3. Liam
3
LIAM
“ C an I get two rum and cokes and whatever IPA you have on tap?” The lanky skater boy in front of me slams his hand on the counter, a fifty peeking out from under it.
I raise my eyebrows, scanning him. He’s barely passing for twenty, and even though my boss told me to stop carding the people that come in here, something about these NYU trust-fund kids gets me aggravated. Probably their practiced look of poverty that they seem to wear as some sort of badge of honor, as if I can’t tell that their baggy, half-ripped t-shirt is actually designer and costs as much as I make in a week.
“ID?” I ask as his friends join behind him, a trio of what can only be called boys.
“Sure,” he says casually, opening up his wallet and handing me his ID, which is definitely a fake. Maybe one of those batch-order ones that all the college kids tend to bring in here. Why they feel the need to come all the way out here to Abe’s Pub and not some trendy spot in the village, I’ll never understand. But I acquiesce. I give the kid back his ID and line up the drinks and slide them to him.
At least he leaves me a solid tip.
The night is only getting started. It’s not even eleven, but by the time midnight hits, I know I’ll be deep in the swing of things. The place tends to get packed with a combination of locals and hipsters. I tend to ignore the latter, but then again, these days I tend to ignore everyone.
“Liam, we’ve got a delivery comin’ in tomorrow. Can you come in early?” Abe, my boss and the namesake of this place, chimes in from behind me.
It’s rare for him to be here, but my coworker Darius called to say he’s running late and won’t be in until midnight. So, I’m stuck manning the bar alone until then, which is a recipe for disaster since Abe isn’t much help when it comes to pouring drinks. He might take one or two of the regulars who tend to come by, but I’m basically on my own.
Not that I mind being alone. I’m used to it by now.
“I can’t. I’m moving into a new apartment tomorrow. Got kicked out of student housing, so I had to find a new place,” I tell Abe.
“You’re still in student housing? Didn’t you drop out months ago?”
“It’s been less than two months, and it was under… unique circumstances, so they made an exception,” I explain. “The new place is a lot closer, so it’ll cut my commute in half. I’ll be positively cheerful.”
“Believe that when I see it,” Abe offers, and doesn’t say anything else. He knows not to pry about any of our personal lives, which is something great about this job. While I may have to pour drinks as random folks share their whole life story, nobody asks about mine.
Which is good, because my story isn’t one with a happy ending.
“I can come in at five earliest,” I tell him.
“Thanks, son. You’re a real help.”
I grin sloppily at him, tossing my rag over my shoulder. “Stop flirting with me, old man.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, walking into the back office and leaving me to tend to a few women who have just walked in wearing matching cowgirl costumes. Likely a bachelorette or birthday party.
I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.
The next day, the movers arrive at my place first thing in the morning.
I would have asked friends to help me move, if I had any of those left. All my Columbia buddies have stopped making an effort with me. To their credit, they reached out countless times after Luke’s funeral to check in on me, but I ignored nearly every text and call.
Eventually, they stopped trying.
Last night was exhausting. A group of drunk girls at the bar kept asking me to pronounce random words. Apparently, they’d seen it in a scene in Love Actually and wanted to test the legitimacy of it. Which is how I got trapped repeating vodka and beer back to them until closing. I’m pretty sure they were flirting with me, but even when I blatantly ignored them, they didn’t seem to get the hint.
To tell the truth, I haven’t been interested in touching anyone since Luke died.
Glancing around at the empty apartment that Luke and I used to share, a pit gathers in my stomach, tight and unyielding. Shaking my head, I swallow the lump in my throat and slam the door behind me. No use dwelling in the past any longer. I have to start focusing on what semblance of a future I can scrape together.
I’m on my way to the new place when I call Olivia. She and Darius used to hook up, and she’d come around the bar a lot to meet him near the end of his shift. I’d mentioned that I was desperate for a new place last week, since my student housing extension was up at the end of the month. A few days later, she called me to tell me she was leaving her place and wanted to sublet.
So, maybe my luck is starting to turn.
“Hey! How’s it going?” Olivia answers, muffled sounds of laughter and music behind her.
“Alright. I’m on my way now. You left the keys for me, yeah?”
“In the lockbox attached to the gate.”
“Anything else I should know?” I ask. She hasn’t told me much about the place, but my desperation overrode any hesitations I may have had about such a fast decision.
“Well… my roommate was less than enthused when I told her I was moving out and a guy was taking my place.”
“Didn’t you ask her about me before?”
“Not really. I had no time! Anyway, she’ll deal with it.”
I roll my eyes and bite my tongue, not wanting to stir anything up. “Great. Love moving into a place where I’m not at all wanted. Thanks so much,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re welcome,” she says brightly.
I hang up the phone as I pull up to the apartment, my irritation growing. It’s hot as hell, the August humidity sticking to my skin. After finding the key and letting myself into the apartment, I glance around, feeling like an intruder.
“Hello?” I call out, wondering if my new roommate is here, but there’s no response.
I glance around, taking in the apartment. It’s nice. There’s a unique style to the decor, somewhere between modern and maximalist. I usually prefer a simpler look, mainly because I can’t be arsed with decorating, but something about the splashes of color and how alive the place feels — plants everywhere, artwork on the walls — makes the place feel homey.
It takes the movers almost two hours to get all my shit inside, and I spend the rest of the day unpacking. It’s late when I find a box of bits that I’ve been ignoring. I already know what I’m going to find there. With a sigh, I pick up the box and lift the top to see its contents. The first thing I find is a photo of me and Luke in our freshman dorm.
We look so young. Happy.
Naive.
“Can you hand me the microscope?” Luke asks from beside me, his head bent over his desk while I look at our latest results on the computer screen. We’re the last ones left in the lab, as usual. We’ve been running this experiment for weeks with no results, and I’m pretty sure we’re close to killing each other. Between the time spent side-by-side in the lab and the three feet of distance between our beds in the dorm, we’re practically inseparable.
I’ve never had a friend like this. A best friend.
I slide the microscope over to him, and he looks through it, then pushes it away with a sigh. “I’m exhausted,” he announces. “Should we call it a night and grab some pizza?”
“Believe it or not, I actually have plans.”
He glances over at me with mild surprise, his eyebrows raised. “Liam Clark. Do you have a date?”
I shrug, the corners of my mouth lifting. “Maybe.”
“Who is she?”
“Claire? From our physics seminar. She asked me out last week.”
“My boy’s getting out there!” he whoops, pushing back from the table. “Damn. I guess I’ll stick around here.”
“Not gonna hit up Sophie?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “We ended things.”
“Oh,” I reply dumbly. “What happened?”
He shrugs, then smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She wanted more than I could give her, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, man,” I offer. Luke and I don’t talk about our feelings that much with each other. Sometimes, he’ll confide in me, and I always appreciate it when he does, but most of the time — when we’re not working — we just have fun together. “I can reschedule with her if you want to hang for a bit longer?”
“No way,” he replies quickly. “This is a rare opportunity. You might never get another date, Clark.”
I shove his shoulder lightly, and we both laugh. Packing up my stuff, I sneak a glance in his direction. Ever since last semester, he’s been working a lot harder. It feels like every time I see him in our room, he’s sitting in his bed with papers strewn around him, a frustrated grimace on his face.
“See you later,” I tell him as I head out, and he waves in my direction with a half-smile, turning back towards the microscope.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I realize I left my coat on the back of my chair. There’s no way I’ll survive the walk to the bar in the frigid December air without it, so I double back to the lab. When I step back inside the sterile room, I see Luke, bent over the desk, his head in his hands. I’m about to call his name when I hear a low, choked sound and notice the shaking of his shoulders.
He’s crying.
What do I do? Should I go over there and try to comfort him? If I asked, would he tell me what’s wrong? Does he even want my help?
If it were me, and he caught me crying, I’d be embarrassed. I’d probably try to play it off somehow, make it seem like it wasn’t that big of a deal. Make up some excuse about something being stuck in my eye or some shit.
Indecision keeps me rooted in place, unsure what’s the best move right now. Wanting to protect my friend’s pride while worry and sympathy flood my system. Another sob racks through Luke, and I tense.
What the hell am I doing? Just standing here like an idiot, watching my friend cry?
My gaze flickers over to my jacket, and I tense my fingers. Wrapping my hand around the doorknob, I take a silent step back, and tug the door closed, not making a sound. I’ll have to brave the cold, but at least nothing has to change between Luke and me.
I’m not running away, I tell myself.
This is for the best, I tell myself.
But as I wrap my arms around myself, stepping out into the crisp air, I can’t stop seeing Luke’s slumped, defeated figure in what is supposed to be our happy place. I can’t stop replaying the image of my best friend, crying and alone, and wondering: did I just make a huge mistake?
My chest aching with agony, I press the backs of my shaking hands into my eyes with a sigh. Every time I think of that night, I hate myself. Hate that I couldn’t see whatever it was he was hiding behind his eyes. Hate that I walked out of that room instead of sitting next to him, wrapping him in a hug, and asking what was wrong. Hate that I feel like it’s my fault. All of it. My fucking fault.
My phone buzzes with an alarm telling me it’s time to head to work. It’s the last place I want to go, but I’m relieved to have the distraction. At least it’s something to do, so I don’t have to sit here and wallow in memories.
It’s time to move on.
The only question is… how?