Page 1 of A Series of Rooms
CHAPTER 1
Liam
Liam was only halfway through his first legal drink when his friends abandoned him.
If he were the kind of person with a backbone and a shred of self-respect, he might have left the bar after that. Better yet, he might have tracked Ben and Nathan down and confronted them, unleashing a decade’s worth of grievances with a drink to their faces. He might have left the bar on his own, caught the L to the last commuter train of the night, and left them behind for good.
But he was the person that he was, so instead, he shouldered his way through the crowd and planted his back against the first open patch of wall he could find.
It was Liam’s twenty-first birthday, and he wanted nothing more than to go home.
The exposed brick was sticky in a way that made his skin cling where it touched, but it was better than being surrounded by a sea of sweaty bodies on all sides. The deafening pulse of music he couldn’t escape was bad enough, vibrating through the floor, up his legs, into his bones. He considered retreating to the back patio for a break in thenoise, but a quick assessment of the distance between points A and B, and the massive wall of people in between, held him in place. He felt briefly, absurdly, like a castaway on an abandoned island, stranded in place until help came.
The sharp prickling sensation in his palms was the first tell-tale sign of impending panic. Liam pulled in a deep breath, but the air was thick with booze and sweat and it did nothing to ground him. The drink in his hand was not the comfort he’d hoped it would be, either: an overpour of vodka, with the barest essence of cranberry, that burned going down. Still, he forced himself to drink like he knew what he was doing, and he did feel a bit warmer with every sip. That was probably a good sign. He wouldn’t know. It was something he might have asked Ben and Nathan about, if they had bothered staying in his line of sight.
He only got in a few more sips before a stray elbow knocked the icy shock of liquid down his front. No apology, no offer to replace the spilled drink, no acknowledgement at all from the cluster of sequin shirts that pushed past him as if he didn’t exist. For a moment, he was too stunned to react, just frozen in place with his white shirt—because, sure, of course he had worn white tonight—plastered to his stomach.
His buzz wasn’t strong enough to dull the indignity of walking to the bathroom covered in cranberry juice and vodka, so he kept his eyes down as he fought through the crowd and hoped his apparent invisibility would hold up just a little longer.
The bathroom walls were more sharpie and faded stickers than paint, and the room was lit by a singular bare bulb. The urinal looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since its installation, and the smell supported that theory. One of the three stalls was missing a door. It was becoming more apparent by the minute that Liam was not compatible with bar life.
He stood in front of the mirror, studying the stain on his shirt through the cracks and grime.Happy birthday,he thought.
The drink covered too much of his shirt for him to accomplish much by leaning over the sink. Mostly, this just resulted in sending rivulets of water dripping into the waistband of his jeans. Liam shut off the water. The only thing that could make this night even more pathetic would be crying in the bathroom about it, so he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Okay.Okay. This was salvageable. With a sideways glance at the door, he reached behind him to pull the shirt over his head.
When the wet material slipped past his eyes, Liam let out an embarrassing yelp. A man had come out of the half-shut stall and was now standing behind him in his reflection, looking equally startled. Whether by Liam’s presence or his reaction, he wasn’t sure.
“Sorry,” Liam apologized, despite the fact that he had done nothing other than take up space in a public restroom.
The man, who looked to be about Liam’s age, said nothing. He quickly recovered and stepped up beside him at the trough-style sink.
“I thought I was alone,” Liam said, because he was suddenly hyper aware of his semi-nudity and felt the need to explain. “I just need to clean this. I... spilled my drink.”
More silence.
Okay, then.
Liam flipped on the faucet and began to scrub cold water into the stain.
When he glanced up at the mirror, he saw, now at closer range, that the man next to him was crying. Or, at least, he had been recently.
Liam knew he was staring but couldn’t make himself look away before he was caught. Reddened eyes caught his own for half a second, then they both looked down again. Liam worked faster, desperate to extricate himself from an awkward encounter of his own making. Beside him, the stranger was splashing cold water on his face, no doubt trying to reduce the swelling around his eyes.
When the water shut off, the space between them felt too quiet, despite the muffled bass coming through the door. Liam stole another glance at him in the mirror.
“Are you okay?” he decided to ask.
The man, who was now gripping the edge of the sink, stared dead-eyed into the basin. He didn’t so much as glance in Liam’s direction.
Liam looked away and wrung out his shirt. It was only slightly pink-tinted now, which was probably the best he was going to get. Maybe the dark lighting would work in his favor, and no one would notice. Resigned, he stepped away from the sink and over to the air dryer. He pushed the large silver button and... nothing.
You’ve got to be joking.
He pushed it again.
Not even a sputtering attempt at a startup.
