Passion Project

Chapter One

I’ve been betrayed by pasta carbonara.

I sit back on my heels, trying not to tip over and smack my head on the bathroom wall or, worse, the rim of the green ceramic toilet in front of me. Dean Martin’s voice wafts through the speakers, an embarrassing reminder of where I am—the bathroom of a fast-casual Italian restaurant on the Lower East Side. And I just puked my guts out in their toilet like a frat boy. I wipe my chin and press the flush tab, wincing at the seasick feeling of the room rocking back and forth.

I lied before. It’s not really the pasta’s fault. It was the wine. It was the two and a half bottles of Chianti I slurped back like one of the Real Housewives. Who on earth told me I could afford that? One single glance at my bank account would make me vomit again, I’m sure.

I squeeze my eyes closed and cradle my head in my hands. It’s like my stomach knew to expel any evidence of tonight’s disaster from my body.

I’m assuming my date left hours ago. I don’t really know. I’ve already blocked his number. We were supposed to meet at a cocktail bar across the street called Rosencrantz whether it’s carbonara or puke, I may never know.

I turn on the faucet and start to wash the grime from the bathroom floor off my hands. There’s no soap in the dispenser. Of course.

A loud knock on the door spikes my blood pressure.

“Someone’s in here,” I croak.

It feels like a medieval torture device is clamped onto my skull. I splash water on my face so I don’t look so much like a drunk psychopath. Almost immediately I regret it, because there are no paper towels, just an electric hand dryer. A fat drop of water clings to my eyelashes. I dab it with the back of my sleeve, smearing what’s left of my mascara.

Another knock booms through the tiny bathroom. Does this person think I magically disappeared in here?

“One minute!” I grunt.

I pop a piece of gum into my mouth, wipe my eyes, and sling my bag over my shoulder.

Three deep breaths. Act normal. You can do this.

Another knock. Louder and more aggressive.

Who does this asshole think they are?

“I said one minute,” I snap as I crank the door handle. “What don’t you understand about that?”

I whip the door open to see a tall man standing in the way. He looks at me like I have three heads.

Brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses—just like his dating profile. An expression of pure shock and horror painted across his green eyes—decidedly not like his dating profile.

“Shit.” I drop my gaze down to the floor. Maybe by some miracle he won’t recognize me. “Excuse me.”

“So this is where you’ve been.” Henry leans on the doorframe, blocking my exit. His expression changes from shock to something else completely. Something almost smug. A tattoo on his bicep peeks out from under his pink short-sleeved shirt.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I let my hair fall in my face, obscuring his view.

He smirks. Smirks . “Bennet, right?”

My name sounds so stupid coming out of his mouth. I’ve always hated it. It makes me feel like an adolescent boy or trust-fund-douchebag-finance bro, which I know was not my mother’s intention when she gave it to me.

“Nope.” My voice sounds like my larynx has been run through a blender. “My name is Andy. Goodbye.” I try to map out an escape route, but the way he’s casually leaning on the doorframe and the unfortunate largeness of his body block my path. Why is he here, all these hours after our planned date? Why did he cross the street and turn into the same restaurant I had?

“Look, Andy ,” he mocks, doing air quotes around my fake name. “If you didn’t want to go out with me you could’ve just said so.”

“I’m late for a…uh…” Come on, Bennet. Think of something. Anything. “I’m late for a baptism.” A baptism ? What the fuck?

“Really? On a Wednesda—”

“I have to go.”

I squeeze myself through the archway between his arm and the door and spill out into the dining room.

The space is almost pitch-black compared with the fluorescent light of the bathroom, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. There are old-fashioned lantern-type light fixtures peppered through the dining area that glow red and orange like tiny matches. The tables are so close together that navigating the floor would be difficult for a sober person, let alone a drunk idiot like me.

I make my way through the darkness, barreling straight into the blond bartender who overserved me. She’s handing a glass of red wine to an unsuspecting gentleman at a bar table as we collide. I don’t have time to stop and say sorry, but I look back long enough to catch the gruesome sight of wine splattered across the man’s chest like blood. The bartender curses at me as she grabs a rag from her belt and dabs his chest, soaking up my wreckage. Of course he was wearing a crisp white button-up. Why wouldn’t he be?

I finally reach the door and frantically try to pull it open, but it won’t budge. It won’t move. Dear god, why me? Why must I be punished? What did I do to deserve this? My heart is pounding, sweat is dripping from my forehead. I feel a body behind me, his heat warming my back. An arm stretches over my right shoulder, a tattoo peeking out from under a pink shirt. He pushes gently against the door. It opens without a fight.

I turn around, once again pinned between a dude named Henry and a door.

“It’s a push.”