple of crotchety old ladies, rocking on a porch comparing grandchildren like beloved show dogs.

Exhaling my frustration, I squeezed around and unlocked the stall. "Let me grab a paper towel."

"You rock."

"This isn't over."

"Okay, Mom."

I stepped over our stacked backpacks. "I'm serious. People talk. They say you're . . . " Another toilet flushed. The far stall swung open, releasing a pudgy woman with jowls fit for a bulldog. Our eyes locked in the mirror above the sinks. Recognition kicked in.

"Miss Stevens," rumbled the not-so-gentle giant ambling to the sink.

—"They say I'm what?"—

I ignored Becky to greet Mom's former colleague (currently my human anatomy professor) with a sheepish smile. "Professor Warren."

Becky snorted. "Moody Dick, really?"

The professor's hand coiled tight around the soap dispenser.

"It's Moby," I whispered in sullen resignation.

In the mirror above the sink, Becky's reflection grinned over my left shoulder. "Still a dick."

My tongue shriveled. Embarrassment tinted my cheeks. Hissing at Becky to shut her trap, I trotted beside Pentworth's infamous GPA annihilator, academia's kraken, destroyer of dean's list dreams. Her dark eyes glittered with unapologetic impatience toward childish antics and 'Woe is me, I got a B' whiners. After spotting her name on a course syllabus I'd stupidly left on my desk, my eagle-eyed mother convinced Cinthia Warren to write one of my grad school recommendations come semester's end.

Becky, the girl who had attended my parents' thank-you dinner for Cinthia, the girl whom my father had charmingly labeled as a fellow pea in our pod, was trying and failing miserably to strangle her giggling through the now-closed stall door.

Attempting to steer my ship from rocky doom, I cleared my throat. "Sorry. My roommate's sick and I—" Was air-soaping my hands with the fervor of Lady Macbeth. Smooth. I tried again. "Today's muscle lecture reminded me of a question I had about myofibrils."

"I expected better from the child of Denise Stevens."

"I'm really sorry," I muttered in the steady wake of her silence, snatching paper towels, no, the last paper towel. I passed her it with a pleading smile. "Don't tell my mom?"

Her scowl clouded an already filthy mirror. "Office hours next Wednesday. We will discuss your behavior then."

Almost a week. Plenty of time to come up with a bribe. Dad's snickerdoodles, maybe. Warm cinnamon and sugar sweetened any apology. Failing that, Mom would kill me; once for the insult she'd inevitably hear about, twice for losing a valuable recommendation.

"Thanks," I said.

"You're whale-come." Frown compounded by jagged mirror streaks, Professor Warren washed her hands of another round of frantic apologies and left.

Toilet paper from the next stall bunched in hand, I cursed out the troublemaker. Almost on cue, Becky whipped the door open. Dull plastic slapped my knee. I fell over our backpacks and scrambled off the dirty tile. 

"What the hell?" I barked, massaging my kneecap. "Physical therapy just ended."

"You're fine."

"This time."

Ligaments and tendons unknown to me before the accident often tugged outside the smooth flexion of my knee. My former psychologist insisted that at this point I was projecting anxiety into phantom pulls. As Becky so lovingly (and often) reminded me, after the second surgery I'd grown neurotic whenever opportunity arose for knee-level blows. She didn't understand the way paranoia seeps like a toxin underneath your skin after working so hard to get back to form only to have victory snatched forty yards into your career-defining comeback. My future wiped out with the hard crack of a hurdle on asphalt.

Freak accident, doctors had declared. Justice, Josh would've called it. Disappointing, my mother always whispered when she knew I was listening.

If it weren't for people like my coach, who saw potential where everyone saw something broken, I might never have gotten the chance to compete on a collegiate level. My knee was weak, he'd told me,  but I didn't have to be.

"Anyway," Becky continued. "Sick, really?"

"It's called being discreet."

Dressed in tweed jodhpurs and a tight varsity polo, Becky seemed an indignant suburban princess, tossing a scarlet braid over one shoulder and fixing me with the disdainful lift of a topaz eyebrow gauge. She pried open my hand and deposited the tester into folds of recycled paper.

"We're twenty. You're allowed to be honest."

"People call you a whore," I mouthed, more concerned about gossip than my alley cat friend, who considered her Saturday nights successful when the entire apartment complex overheard her weekend yowling.

"Enjoying your body doesn't make you a whore."

"I'm trying to protect your image."

"You wanna talk image? My mom's got more crack than a plumber's ass. When I wanna see her, have a little mother-daughter luncheon or whatever, I check the street corners first. Meanwhile, no thanks to her, here I am, first in my family to go to college, set to graduate with honors, prepping for life as a biological anthropologist. "

"Most people read headlines and figure they've heard the news. 'Whore' isn't a good headline, Becky." I heard my mother in my tone and told myself this was different.

"People don't know me."

"Won't stop 'em from forming an opinion."

"Opinions and assholes, Al."

 "So what's this guy like?" I asked, delaying the timer through one more question.

The Cheshire Cat couldn't have crammed more mischief into its grin. "Australians, man, they're my catnip."

The alarm chimed. Becky's eyebrows rose so high the topaz piercing jumped toward her hairline. Worry darkened her eyes. Head shaking, she backed into the sink. I reset the timer another three minutes. With a jittery sigh she elbowed on a crusted faucet. "So, what's the scoop on this supposedly fantastic anniversary present you bought Logan?"

My mood lightened. "Ordered an ancestry kit. Cost me dinner from now to winter break, so here's hoping he loves it."

"You ask him first?" 

I shook my head. 

"Bad idea, Al. Something that personal, you gotta ask. I'd stick with my original suggestion."

"How is sex less personal?"

"Sex comes and goes. Genetics, that's all you, kitten, from cradle to grave."

"That's not morbid at all."

She flashed her feline smile. "You're welcome."

"Anyway," I continued, "it's an ancestry kit, not a diagnosis. It'll list a few risk factors, some countries of origin, access to potential ancestry records if he's curious. A bit more creative than sex, don't you think?"

"Creative is a scrapbook. Logan wants excitement." Water flicked from her checkered fingernails dappled my neck, refreshing against a warming blush as the conversation shifted to the one I'd been deflecting. "Yeah, you know what I mean, Princess Celibate. Ditch your unicorn and mount a real stallion."

I groaned.

Grinning slyly, Becky twirled her braid around her fingers. "Have you seen that satin bow lingerie on the billboard for Coming Attractions? Now there's a present guaranteed to knock more than his socks off."

"Kit shipped Tuesday."

She stared hard at my rosy reflection. "Know what? Why don't we drop by Coming Attractions this weekend, look for something cute for your eventual big night. There's nothing wrong with looking, Al, otherwise I'd be one boiled lobster."

"That's a different kind of looking."

"Logan's a different kind of man. He's not some loser second string quarterback with zero respect for women. You'll be queen of his castle some day."

"If Josh was a loser quarterback, we wouldn't have made the evening news," I reminded her. "Besides, I haven't ruled lingerie out."

Skepticism lifted her eyebrow. "Really?"

"Bought a box of condoms today. Eventually I'll need something prettier than a sports bra."

"Good for you, girl! You're his future, not some dumb ancestry kit. Sorry."

Becky respected my decisions but pushed for conversation. No one ever pushed, not even Logan. When the topic came up, the gloves came on as if I were glass. Becky treated me like copper in need of a good polish. Her idea of conquering fear was diving in. Mine was more dip a toe, then ease your feet into the ocean-swept sand and slowly wade into the waves.

I wrung my worries into the toilet paper and almost snapped the tester in the process.

"You're overdue for change, Al. Give the past the middle finger. I'm sure Logan's going crazy, thinking about how he touches you and all you feel is Josh." She fixed me with a somber smile, one that dimmed as she studied a stork sticker on a  distant  changing table. "Just use protection, before two years of bottled passion runs away with your ovaries."

Vivaldi's Autumn startled Becky into the here and now. As I thumbed off the alarm, a girl pushed through the bathroom entrance. Becky swore. The library was busier than we'd thought.

Early in the semester, Thursday afternoons were a great time to visit the Watson Athenaeum, Pentworth University's main library. The computers always had open spots and there wasn't a line at the printer. Apart from a few ambitious underclassmen writing papers and getting tutored, by four o'clock most students had grown sick of learning. They'd leave, scarf down an inadequate dinner, then head to their rooms for a little liquid pregame.

One of the mousy holdouts scurried between us.

I slung my bag over a shoulder and gestured for Becky to do the same. We hovered by the sinks, waiting for the girl to leave. 

"When did this happen?" I whispered. "No offense, but the last guy you brought back was too doughy to be anyone's stud muffin. And he certainly didn't sound Australian."

"Oh, Peter?" she said, frowning. "No, not him."

"Pretty sure Peter was the last one I met? You left Stir-fry out, but I didn't notice him putzing around on the counter until after I found Peter naked on my couch eating a kitkat."

Stir-fry, our code word for sex in public conversation (for as long as Becky could contain herself anyway), was our purloined turtle. He spent his days navigating a pond-styled terrarium beside the sofa. Whenever one of us wanted privacy we'd transfer him to his designated cleaning tank on the counter. The one who'd placed him there agreed to a week's worth of food and tank duty in exchange for the inconvenience. Our rules favored the sexually inactive, aka me, but from time to time I'd used Stir-fry as a plea for solitude, or for Becky to forgive my frantic cleaning spree when my parents planned a visit lest my roommate's dirty laundry be mistaken for mine.

Becky rolled her eyes. "I put a blanket down."

"My blanket."

"Yeah, well, I washed it. No harm, no foul."

"When I close my eyes, I can still see fingerprints of melted chocolate trailing down onto his..."

"Impressive, wasn't it?"

"Disgusting."

Becky waved me off. "That was a week ago. This bout of toilet trouble is a result of some old Chinese food, like, five weeks old."

"You should've known better than to eat it."

"I was hungry, and it was so hot, Al, oh my God." Her smile strained to dimple. "Darcy was the highlight of the summer jump tournament in Providence. That man is a homerun in the bottom of the ninth."

The mousy holdout, newly minted student ID lanyard bouncing against her chest, trotted to the sink. After the freshman scurried away, Becky collapsed against the nearest toilet.

"Oh God, here we go." Her chest heaved. One shaking hand gripped her stomach. "Please be shrimp, expired shrimp, please."

For her sake, I wished for food poisoning. The test felt heavy in my hands, heavier, knowing what she felt and what the first result had been.

"What if it isn't?" I asked.

Wide hazel eyes focused on the yellowed bowl. "I can't afford a baby, Al; I barely make rent."

Over the sound of her whispered prayers, I peeled back the paper in search of a solitary blue line.