Page 55 of Angel of Thursdays

“We’re going to be in town in February,” Anna said. ‘In town,’ not ‘home.’ ‘February,’ not ‘after New Year’s.’

“That’s great!” May said, just a touch too brightly. “We should get dinner. You, me, Loulou.”

“And—”

“And William, yeah.”

They talked about the usual stuff. Anna asked about the podcast, even though he’d probably forgotten to tell her in the first place and she’d had to find out via Louis. She asked if he’d talked to their parents lately. He hadn’t since Thanksgiving, and he knew she knew that, because Louis was a blabbermouth.

She mentioned something fantastical about a family trip back to their laojia—some place an hour out of Quanzhou where their father’s family came from. Anna had been there once. May, too, technically, though he’d been a baby. There was a cute picture of Anna being chased by a duck on a muddy road out in the country.

“So… I’m seeing someone,” May said. “It’s good.”

Anna narrowed her eyes and pushed her face closer to the camera. “Since when?”

“Since—technically September? But officially Christmas, so actually not that long ago and you can’t be mad at me!”

“May.”

“What! I’m telling you now!”

“What’s his name?”

“Cassiel.”

Anna squinted. “Like Supernatural?”

“No, Cass-ee-el. With an ass.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She grinned. Behind her, Will existed, annoyingly. “I want to meet him. Bring him to dinner.”

“He’s—” What? Precise. Quiet. Likes cats. K-drama hot. A huge nerd. “He’s great.”

“I hope so,” she said.

His mom had sent a message on WeChat, early in the morning. He didn’t find it until the day was almost over.

It wasn’t a voice snippet this time, just Happy New Year, Son in Chinese and a photo of Dad’s niangao, golden-brown on a plate. Her hands were visible at the edge of the frame. May had opened it, looked at it, closed it. It was too late to reply now anyway, so the message sat in his phone, unanswered, and the unanswered-ness was sticking like the niangao.

THE THURSDAY AFTER NEW YEAR

Cassiel’s apartment smelled like nothing. No candles, no plug-ins, even the dish soap was unscented. The only something was Cassiel. Warm skin, woody and sweet from the cologne he wore so subtly that May couldn’t smell it properly unless he was next to him, face pressed into his neck.

The spare key was January new. Given to him without ceremony on a random day with “so you can get inside,” as if he thought the concept of keys opening doors was an explanation. May let himself in and toed off his shoes next to Cassiel’s, which were aligned with the wall at a distance that implied a ruler had once been involved in the habit’s formation.

The layout was weird. You entered through the hall, then the bedroom was there. A single queen bed, big enough for two, a nightstand, and an adjustable desk. Crucially, the desk was also where the CD player sat, with Positions on Amplitude, Vol. 1 still in the disc tray, the jewel case next to it. May had checked inside. It had been like finding a love letter, except he’d burned the CD himself.

Then there were these French doors which opened into the living room with the bay windows you saw from outside, and three separate lamps at different levels. Seemingly random. But May knew better.

Cassiel’s own turntable, some make and model May could not begin to guess, had its own corner close to the plush couch.

So basically, there was only one optimal route here. To get to the couch you had to walk past the bed. To get to everything else, you had to walk past the couch.

“This is a weird house,” May told Cassiel.

“It’s Edwardian,” Cassiel replied, a touch defensive. “It has character.”

May carried on his prowl.