Page 88 of Angel of Thursdays

“Don’t worry about it.”

The door closed. It may have been the first time in Cassiel Minseok Lim history that those words had come out of his mouth and May had barely seen his face because he’d been all the way out of the car.

May waved out the window, then blew out a puff of air.

“Oh! I think he’s put the address in already but I’m just on Balboa…”

The seat beside him was still just warm enough that he could sense the absence, or maybe he was imagining that, because he wasn’t going to reach over and touch the seat to check for residual ass-warmth. It was not that kind of night.

May laced his fingers together in his lap and watched the city go past in streaks of light. Third Street through SOMA, then the underpass, the freeway ramps, the surface streets where the light changed through the wet glass, orange lights through fog making every block look the same, only he was used to staring through glass in the dark and knew the shape of the city. Market Street through the windshield now, and there was an old dude with a newsboy cap on holding a sign that said BWOLF SALE and May very badly wanted to know what a bwolf was but the driver probably didn’t stop for bwolves. And Cassiel had already paid.

He fiddled with the zipper of the bomber and discovered it was one of the ones that went both ways. The jacket was wine-dark—sort of a dark purple that was also blue, depending on the light, and the light in the car was not helping. He pulled the zipper up all the way, the zipper pull cold against his chin, and then shoved it up further so it sat over his nose and when he breathed in he got more of the cologne again.

The horse girl music carried on twanging as the car crossed Fulton. The park was a black field to the left, trees swallowing the streetlights. May leaned his head against the window and felt the glass cold through his hair.

He felt in the pocket of the jacket for the red envelope, rubbing a corner of it until it blunted. Anna had forced it onto him when he’d arrived at the restaurant. May hadn’t checked how much there was inside—one because it was tacky, two because it meant knowing.

It was Will’s money, and it was Anna’s money, and every year it felt dirty. He couldn’t make his sister not feel guilty because she never admitted she was, but he knew what it meant and he couldn’t refuse it either. Anna was the grifter in the family, only she gave you money.

The car stopped opposite the house. He thanked the driver and got out and stood on the sidewalk for a second. Then he felt for his keys in the back pocket of his jeans and crossed the street.

Inside, the apartment was dark and exactly the same. His fingers found the envelope in his pocket again as he kicked off his shoes and made his way to the bedroom.

May flopped down on his side, the bomber still on, just lying there in the dark. After a while he slid out of the clothes, got under his covers, draped the jacket over his legs and did not go to sleep in it because tonight he was not being pathetic.

* * *

“You look better,” Anna said.

“I slept,” May said, which was mostly true. He’d slept in increments between bouts of staring at the ceiling and replaying Cassiel’s voice saying I think so in a boba shop in Dogpatch. “I slept amazing actually, like a baby cherub swaddled in clouds.”

The New Taraval Café had peach-colored walls. Anna had already ordered eggs. Louis was beside her, hunched into the booth with his phone flat on the table and a plate of French toast he was eating with his hands. He was wearing the same Palm Angels shirt from last night and had an inexplicable pair of shitty sunglasses on.

“Is that…?”

May looked down at Cassiel’s bomber like he’d forgotten he was wearing it. He’d put it on deliberately because the morning was cold and his hoodie smelled like sweat and anyway, wasn’t warm enough. His only real jacket was still elsewhere, lost to the city.

“Cassiel’s. We swapped last night because Dad’s coat was too big on me and Cassiel has shoulders. The logical thing to do. Y’know.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. She picked up her coffee and drank, watching him over the rim.

“It’s nice,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s like a… waxed oil… cotton canvas thing. Water-resistant. Quilted lining.”

“It’s nice that you have someone’s jacket, May.”

Louis looked up from his French toast. “Is he ordering? I want more toast.”

“Finish the toast you have,” said Anna.

“I’m so sorry,” Louis replied in his shitty Mandarin. “Mama, when did you get here?”

Anna flung a toothpick at him, then flagged the server. Louis ordered a second plate and a side of bacon, smugly. May ordered the Brisket Hash and Eggs and another coffee.

“Chinese New Year,” she said.

Louis’s chewing slowed.