Page 88 of A Series of Rooms
In the back kitchen, Jonah removed his apron and hung it on the door. He grabbed onto the counter as the adrenaline caught up to him, using it to keep himself upright. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths until they began to level out. Then, he stood up straight and combed throughhis hair with his fingers. He went over to the sink and splashed some cold water onto his face, and he slid on his jacket before stepping out into the cold.
He had an art show to get to.
The wind coming in off the Hudson chapped Jonah’s lips as he turned the corner. The address was a brick building, clearly repurposed from a time when the neighborhood still clung to its industrial roots. Light from the windows spilled out onto the sidewalk, illuminating a cluster of students gathered outside, smoking. Among them, he caught a flash of red hair.
He spotted Liam before Liam spotted him, and Jonah allowed himself a few precious moments to admire him in his element.
The cold had turned the tips of his ears and nose bright pink, and he was laughing at something his friend said. In the half-light cast across his face, he looked radiant with joy, and the sight was enough to dampen everything that had come before this moment to background noise.
When Liam finally saw him, he passed the cigarette sheepishly and stepped out of the circle to meet him halfway.
“It was only a couple of drags, I swear,” he blurted in lieu of a greeting. “Give me a break, I’m shitting myself here.”
Smoking had been a habit Liam picked up—and mostly dropped—in his first semester of art school. He only ever reverted back to it when his nerves were higher than usual.Of all occasions, his very first art show seemed worthy of a pass.
“People are going to love it,” Jonah promised.
“You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“And I’ve been very patient,” Jonah teased, then leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Happy birthday,” he whispered, close to Liam’s ear.
Liam caught his hand and reined him back in for a proper kiss. His lips were cold and tasted faintly of cigarette smoke and chapstick.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Liam said. When he pulled back, he studied Jonah’s expression. “Is everything okay?” he asked, running a thumb under Jonah’s eye where the skin was still blotched pink. He’d hoped the cold would have covered for him. “How was your shift?”
That was a conversation better suited for another time, another place. Not on the sidewalk outside of one of the biggest events of Liam’s life. Jonah could use some time to process it on his own first, anyway.
Tonight, Dominic Harris had no place in his life.
“I’m good,” Jonah replied honestly.
“You’re sure?”
“I am. Now, no more about me. I’m here to see some art.”
A slow smile warmed Liam’s face, but when Jonah took a step toward the door, he stopped him with a soft touch.
“Wait,” Liam said. “I just want to say... if you hate it, it’s fine. If it’s too much, if it’s... you know?You can leave. I’ll set them on fire or throw them in the Hudson. Whatever you want.”
Jonah had to fight to keep the smile off his face. Some things never changed, and his boyfriend’s propensity to ramble when nervous was one of them.
Liam had told him about the project eight months prior, said that it was something that had been simmering on the backburner since a few weeks after they’d first met. And while Liam had kept the paintings themselves under lock and key, he had taken care to get Jonah’s explicit consent on the subject matter long before it ever reached the concept of a public showing.
It was sweet that he worried about him, even now, but Jonah knew there was nothing to worry about. Not with Liam.
Jonah grabbed his hand, slipping his fingers between Liam’s. “I want to see it,” he said.
Liam’s face cycled through several emotions before landing on something resolute. He squeezed Jonah’s hand in return, then tugged him forward.
As soon as they cleared the doorway, parting the small gathering of patrons sipping complimentary champagne, Jonah’s feet stilled beneath him.
All around them, propped on wooden easels and hung from aged brick walls, was a collection of painted rooms captured on canvas.
Not just rooms. Hotel rooms, specifically, defined by the matching sets of beds, always with a wired telephone and table lamp between them.
The rooms were painted in vivid realism, but in each one of them were the cartoonish outlines of two figures in a myriad of positions: sitting on opposite beds, perched in the window, lying on the floor. In each of them, the figures seemed to glow, brilliant and stark against the muted backdrops. The brightest things in the room.
In one of the paintings, there was an empty champagne bottle on the nightstand. In another, a spread of textbooks and paper across the bed. In each successive painting, the two outlines drew closer and closer in proximity, until the last one, where their figures tangled together into one unending, messy line on the bed.
