5. Liam
5
LIAM
E ven when things are looking up for me, I still act like an arsehole.
I mean, for Christ’s sake, this beautiful bombshell of a woman is helping me out by letting me stay with her, and what do I do?
I tell her to fuck off.
When I first saw her in the middle of the night, I thought I must be dreaming. I dragged myself to the kitchen half-asleep, only to find a gorgeous woman standing there in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties. The soft whites of her thighs sticking out from the hem of her shirt, her sleepy brown eyes drooping in the low light, her messy blonde hair cutting off to reveal the nape of her neck…
It wasn’t just a dream: it was a wet dream.
Then she opened her mouth and all that flew right out the window. At first, I thought she seemed like a ray of sunshine, but her words struck me like lightning.
“I don’t know what your last roommate dealt with.”
My fist clenches involuntarily at the anger her words stir up within me. I know she didn’t mean anything by them. It’s not like she’d have any way of knowing how that exact phrase would hit me in my most vulnerable spot.
My weakest point.
The thing is… she’s right. Luke did have to deal with my crap when we lived together. He was always the one cleaning up after me, picking up after my shit both literally and metaphorically.
At least I have the rest of the night to think about what a dick I was. It’s early evening on a Sunday, so the bar is pretty quiet, with Darius and me behind the bar. We’ve only been working together for a short time, but he’s easy to talk to, and he always knows how to get me laughing, even when I’m in a mood. Which is quite often.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks from beside me. “You’re grumbling like someone pissed in your cereal.”
“I’m not,” I protest weakly, but he just clicks his tongue and turns away from me, shaking his head. “It’s my flatmate. We got into a row,” I admit.
“Can you talk normal? Like, what the fuck are you saying?”
Darius has a running joke that he can’t understand me because of my accent. Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure how much he’s actually joking.
I chuckle at that. “My roommate and I got into an argument.”
“What did you do?”
“Why do you assume I did something?” I shoot back, and he just raises his eyebrows at me as if to say seriously?
“I was kind of a dick to her. She didn’t really deserve it, to be fair. She just hit a nerve.”
Darius shrugs. “Just apologize. Bring her flowers or some shit.”
“Amazing advice, Darius. You should be a therapist.” I wipe down a glass and replace it on the rack. He grumbles in response. “Nah, you’re right. I’ll apologize. Flowers I didn’t think of. Could be a nice touch,” I say. “Maybe she’ll get over it by the time I get home.”
“Yeah, cause chicks just love to get over things.”
I roll my eyes at Darius. “I swear, you’re more of a prick than I am sometimes.”
“Proud of it, too.”
“How’s your brother?” I ask him. Darius’ younger brother, Jackson, is a super smart kid, but lately he’s been skipping school. Apparently, Jackson wanted to go to college, but his dad told him he should just get his GED and work at the sanitation department with him. Darius has tried to convince him to finish his classes and apply for a few programs, but he’s been hard to get through to.
“He’s alright,” Darius replies. “But he still doesn’t listen to me. Just thinks I’m his dumb big brother. Maybe…”
“What?” I pry.
“Maybe you could try to talk to him? You went to college, right?”
“Yeah, I did,” I reply, trying not to think about Luke. Hating that every memory of my schooling is tainted by his absence.
“He won’t listen to me, but maybe he’d listen to you. If I bring him round next shift, can you try and talk to him?”
“Sure thing,” I tell Darius, but my mind is still elsewhere.
Why can’t I seem to shake off my stupid row with Whitney? It’s not even that big of a deal. I’ll do what Darius suggested — buy the girl some flowers and call it a day. Like I told her, we aren’t friends, we’re roommates, and that’ll be that. Maybe it’s because I’ve got nothing else to think about. My life is so empty these days, my little spat with my roommate is the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in weeks. Well, I guess getting the room in the first place was a nice change of pace from slumming it in student housing, being taunted by the thoughts of what could have been. I swear if I had to spend another minute seeing folks cramming for exams like their lives depended on it, I was gonna lose my head.
Worse than that were hearing the bloody parties. Remembering all the late nights Luke and I had together, crashing frat ragers and drinking their beer until we stumbled to some bar in the Village, trying to find girls to talk to. More often than not, Luke would be the charmer and I’d strike out, leaving me to stumble back to our place while he stayed the night with his new friend. It’s not that I can’t get women, but whenever I stood next to Luke, it was obvious which of us was the better man.
He’d always been better than me, and this argument with Whitney just proves that.
On my way home from the bar, I pick up a bouquet of flowers from the bodega and bring them back to the apartment. As I ascend the stairs to my new place, I brainstorm what my apology note should say.
Thanks for letting me stay with you. Apologies.
I got you these flowers. Sorry I was a dick.
Sorry I told you to fuck off. Here’s some roses.
Shaking my head, I turn the key in the lock, thankful that she didn’t change them in my absence. I half-expected to come home and find myself homeless, but nothing in the apartment has changed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I slip it out, my dad’s name flashing across the screen. I’ve been dodging his calls for a bit, so I figure I should answer.
I pick up. “Hey.”
“Liam! How you doin’?”
“I’m good, Dad, thanks. How are you?”
“Fine, fine. Listen, Stacy’s got a work trip coming up in a couple of months, so I thought I’d head up to the city to come see you. See what you’re cooking up in that lab of yours!”
Shit.
Oh, sorry Dad, did I forget to mention that I’ve dropped out of grad school and I’m now a bartender at a shitty dive? It’s not the type of announcement one generally wants to make over the phone — or at all, for that matter.
“Oh, cool,” I say, hoping my voice sounds neutral. “When are you thinking?”
“First weekend of November.”
“Won’t I see you at Christmas?” I try, hoping I can put our reunion off a little longer.
“You don’t want to go to Brighton to see your mum for the holidays? You know she’s been dying to have you over there, and she loves Christmas.”
Ever since my parents split when I was fifteen, I’ve been the pawn between them. The annoying thing is they are both so bloody nice about it, insisting the other one should have more time with me. I’m half-convinced neither of them wants to be stuck with me. They’re on good terms now, but there was a bit of a bad patch when I didn’t speak to my mum for a few years. There was a lot I didn’t understand; I thought she’d cheated on my dad, but really they’d already been separated for a while and hadn’t told me about it. Then, I didn’t get why she wouldn’t move to America with us to make it work, why she would let her whole family disappear across the ocean just to date some bloke she hardly knew. Now she’s been married to that bloke for ten years. Dad met Stacy when we moved to Philadelphia, and they’ve been together ever since.
“I dunno if I wanna go all the way home, Dad. It’s a lot.”
“I know you’ve got your feelings about Simon, but you really ought to get to know him more. He’s a great guy, and he really loves your mum.”
“I know that,” I grumble. I hate that any mention of Simon causes me to regress into an angsty teenager with step-daddy issues. It’s pathetic. “It’s not about him.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I sigh. “There’s no problem.”
“Great! Then I’ll see you in November, and I’ll let your mum know you’ll come for the holidays.”
“Lovely,” I mutter sarcastically. This is why I’ve been avoiding his calls. He’s got a way of roping me into whatever he’s got planned.
“Any hotel recommendations close to your dorms? I don’t want to have to take a cab everywhere.”
“Nobody takes cabs anymore, and I moved.”
“You moved out of the dorms?”
Shit. How do I explain this without telling him that I’ve dropped out?
“Yeah, um. Just felt like it was time to be a bit more independent, you know? Plus, there were bad memories and all…”
“Right. Right.”
It’s quiet for a moment.
“Well, what’s the new place like?”
I glance around and take in my spacious room. “It’s great. It’s a two-bed in Bushwick. It’s really nice, actually.”
“That’s awesome. I can’t wait to see it. You got a pull-out couch?”
“I think it’s a futon? It’s my flatmate’s.”
“Even better. You know how much a hotel room costs these days? It’s insane. Inflation is out of control.”
I don’t bother to answer. He’s mostly talking to himself, and I don’t feel like complaining about the price of eggs. (Although, seven dollars? What a fucking joke.)
“Well, as long as your flatmate doesn’t mind, I’d love to crash! We’ll be boys on the town. Boys in the house!”
I suppress the eye roll that threatens to burst through me. He really is the lamest guy I know.
“I’ll ask her,” I tell him.
“Oh, a lady flatmate? How progressive.”
“Yes, Dad, men and women can live together, you know.”
“I know. I watch reality TV. Stacy likes the live-in ones. Like Love Island. You should try that, by the way.”
“Alright, Dad, I gotta go.”
I don’t, but once he gets going about Love Island, he never shuts up.
“Listen, son, before you hang up. I just want to say… or ask, really… how you holding up? You know, if you ever want to talk about Luke and what happened, I’m here for you.”
My spine turns to steel at the softness of his words. The pity in his voice seems to shatter through me. I blink into the empty room, my stomach churning uncomfortably.
“I’ve really gotta go, Dad.”
“Liam—”
“Bye,” I manage before hanging up.
Great. Now I have to figure out how to tell my dad I’m a disappointment with no future and how to ask my new roomie if my 50-year-old father can move in with us for a weekend. I’ll save that for another time. November is months away.
I find a vase in the top cabinet and put the flowers out on the dining room table, scribbling a small note:
Whitney,
Really sorry about the other morning. You caught me on a bad day, and you didn’t deserve my attitude. Hope you like roses.
It’s not great, but at least it’s earnest.
Let’s hope she doesn’t burn them.