Page 85 of Angel of Thursdays

May held it out for another second, shaking it performatively. Louis rolled his eyes, another refusal. May shrugged and put the jacket on, the shoulders sagging past his own.

Cassiel put his own jacket on.

Anna hugged May tight—her hand on the back of his neck, May’s face in her shoulder, lasting three seconds, four.

“Text me tomorrow,” Anna said.

“I will.”

“About breakfast. May.”

“I will.”

Louis raised a hand. “Later, Stock Photo.”

Cassiel looked at him.

“Bye, Louis!” May said cheerily, steering Cassiel toward the door with a hand on his arm. Sixteen days since he’d last touched him.

The gale off the bay funneled down Third Street between the warehouse walls, the T-Third tracks gleaming wet under the streetlights. A couple passed them by, their heads down.

They were standing apart again, May next to Cassiel in the borrowed jacket. The sleeves hung to his fingertips and the red scarf bunched at the collar. He looked like a kid wearing his father’s clothes.

“Thanks,” May said. His voice was hoarse. “For coming. And sorry about Louis. And—I know I owe you things. I owe you… words. Your mom, too. I went to Sunny’s—I forgot to tell you.”

“I know. Minju told me. —I don’t want your words.” More edge than intended. Cassiel adjusted. If he was speaking to someone who was trying to disappear, he couldn’t allow it. “You don’t owe me, I wanted to come. My mother—she’s just worried about you.”

May laughed. “Right. Yeah. Everyone’s worried about me.” He scuffed his shoe against the concrete. Cassiel looked at him. The shoes, the jeans, the bulk of the jacket. It had been bothering him all night. It had bothered him since he found him sitting on his step.

“Swap with me,” Cassiel said.

May looked at him. “What?”

He was already unzipping his bomber. The wind cut through his button-down. “Your jacket. Give it here.”

“Cassiel, what the hell?”

“It doesn’t fit you. Swap with me.”

May stared at him for two seconds. Then he shook his head, pulled off the jacket, took the offered bomber and put it on. The shoulders sat correctly, give or take an inch. The sleeves were still longer than a good fit would dictate, but they didn’t swallow his hands and the collar lay flat. It was better. The color was darker than anything he was used to seeing on May, but the indigo suited him and it made the red of his scarf stick out brighter.

Cassiel slipped on the trucker jacket. Too wide in the chest, roomy in the underarm, but the sleeves hit at the wristbone.

“Happy?”

Cassiel nodded.

“Great,” May said. “—Are you thirsty?”

He hadn’t expected that. He wasn’t. He was full from the carbs and his stomach felt leaden. But he didn’t want to say no, didn’t want to call a cab yet.

“Sure.”

“Let’s get boba,” May said, already walking. They walked south on Tennessee, May’s hands in the pockets of Cassiel’s jacket.

May led them to a blue building on the corner of Twenty-Second and Tennessee, string lights along the window. A boba shop, small and warm, with low frosted glass pendant lights, a neon menu board casting purple on the ceiling. There were two other customers at the window bar, both on their phones. The music was acoustic, quiet enough that Cassiel could hear the steamer.

May ordered—taro for himself, a chocolate mint smoothie for Cassiel—and fished a red envelope out of his back pocket. He took out a twenty, paid, put the change back and slid the envelope into the inside pocket of the bomber.