1
LORELAI
I need a drink.
After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, I inched my way backward, grabbed the whole bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket by the bubbly station when the waiter wasn’t looking, and disappeared myself—straight into a closet.
What my grandparents promised would be a ‘small gathering’ with ‘relaxation’ and ‘conversation’ for my cousin’s mehndi party, had turned out to be a full blown celebration.
And when a bunch of my family got together to form a giant flock, nothing—I repeat—nothing was ever relaxing unless you were the most extroverted extrovert in the history of extroverts.
Which, I wasn’t. I one-hundred-percent was not.
It wasn’t like I couldn’t socialize or that I hated people. I liked people. Most people.
Some people.
What I was trying to say... I functioned like a productive member of society.
I had a job I loved, my own apartment, and actually ran my dishwasher regularly. Maybe the dishes never made it from the dishwasher and into my cupboards, but that was beside the point.
For the most part, I had my shit together. Even as I locked the closet door and tore off my clothes...
Look, sometimes, when I was thrust into unexpected situations—like the Texas-sized party out there—I needed a quiet space to tear off my clothes. The less layers I had on, the freer my mind felt. And the freer my mind felt, the easier I could banish my mounting anxiety.
Once I was down to my silky white shift, I exhaled all the pent up stress messing with my posture and popped the cork on the champagne. I tilted the bottle and drank deeply, the bubbles burning my nose and making my eyes water. Still didn’t stop me from taking another chug.
I didn’t used to be this unhinged. In fact, I used to work a normal but terrible job in human resources, attended conferences swarming with peers who were just as miserable as me, and occasionally engaged in public speaking.
That sure as shit wasn’t me today. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago. And no, I didn’t miss Tabitha on floor twenty who constantly snuck her sauerkraut crock into the office and kept it under her desk because the fermentation process was ‘delicate’ and needed ‘constant attention’.
Also didn’t miss whoever brought in the molted snake skins and hid them in the toilet paper holders. The amount of times pest control had been called, only to determine there wasn’t a snake infestation, had put me on a first name basis with Freddy from the local branch.
We never caught whoever it was.
The idea of standing at a podium today to explain to a room of adults why they shouldn’t fart on their coworkers without permission—made me want to roll over and play possum. Bury me where I lay, because there was no fucking way I would get through that these days without having a mental breakdown.
Rolling my shoulders, I crossed my legs, and took another swig, employing my breathing exercises to relax.
A phone rang and I tilted my head, recognizing the upbeat tune. I glanced around at the hanging jackets encircling me.
Was my coat in here?
I spotted my bright yellow peacoat—the first flashy item I’d purchased in a few years—and leaned up to fish my phone from the pocket. A video call came through. Piper’s face flashed on the screen—my neighbor and best friend.
“Hi?” I whispered.
Piper’s eyes flickered around the screen. “Are... are you in a coat check?”
I shook my head as if to say no, but my mouth said, “Yes?”
“Lore,” she drawled.
I hated it when she did that. It was usually followed up by, you’re so fucking weird and are you sure you don’t want my therapists number?
At some point, I should probably take her up on that offer, but not today.
“Tell me you didn’t strip again.”
“I don’t need your judgment right now.” I huffed and took another pull on the drinky-drink.
“An entire one-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne is a nice touch.”
I choked and the bubbles went up my nose, making me wince. “What?! A thousand bucks? How do you know?”
“The label says Ripini.” She lifted a professionally plucked pink-dyed eyebrow.
If it wasn’t obvious before that moment, I was more of a wine drinker, not champagne. I knew jack about it, but it tasted the same as every other bubbly I’d ever had. Then again, maybe I didn’t have a refined palette for such things.
“It doesn’t taste like a thousand dollars.”
Piper grinned.
Leave it to my family to blow money on cases of champagne. It was probably a drop in the bucket for my uncle. He owned a legitimate hotel empire, afterall.
“Anyway, I only called to let you know the mailman put your mail in my box again. I’m pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose to get my attention. God, I don’t know why I have a thing for men who deliver packages. Remind me to seek help if I ever start eyeballing the FedEx guy. Aren’t you supposed to be having fun? Show me the henna!”
Piper talked a million miles a minute, in case that needed to be said. I set down the bottle and held up my hand so she could see the results.
“Oooo! I’m so jealous!”
The stain was deep, curling around my fingers and along my wrists in intricate swirls, waves, solid strips, and well-placed flecks.
The henna artist had the patience of a gracious auntie, because some of the bridesmaids had been absolute snobs through the whole thing.
“I’ll let you go! Get dressed and go have fun, babe.” She blew kisses and we said our goodbyes but I didn’t leave the closet. I didn’t think I could handle it just yet.
Needed a few more minutes to psyche myself up and rehearse my pep talk that reaffirmed I was a real member of this family, not an outsider, despite all the evidence saying otherwise.
I’d never truly felt like I belonged anywhere on either side of my family. My parents had both been black sheeps, rebellious from the start, and deviated from the norm.
Mom came from a predominantly Jewish family while Dad’s side was largely Hindu. Both sides had smaller factions of Buddists and Catholics, but my parents never followed any religious path, much to everyone’s disappointment, and they’d raised me similarly.
My parents had been all about choice, freedom to express oneself, and to question the world.
After their deaths, I’d tried to find connection to my heritage from both sides of my family, but all I’d discovered was deeply ingrained expectations. Pick a religion, pick a career, pick a partner—live how we say.
I understood why my parents had been such free spirits. Some families just came with a shit ton of pressure.
For a while I’d caved. Picked a career, picked a partner, but never picked a religion.
My religion was the night sky.
I figured whoever was up there would hear me when I sprawled on my janky lounger on the rooftop at night and rambled.
They knew my picker was broken and they didn’t judge me for it.
I’d picked the wrong career, picked the wrong partner, and both had almost got me killed.
Literally.
Turned out my ex wasn’t the most hygienic in the kitchen. The one time he’d cooked for me, I ended up in the hospital with food poisoning. I’d never felt a real connection with him—he was the embodiment of how not to adult—so I’d ditched him.
After that near death experience, I’d decided I couldn’t waste any more time in a job I hated. I’d turned over a new leaf. Quit that company and started living for me, not all these other people.
All that said, I could deal with my occasional meltdowns. There were plenty of closets in the world for me to dive into when I needed to clear my head.
A tired laugh escaped me just as my phone pinged.
System Update Available.
I sighed, promptly swiping the notification off my screen.
If it was anything like the last one—that I’d shoved off until my phone said fuck you and forced the update—then I’d wait until I got home. I wanted to order food on the way and didn’t want to risk my phone being useless.
My mouth salivated as I thought about the greasy pepperoni and extra cheese pizza I’d be digging into soon. It always hit the spot after stressful trips to the closet.
I checked my messages, thumbing through the endless spam about everything under the sun, including hot and horny singles near me.
The monotonous task helped me zone out until I realized the screen and the closet had gotten considerably brighter. I peered up, noticing the encased bulb on the ceiling pulsed and flickered like it was about to blow.
“Dammit.”
I didn’t want to be trapped in a dark closet. I fumbled with my phone, preparing to turn on the flashlight, but the screen...
My nose wrinkled as I frowned.
My screen glitched with static and multicolor strips of pixels like it was about to die.
The coats surrounding me gently swayed on their own, the fine hair on my arms rising.
What the—
Hangers clanged together softly at first, then violently when something on my screen initiated. I couldn’t see the text through the glitched pixels. An arc of light shot from my screen to the ceiling and swirled with a rainbow of color. I shrank down, blindly reaching for the doorknob.
Shit, I’d locked it.
I went to twist the bolt but it was jammed. Panic spiraled through me as I glanced at the swirling, glowing thing near the ceiling. It fucking grew.
The ends of my thick, black waves began floating upward and so did the coats.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I chanted, crushing my fingers against the lock and frantically pulling on the knob. I beat my fists against the door, but the music was so damn loud, I didn’t think anyone could hear me.
“HELP!” I screamed.
A growing force pulled at my body and my knees eased off the floor. I yelped, grabbing at anything I could to hang on and anchor myself.
Everything that wasn’t nailed down was eaten up by whatever that thing was—the coats, my clothes, the champagne bottle, me.
My fingers, clammy with nerves, slowly slipped off the shiny doorknob.
With a final scream, I was sucked into the glittering tunnel.
