Macallan, Blue Label, Glenfiddich. Despite narrowing it down to these three, I still had too many to choose from. Decisions, decisions. The Macallan was probably too expensive, and we didn't really have anything to celebrate. Glenfiddich... I had a bottle of my own lying around at home. Maybe the Blue Label. Not too expensive—for the owner, at least—but not too cheap either. Just right.

I swiped that off the shelf and blew a kiss at the Macallan. "I'll come for you next time, sweetheart."

One good thing about Syama's new man—well, new to me, not to him—was his fantastic booze collection. Motherfucker had everything a functioning alcoholic like me would ever want. Wine, whiskey, scotch, brandy, cognac, vodka, tequila, some five different types of high-end gin and some bottles of exquisite—the owner's words, not mine—craft beer, all at my disposal. His disposal, technically, but we weren't talking semantics. If these two ever needed a third, I had no problem playing into whatever fantasy they wanted.

Syama met me on the couch with the ice bucket in hand. I cracked the seal on my bestie for the night and poured a generous amount for the two of us before dropping in some ice.

One sip and I was in the arms of heaven embodied. "So good. Just what a hardworking man deserves." I kicked up my feet on the pricier than my year's worth of pay coffee table and settled back into the cloud-like cushions.

"I'm going to hell for encouraging this," Syama murmured, pulling his legs up to tuck them under.

"You're going to hell, regardless. Might as well enjoy the view." I clinked my lowball with his and then regretted glancing at his face. It was that pity-worried expression most around me usually had on. That always got my blood boiling, and I was in too good of a mood to blow over on this particular evening.

So, I just decided to ignore that pretty face for the remainder of my time sober. Which wouldn't be for too long, anyway.

"You're killing yourself."

This fucker was ruining my buzz. "Mmm-mmm. Wrong. Can't kill myself when my body is already doing it for me."

"It wouldn't if you took care of it. You're decreasing your longevity by your own happy self."

"Not here for a long time, just a good time." I tipped the glass back and emptied it. "Plus, one drink never hurt nobody."

"That's the problem now, isn't it?" He swirled the ice and whiskey in his glass. "It's never just one drink."

I grabbed the beautiful bottle by its neck and wiggled it in his face. "One. Drink." And then took a swig right from it.

Syama just sighed and looked down into his whiskey like that would give him the answers to why I was the way I was.

I knew I shouldn't poke the bear, but Syama seriously was ruining any sort of high I wanted to suspend myself in. "What's wrong with you? Why are you such a Debbie Downer? Am I using that correctly? It's correct, right?"

"I'm just sick and tired of watching you kill yourself."

I waved a hand right in his face, which he promptly slapped away. "Everyone's dying, Sammy. You're dying, I'm dying, that sad lucky bamboo is dy—" I took a closer look at the yellowing leaves. "No, that's already dead. How'd you two manage that? Aren't yous supposed to be like super smart or something?"

"Your point?"

"Oh right, my point." I paused. What was I even saying? "Yeah, my point is let this poor, dying man—" I vividly gestured at myself "—live a little."

Syama rubbed at his face, his forgotten drink sadly hanging in his palm. Was he going to drink that? I could unburden him of that if he wanted. I tried to be casual in retrieving it, but he snatched his hand away and shot me a nasty look.

I settled back and pretended to not notice the snarl directed at me. Switching on the TV and scrolling through the movie options on Netflix for background noise while I got wasted, I again poked the bear. "Why are you so morose today? Sad your man is working late, and you had no one else but me to give you company?" I batted my eyelashes and pushed my bottom lip out, for which I got a nice throw pillow thrown in my face.

"He's not working late." He retrieved the pillow and stuck it between us as a barrier. "He's back in Amsterdam."

"Ah. So you called the spare to warm your bed, huh?" I wiggled my eyebrows, but Syama didn't even bother to give me the time of day.

"Mind letting the crowd know why you're not morose?" he asked instead.

"Seriously asking me that? Check the date."

"It's the first of—Oh." He returned my grin with a dry look. "Payday."

"Bingo! For rich assholes like you, it doesn't really matter, but for paupers like me, it's our favourite day."

Syama rolled his eyes. "Pauper, you say." He scoffed. "You only consume alcohol, and even that you don't buy yourself. You just come here to rob me of my booze, and along with that, my conscience. So where does your money go? Any addictions I'm not aware of?"

Now, that made me angry. "Fuck you. And get off my ass. You're not my wife to keep nagging me." I knew I was... slightly more inclined to drinking my loneliness away than responsibly choosing any other options. But I was the only one allowed to say that. I didn't like others stating it. Speaking of wife... "Although, I wouldn't mind it if you were."

"What?" He laughed. "Your wife?"

"Was talking about fast-tracking my way to a green card, but hey if you wanna do wifely duties, I won't mind." I purposely checked him out, letting my eyes trail him from bottom to top. "You'd look good in one of those frilly fifties' dresses, apron around your waist, pretty green eyes lined with kajal and—" I reached forward and pulled his cheek "—rose on your cheeks."

He yanked my hand away and bent my wrist the wrong way till I jumped up, writhing. "Motherfucking bastard."

And just then, my phone started to buzz. I held it up for Syama. "Look who you summoned."

He snorted as I pressed decline and dutifully switched off the phone.

"And why are you ignoring your lovely mother this time?"

"I'm not ignoring her. I'm just not in the state to talk." I pinched my eyes shut. Even the thought of carrying a conversation with her these days gave me a headache. "That woman can always suss out when I drink."

"That the only reason?"

"That, and she's pushing for marriage." During Clarissa's wedding, it was the only thing anyone wanted to talk about. Now, your sister is done, dusted and driven away, you're next. Just the way they said it made my bones shudder. Like I was some side character in a horror story and the next victim was me.

Because my life was just so fucking hilarious, Syama began to chortle. "Find a nice Indian-American lesbo with strict parents. Green card, check. Wife to take home to mom, check. Two birds, one stone. Wow, I'm so smart, I should probably start a beard matrimonial website for closeted cowards such as yourself."

"I'm not a closeted coward," I grumbled, hugging the bottle close to my chest.

"No, you're not," Syama said, and the way he said it made me look up. His eyes were already on me, and this time that pity-worried expression wasn't gracing his haughty face. Instead, he wore a sad smile that hurt me much more than I anticipated. "I don't even know how to describe you, Neil. Sometimes, it feels like you have finally moved past the pain. But then, you fall right back to your old ways because you don't like how this new outlook might feel. When will you permanently let go of all that's holding you back?"

Swallowing, I debated on how best to answer him. I didn't thrive on pain like he thought I did. Or maybe I did, as it had been so long since I'd had any other feeling take up space in my chest. I was so attuned to this life now I didn't see a point in searching for new beginnings. Enough with the changes. I had tried changing, but it didn't work, and as a bonus, it dumped me into an even deeper pit. Any deeper, and I'd be lying in my grave.

In the end, when I'd settled on a movie, and Syama faced forward, I said, "It doesn't matter when, Sammy dearest. Like I said, short time, not long time."

~

Mondays weren't necessarily my favourite, but damn, was I feeling good. Money in the bank did that to a guy, and boy, was I not immune to that jittery feeling.

My coffee turned out great, my hangover disappeared before I even woke up, my patients were all cooperative, no one tried to accidentally slam weights on my foot (Jaylin, I'm looking at you, bud) and even my lunch was delivered piping hot right as my break started.

Dang, life was sweet.

So, of course, as I was carrying my chicken pasta paired with the cheesiest, garliciest bread to ever bread, and a not-too-sweet Tiramisu jar to finish up the combo, Marisol called out for me from the reception.

"Neil, I'm so sorry, honey. I know it's your lunch hour, but we had a scheduling error for a patient." She was rapidly tapping on the keyboard with one hand and with the other, dialling someone on the landline.

"Patient for who?"

"Dr Samuel."

"Didn't he already leave, though?"

Marisol went red. And I was pretty sure I could see steam billowing from her ears. "Yes, he left. He was only scheduled for a half day today. Twenty-fifth anniversary. That new girl saw the empty slot and pushed the patient in without asking."

Inwardly sighing, I reached forward and took the folder from underneath her keyboard. "Which room?"

"Three. Thank you, Neil. I've paged Aaron. He'll be here soon. I don't want to keep this guy waiting." Leaning in, she whispered, "He's kinda famous."

Why do I do this to myself? "Don't thank me, ma'am," I said, stuffing the folder underneath my arm and handing her my lunch. "I'm not volunteering. You owe me."

Before I disappeared beyond the door to the consultation rooms, she yelled, "I'll keep your lunch warm and ready for you."

"Deal," I replied to the closing door.

My gait didn't falter even as I strode to room three. It would take more than a minor blip in the scheduling to ruin my mood today. Perhaps it was those high thread count sheets in Syama's guestroom, or maybe the mattress, or very likely, both. I always felt well-rested in that room. Honestly, if those two wanted a dog, I wouldn't mind painting on whiskers and barking.

I pushed open the door to the room with my shoulder, pressing on the sanitiser dispenser before entering. "Hey, I'm Neil. Dr Samuel will be here in a little while. In the meantime, I'll—"

It was exactly at that moment that I found out the reason I was in such a good mood. I was probably still asleep in Syama's feather-soft bed in his guest room. That would explain how I wasn't having a killer hangover this morning. And that would also explain just how good that mattress was, since my dreams were so vivid. So vivid that I was imagining hot food being delivered. Heh. How fucking unlikely was that?

Just as unlikely as the man sitting on the examination table.

This had to be a dream.

Because that could not be Christopher Beckett, in the flesh, staring at me slack-jawed.