Cutback

ii

Brussels, August 2014

My first day in Brussels I got lost. Not just a little lost, but sweat-dripping, fight-or-flight panic-attack lost. Somewhere south of the Parc du Cinquantenaire, I practically lost it.

In a stroke of genius, I had decided completely last-minute to take a train from the airport and transfer to the metro because I thought it would help acclimate me faster than taking a taxi or some nonsense. Of course, I missed my stop and naively assumed I could double back on foot after getting off at the next one. But every street in this stupid town was a never-ending warren of brick and stucco townhomes that looked so alike, I thought I was trapped in some cheap '90s video game where the artists had just pasted the same buildings over and over again to save time.

I had two suitcases and a backpack, no phone or map and only a little cash in euros. Worse, I was completely alone.

"I can't believe I told my parents not to come," I muttered to myself, and slunk onto an inch-high cobblestone curb to rest for a second and possibly give up on life. "Just had to do this alone, didn't I?" My shoulders were aching from the backpack after an hour of wandering around this single animation cell of a city and it was starting to get dark. Or it would, eventually. Never mind the fact that I had been flying since yesterday and it was starting to feel like the day that never ends. Really, I wanted to cry, thinking it would release some pressure like opening a steam valve. But I couldn't. I looked deep inside, past the welling panic and trepidation, and felt nothing at all beyond a slight pang of frustration.

After 20 minutes, I dusted myself off and dragged myself to an avenue to find a taxi. I could have pulled out my laptop and tried to find Wi-Fi but my adventurism has its limits. Honestly, in situations like these I'd much rather spend money to make a problem go away than bother trying to fix it myself.

Predictably, the taxi dropped me off exactly three blocks from where I was standing, though it might have been thirty for all the chance I would have had of finding it. After depositing me outside a gray stone building, I tipped the driver—apathetic to the custom of the country—rang the bell and was buzzed up.

My twentieth birthday had passed only two months before and I didn't know how renting apartments even worked. At school, I had always lived in dorms so I was used to letting my parents just take care of everything. To this day I don't know how the rent actually got paid.

I had a vague, illogical idea the landlord would meet me inside even though he didn't live there. Instead, after lugging my bags up a flight of stairs and knocking on the door, caked in sweat from the summer heat, a shirtless guy in gym shorts holding a towel flung open the door. He was an inch or two taller than me with a smooth, toned chest and dark hair like lacquer, dripping wet from the shower, water streaking down the slight baby fat on his cheeks. The first thing I thought was that he looked a little like Elvis. The second was that he was probably the hottest guy I'd ever seen in my life—and I have an eagle eye for hotties.

"Hey, you Thomas," he asked, and I nodded like an idiot while my eyes wrapped around his marble-cut abs and plush lips. 

"Errol," he said. He slapped a clammy hand against mine and my whole body shivered. I looked down at my own thin frame, a buck twenty soaking wet. Five minutes ago I was furious at myself for turning down my dad when he offered to come and help me settle in. But in that moment, I was beyond grateful to be standing here alone.

I knew I was getting a roommate because the student exchange group had told me in an email. Another American, but from NYU. I'd hated my first college roommate, an annoying football player who left creatine powder, or maybe drugs, all over the place, and the idea of a new one didn't exactly thrill me. But what can you do, really?