“Didn’t think I’d see you dressed in one of these,” I say, sunken into one of the living room armchairs. 

“Ah, you’re mocking me,” Jorge laughs. 

“It’s one of Hapi’s?” 

"Yeah,” he says quietly and looks down at his hands. Charcoal powder around his nails. He smells like paint. Hapi had found himself another artist. A habit he couldn’t rid himself of even after we left the old country. “I can’t stand his empty side of the bed. So I stay on the couch. But sleep isn’t easy.”

I squeeze his hands in mine.

Lucas takes his headphones off, “Sammy’s running late.” 

Somehow, I still wait for Lucas to get angry. I wait for him to yell. But he doesn't. He's tired and mellow.

“That’s alright,” Jorge nods, and then toward me, “He’s working two jobs now. His family isn’t doing so well.”

“Anything we can do?”

Jorge shakes his head. 

“You know Sammy, he doesn’t like to talk about his situation.”

“And his sister?”

“I think he’s bringing her along. No one to look after her. These days, he drags her everywhere.”

We sit in silence. Lucas’ new apartment is in a surprisingly sheltered area. A street lined with large trees, deep shade during the day. Spacious rooms with nothing but stacked cardboard boxes inside. Bare, dark. windows mirror our faces. We hang between August and September — almost Lucky’s birthday. 

It feels as if we’re about to scatter. I don’t think we’ll find any sort of closure tonight. Don’t think toasting shots in his name and pouring mouthfuls of vodka on the ground will do it, either.

Hapi’s absence leaves a bigger void than we can understand. It wouldn’t be like the few days he barricaded himself inside his one-bedroom to memorize maps of the nervous system and chemical formulas. 

He’s just gone. 

———

Outside with Lucas for a smoke, I sigh, wrapped in his leather jacket. I’m asleep against his chest when he moves. My eyes are heavy. 

“Sammy’s almost here,” his mouth in my hair and I hug his waist.  

“I’m nervous about going to the Hibiscus. He’ll ask me about seeing Victorin in France. About those godforsaken paintings,” I say, tired and grip at his clothes. 

The exhibition and the enthralled gazes of the guests. The overwhelming awe at Victorin’s talent. The canvases towered over us. My heart beat in my throat because I remembered everything.

 But we had them now. And no one would see them again. Lucky could set them on fire if he wanted. 

“Fuck his paintings,” Lucas says, plainly. “Lucky will be glad to see you. He’s always liked you more than me.”

“That’s not true. You push him away.”

Lucas scoffs, cold lips grazing my ear. His low voice rumbles between my ribs. “He acts too spoiled sometimes. And I hate the way you look at him.”

“What do you mean?”

Sammy’s car around the corner. I get up from Lucas’ lap, dizzy from the brief, jet-lagged sleep. I lean against the railing. Even in the dark, and under crappy streetlights, I can tell Sammy’s cut his hair. It reaches only down to his jaw now. I’d never seen him with hair so short. Strikes me as his own way of mourning Hapi. 

He runs up the stairs and pulls me into a big hug. It takes the air out of me. I wasn’t here. How could have I anticipated it? I don’t know what to say so I bury my face into his shoulder. I don’t want to see Lucky at all. 

His sister, Purple, hangs awkwardly by the car, looking down at the sidewalk. Younger than us and barely out of high school, she’s a little shy. Hands stuffed in the front-pocket of her hoodie.

“Apparently he’s booked us a nice table right in front of the stage.”

Lucas exhales the cigarette smoke through his mouth and nose. His cheeks hollow out, carving shadows into his face. The white cloud merges with our breaths and thins out against the clear night sky. 

“So he’s out then,” Lucas says. 

I turn around, “Out?”

The front door creaks when it swings open. 

"Hey, man! Took you long enough." Jorge’s voice echoes down the empty street. They laugh loudly. Sudden excitement. Most of the windows are dark. Most sane folks are sleeping at this hour. 

I hadn’t thought about it. Lucky was likely very unwell. He cracks and freezes in hospital gowns. I wasn’t here. When he can't manage to get a wink of sleep at night and calls me to talk about whatever, because he can’t stand himself.

Lucas rubs his unfinished cigarette into the concrete with his shoe. A few sparks escape and flicker orange in the night before they vanish.