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He could see his name being spoken. Being praised. Being brought up around water coolers and radio shows.
He could see his writing taking the nation by storm...
But the words wouldn’t fucking come.
Because every time he tried to type, his fingers went rigid against the keys.
Because every time he tried to lie, a teenage voice in a terrible green fedora screamed for him to stop.
Because every time he tried to betray his principles, he thought back to a framed leaflet by his childhood desk.
So you always remember to follow your beliefs, Niño.
A tear rolled down his cheek—just another drop among the endless storm.
And as the thunder tore the sky in two, Luca knew the answer, terrible as it was.
He couldn’t write a lie.
He wouldn’t write a lie.
Instead, Luca regathered the papers, shuffled them into neat and precise order, and dumped them into the wastepaper basket under the desk.
He’d fucked up his opportunity.
And now, he had to live with that.
No sooner had he ended the article for good, then there came an unexpected knock from behind.
Out on the porch—soaked to the bone and lit intermittently by spears of lightning—was Artair.
The darkness across Luca’s mood lifted. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up!”
Even though Artair was out of the rain, it still ran in torrents off his cap, the hair stuck to his forehead. Bowie was at his feet, his fur twice as big as the last time Luca had seen him.
Luca rushed over with a laugh, glad the man had finally seen reason and come for help. “God, look at you! You’re soaking wet and?—”
Thin.
Not thin, thin. A football tackle doesn’t turn into a twink in the space of a ten days. But still, there was some loss of fullness in Artair’s cheeks. A compactness to his previously impressive frame. And alongside both, some dull to the glint in his emerald eyes.
Artair smiled under his gaze, warm but washed-out. “Thanks,” he said over the roar of the rain, “but I won’t stay. I just wanted to stop by on my way out.”
Luca froze.
Your way out . . . ?
Only then did he notice the full hiking pack against the porch rails. The olive-green fabric was swollen with water, almost bursting at the seams. And beside it was the final confirmation: Artair’s guitar case, waterproof and covered with old roadie stickers.
Snapped shut.
Closed.
Just like Artair’s summer.
“Oh,” said Luca, quietly.
He didn’t know what else to say. He’d assumed the man would come to him for help when it all became too hard. He hadn’t thought for one moment that Artair would choose to leave entirely.
