Chapter 9
MAY
THE EIGHTH THURSDAY
The week was leaking. As leaks went, it wasn’t a catastrophe.
It was more like when the washer had given up in July, and now produced a slow, rhythmic drip that cost him on a bill he didn’t pay close attention to and worked as a free white noise machine.
That kind of leak. Eventually going to be a problem, but someone else’s problem.
The leak in the week was Cassiel’s name in his phone on days that weren’t Thursday. Like when ink bled through on a page.
Tuesday: a screenshot of a keyboard with keycaps that looked like mahjong tiles. No context. May had replied OMG I love her and then, lol wait is that a keyboard followed by 340 DOLLARS???????
Cassiel’s response arrived eleven minutes later, which May knew because he’d checked: For the build quality, inclusive of the keycaps, the price is reasonable.
And the switches are hand-lubed. To which May had typed and deleted You know what else is hand lubed?
three times before sending That’s nice for the switches and putting his phone away.
Wednesday: a photo of a sandwich. Not even a good photo.
May had never considered whether a sandwich had bad angles before but Cassiel Lim found one.
Cassiel had sent it, again, without commentary, and May had to work out if this was a bit or if he had simply decided May needed to see his lunch.
He’d replied with a photo of the Lau Kee alley dumpster—lunch—and Cassiel had sent back a single period.
Thursday fell on Halloween. May brushed his teeth. He then checked the green notebook and found nothing urgent. Then the yellow, even though he was sure he had no other STDY things lined up. Finally he checked the purple notebook—Thursday. Purple time. Everything in its place.
His costume was already on—black-and-white striped shirt (horizontal, not vertical, but it was the thought that counted), black tie, black jeans, and a pair of vegan leather Docs he’d saved for in college that were now cracking, because vegan leather and general neglect.
The wig was from a dollar store and it sat scratchily on his head like a crusty white dog without the heft.
May caught the bathroom mirror again on the way out.
“Morning, Shitty Betelgeuse,” he greeted the mirror. He didn’t wait for a response.
The 29 was late, which was fine because May was also late, which happily meant he was on time for the bus that was late.
The universe had done the math and decided to cut him a break for once.
Golden Gate Park’s canopy hung overhead, the light going golden-brown. He drummed his fingers on his thigh.
It was Thursday and it was Halloween. Across the aisle, a guy in a red hoodie and a ski mask with Sharpie-drawn eyeholes spotted the wig and the shirt and asked, “Betelgeuse?”
May flashed him a grin. “Deadpool!”
“Hell yeah.”
Shitty Betelgeuse and Shitty Deadpool exchanged waist-level thumbs ups, and the bus rumbled on.
A kid in a dinosaur costume hopped from foot to foot at the Judah stop. May watched the dinosaur’s mother adjust the costume’s tail so it wouldn’t drag and felt something clearing in his chest, a raincloud making way for sun, and he drifted on.
* * *
Sparrow’s purple paint wasn’t cheerful today, muddy in the fog.
Just a building, same as the boutique ring shop beside it and the place with the soy wax candles that deceptively looked like other things.
There were pumpkins (possibly candles) in the window as May passed.
He snapped a picture for Louis, then strode onwards to the café.
He pushed through the door, declaring, “Betelgeuse!”
The barista, whose name was Jonas and looked like a Jonas, nodded. He was wearing a tiny witch hat on his mop of brown curls. No other embellishment or attempt made. May thought that was beautiful.
He was five minutes early, which wasn’t a record but still respectable. Cassiel’s bench spot was empty, which was wrong. Cassiel was always here first: drink ordered, bench claimed, fidget ring already clicking. May glanced at his phone. 9:55. No texts, no nothing. He looked around.
The specials board had been updated in orange chalk: PUMPKIN CHAI LATTE: IT’S SEASONAL.
He lingered near the counter for a minute or so, then when Cassiel didn’t emerge from the bathroom or spontaneously bamf into existence, he shuffled up to Jonas and ordered the pumpkin chai because it was seasonal and he was weak.
An interminably long time later, the door jingled open and Cassiel finally walked in and something was wrong.
Wrong was the volume dial turned down on a person who was already close to functionally mute.
The general silhouette of him was normal.
His green blazer all buttoned, his hair tidy, his messenger bag on his shoulder.
Everything was technically right, but the fidget ring wasn’t moving.
The ring was always moving—clicking through its beads in that quiet, constant rhythm that May had learned to read.
And the clock above the front door said it was ten past.
“Hey,” May said. “Happy Halloween. Are you a ghost?”
Cassiel sat down. No answer, no detour to the counter, and no drink. Even the act of sitting was heavier than usual, like the bench had more gravity today.
May waited. He had a whole bit prepared about the pumpkin chai, seasonal!
, and a follow-up about whether Cassiel had opinions on Halloween, because Cassiel had opinions on everything but expressed them like he was being charged per word, and drawing those opinions out was one of May’s favorite Thursday activities.
But the bit died before it had a chance to come out.
He knew what this was. Not the specifics or the cause, but May knew what running on empty looked like, had seen it in the mirror enough times to recognize the bones of the thing.
And Cassiel, who was always fine, buttoned up, tidy, ring clicking, sight line maintained, was sitting across from him with nothing clicking and nothing going on behind the eyes and nothing to say about Shitty Betelgeuse.
So May shut up.
The pumpkin chai appeared in the window and May went to retrieve it.
Jonas tipped his tiny witch hat. May took an indulgent sip of the drink, then pulled out the purple notebook and pretended to look at something as the espresso machine made a ssshshshh sound from behind the wall.
A girl at the window table turned the page of a thick-ass book.
After a while—two minutes? five?—Cassiel stood up, went to the counter, ordered his drink, and came back. The sit was no less heavy than before.
“They’re doing pumpkin chai,” he said.
“It’s seasonal,” May answered quickly.
The ring clicked. Once. Twice. May smiled.
They sat. May found the pen in the bottom of his backpack and started scribbling in the purple notebook.
No words, just a series of squares, checkboxes for nothing, the pen moving because his hand needed to move.
At some point May looked up and Cassiel was watching him draw empty checkboxes, and May could feel the attention on him.
“You don’t have to be quiet for me,” Cassiel said.
“I know.”
“But you are.”
“Egocentric much? I’m being quiet for me. You’re just passively reaping the benefits of my profound personal growth.”
The sound Cassiel made wasn’t a laugh, because laughs weren’t allowed to be that small and that tired. Cassiel’s hand moved on the table, a slight shift of position that brought his fingers an inch closer to where May’s pen hand rested on the open notebook.
May looked at the fingers. Looked at his own hand. His scar, between thumb and index finger, white and slightly raised, caught the light from the window.
He put the pen down and placed his hand on Cassiel’s forearm.
His hand on the olive green of Cassiel’s blazer sleeve, resting, the way you’d put your hand on a table to steady yourself except the table was a person.
He could feel the muscle under the fabric.
The warmth of skin through cloth. The very slight tension that rose in Cassiel’s arm and then, after two seconds that were each a year long, released.
And the thing that happened—the thing he’d been not-looking-at for weeks, the thing the purple notebook knew about and the yellow notebook didn’t and the green notebook had no business knowing—pulsed in his body before it trickled up to his head.
A warmth that started in his palm where it touched Cassiel’s arm and climbed through his wrist and settled somewhere inside his chest cavity.
He could feel his own hand and he could feel what his hand was touching.
The two sensations were connected and they were both his and he wasn’t behind the two-way mirror, he was here. Cassiel’s arm was here.
Oh no.
“Head injury,” he said as if that made sense, pulling his hand back. “Sometimes I just—need to touch something. Grounding. You know. Sorry. Are you—What’s the word. Touch-averse? Sorry.”
Cassiel looked at the place on his arm where May’s hand had been.
“Okay,” he said, which was not an answer to any of the blabbering.
And it was not okay. It was the opposite of okay. It was a situation inside his ribcage and May had just blamed it on his brain damage like a lying liar.
“So,” May said, too loud, shoving his notebook into his backpack vehemently. He yanked the zipper shut. “What’s the plan. For today. We doing—are we doing the thing? The park thing?”
“If you want.”
“I want.” He heard himself say it and the echo sat in his mouth—I want, I want, turning over and over, threatening to break the seal. “Yeah. Let’s do the park thing. Let’s get refills. You wanna try the pumpkin? It’s seasonal.”
He stood. His hand buzzed—not pins and needles, just the memory of warmth through fabric, still humming. Cassiel stood as well, suspiciously tall today, or maybe he was always that height. May narrowed his eyes, then clocked the slight heel on his shiny boots. He was cheating. That solved it.
* * *