A blast of warm air greeted him as he pushed open the door to the bar, starkly contrasting the bitter cold he was attempting to keep at bay with a thick scarf and coat. He tried to massage some feeling back into his hands as he quickly scanned the room, taking in the sight before him.
Music played quietly, drowned out by conversations as patrons tried to make themselves heard over other patrons, and a soft yellowy light lit up the faded carpet and wood-accented walls the bar called decor. It was quaint, he decided, and exactly the kind of place he had been looking for; full enough that no one would notice one more person, and far enough into the Glades that no one would think to look for him here. Sure, he could go to some expensive wine bar with his best friend, laugh about old times and pick out which girl, or girls, each of them was going to try to sleep with. But right now, that life was exactly what he was trying to avoid.
He noted that all the booths and tables seemed to be packed with friends and families, all celebrating in the last few days before Christmas, so he made his way over to a bar stool where he was greeted by a young man in a black shirt with what he assumed was the bar's logo on.
"Hey, what can I get you?"
He hadn't really thought about that, which was ridiculous seeing as he was in a bar, but it had been a spur of the moment decision to enter the establishment. He looked briefly at the choices lined up against the wall behind the man, before his eyes fell on a section of bottles containing an amber-coloured liquid.
"Whiskey, your choice. No ice, please."
The barman nodded and turned around, grabbing a glass and started to make his drink. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, depositing a twenty on the bar as his glass was placed in front of him. He mumbled a thanks and lifted the drink to his lips as the barman walked away to serve another customer that had just walked up to the bar. He hummed approvingly as the honeyed taste slid down his throat. Whatever it was he was drinking, the barman had chosen well.
He had been a big drinker when he was younger, always seen in bars and clubs, even before he was 21, and always suffering from the accompanying hangover the next day, which usually led to him skipping school. His parents had disapproved, of course, but they often turned a blind eye when it came to his nighttime activities. Sometimes he missed that life, carefree rather than constantly on guard, but he could never return to it. As much as he pretended, he was far from the boy he was five years ago.
Recent developments, however, had led him to seeking out the bar he was currently in. He needed a place to get away from the constant hounding of his family, and a place to think. He supposed it was some remnants of the old him that had directed him here rather than let him wander the streets all night. He could still enjoy a drink or two every now and then, especially when it wasn't just for show, and right now there was no one he needed to slip on a mask for.
As he lifted his glass to his lips to take a second sip, his thoughts were interrupted by a voice somewhere to his right, bringing him out of his musings. He turned to see an attractive woman looking at him with an eyebrow raised and a small smile playing on her lips, blue eyes meeting olive green. He regarded her for a second before realising she had asked him a question.
"Sorry?"
Her smile widened before she gestured to the whiskey glass in his hand with a nod of her head.
"Rough day?" She repeated, before thanking the bar tender as he placed a glass of clear liquid in front of her.
He studied her closely. The question seemed innocent enough. There was no camera swinging from her neck or notepad clutched in her hand, so he was fairly sure she wasn't a reporter looking for an easy story about the billionaire gracing the Glades with his patronage. But that didn't mean she didn't want something.
"Maybe I just like the taste." He replied. He was testing her, letting a little bit of his old playboy persona show, seeing if she was willing to play the game or would leave to go join a table of her colleagues for their Christmas drinks. She nodded, seeming to consider his statement.
"Maybe. But then you wouldn't be staring at your glass like it murdered your first-born son."
He was taken aback. Had he really been letting his thoughts play that clearly across his face? He swivelled on his stool slightly so he could take in her appearance. She was pretty, he noted, with honey-blonde hair spilling onto shoulders clad in a black leather jacket and long legs hidden by faded grey jeans. Looking back at her face, he could see a knowing smile, to which he just raised his eyebrow.
"Rough month more like." He joked, turning back to face the bar and taking a drink. He wasn't going to give anything away easily. The woman snorted in response.
"Seems like that's going around. So what is it? Have a fight with your girlfriend? Boss being an asshole? Look, if you can't tell a random stranger you met in a bar then who the hell can you tell?"
He could already see she wasn't going to give up, and she probably wasn't going to settle for some half-assed lie he came up with. A peaceful drink was looking less and less likely, not that he found himself minding. The woman was a nice change from people either treating him like royalty or like a spoiled child.
"No girlfriend to speak of, and I don't exactly have a boss." He looked at her again, seeing her staring back at him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. How much would he reveal to her? At her silence, he continued.
"I was...in an accident, of sorts," he began, choosing his words carefully, "about five years ago. The same accident killed my dad. For a while they thought I was dead too, until I managed to call them a couple of months ago and tell them what happened. I think my family and my friends were all expecting me to be the same kid I was, but I've changed, and they've changed. Things aren't the same, but it's like no one but me can see it. So, I came here, to try and regain some normality in my life. Go somewhere I'm not treated like I'm going to get hurt if I do anything for myself."
The woman nodded, then held up her glass like she was toasting him. Her eyes hadn't left his when he was talking, something he appreciated greatly. People rarely knew how to act when it came to his father's death, treating him with kid gloves or avoiding the subject at all costs.
"That's shit, man. Now I get why you're in a bar alone on Christmas Eve Eve Eve." He raised an eyebrow with a questioning grin.
"Christmas Eve Eve Eve?"
"Yeah. December 22nd. Christmas Eve Eve Eve. Really not sure what you're struggling with here."
She said it so matter-of-factly that he couldn't think of a remark to make. They managed to keep a straight face for a few seconds, before both of them burst out laughing. Whatever tension there had been between the two strangers was quickly dissipated at the absurdity of the statement. He was the first to reach across the gap between the two of them, extending his hand for her to shake.
"Oliver."
"Laurel." She supplied, shaking his hand with a firm grip.
"So, what about you Laurel?" He asked. "Why are you down here three days before Christmas drinking alone? Unless it's for the company."
"Kinda the same thing," she replied, smirking at his flirtatious comment, "family being family. My dad decided this is the year my dysfunctional family will all stay at his and have Christmas together, which has so far led to my parents getting into an argument about their divorce, my sister sneaking out to meet up with her girlfriend she thinks none of us know about, and my mom hounding me for being single and not popping out some grandkids for her. Apparently, they need to get a year's worth of arguments off their chest all at the same time."
She huffed and took a drink. Oliver wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so he just repeated her sentiment from earlier.
"That's pretty shit, too. We've got two families at opposite ends of the spectrum, and now we're both here trying to escape them."
He raised his glass to her in a toast.
"To dysfunctional families."
She smiled and tapped his glass with hers.
"To overbearing parents."
They both drained their glasses, and Oliver motioned to the bartender to bring them another round.