Searching Lucas

55 days, like predicting the forecast.

"I'm glad you came," Nate finally said after an extended silence, a sleek red table between us.

It was here, Cafe DeLevine, where we snuck away one time on one of his tours. We'd been on a road trip, a venture to give Nate a taste of how a rock tour would feel like once Nate achieved fame as the next Alice Cooper.

Things between us have been stilted since the separation. We've been constatly seeing each other, or asking about each other through our mutual friends. Nate had called Louise's grandmother's landline every once in a while to ask how I was. Nate thinks I have no clue.

And because Nate had those mellow green eyes—the ones he had when he found out one of his best friends had died at an orchistrated accident—I knew Louise had spoken to him.

"Louise told you, didn't she?"

The waitress served us our cups of black coffee. And I had an impending urge to smoke already, the start of a nicotine addiction. The end of my first deadly vice.

Nate took the cylinder canister and poured a prolongued cascade of white crystallized sugar over the dark, bitter pool of caffeine goodness. He then stirred the coffee with a red straw, watching the heat almost melt the cheap plastic. Nate took the end of the straw and began to chew nervously, simulating a cigarette before setting it vertically to one side. One elbow on the table and a hunched neck, reminding me the first time we met. Nate had that awkwardness in him, a need to impress me but didn't know how. But I didn't need Nate to do that, he was impressionable as it is.

That was then—the Nate from across the table looked uneasy, seconds away from bolting towards the single glass door and into the streets.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked, almost hurt.

I shrugged, cupping my face with my hand, feeling like a ball and a chain were pulling me down suddenly. "I didn't know how you'd react," I lied.

Silence, again. Nate took another extended breath. "How long?"

"55 days," I said it like I was predicting today's forecast.

"Jess, I," Nate sighed again. "I don't want you to die."

"And you think I want to?"

I love Nate. I do. But this was exactly why I never wanted him to find out about my death. Not through me—and certainly not through Louise.

Nate has this sentimental side that served as a double-edged blade in our relationship: his emotions made him an attention-detailed person. It also made Nate's reactions a hiatus. Sure, I could have been selfless and gone through these months without telling another soul.

But it doesn't matter, now does it? Nate knows, and that's that.

"You could've at least let me know." Nate said, this time a bit louder.

"Nate, how do you expect me to tell you when I can barely believe it myself?"

"Damn it, Jess. I just—can't,"

"Look, Nate. Here is what's going to happen." I leaned forward, grabbed Nate's calloused fingers, his hands warm and rigid. They turned soft once I made contact with them. "I'm going to need your help. But you can't tell anyone about this and I mean it."

Nate did not blink, his green eyes pierced through my heart, almost making me want to act out on my instinct and hug him there. "What do you need?" He asked.

"I need you to be there when the time comes. When I call you, I need you to be at my beck and call. Do you think you can do that?"

"Jess," Nate's hand moved, making a reverse as he grabbed my hand with a grip. A formidable force, an unspoken message that I would always be safe as long as I am with him. "Of course I will. For you, anything."

I smiled thinly, then leaned forward and kissed Nate on the cheek. The first kiss since two years.

***

I hovered one finger over the black letters, Golden Arch Apartments, while I dialed the extension number.

My heart had begun to race and sweat had begun to perspirate between my arms before I even opened the phone book.

"Hello?" A voice I didn't recognize answered.

"Yes, hello? Is Michael Jones there? I've been trying to call to his room but he isn't answering."

"Who is this?"

"Jess,"

"Please hold,"

A background tune played, I recognized the awful jingle. It was the jingle used to promote the Toyota Corolla on the commercial, talk about one big craze, even while waiting.

It didn't take long before the receptionist answered back. "Hello, Jess?"

"Yes?"

"Yeah, so, Michael Jones is not residing in the premises."

"Um, what about Sylvia Berdanette?"

"Please hold," The receptionist said, a little bit annoyed.

I knew better than to bother people with stupid questions, but I had to know if Lucas was still there. But Michael was gone. It doesn't surprise me, knowing that the man with a knack of moving away isn't living there anymore. But if Michael was gone, then what about Sylvia? Or Lucas?

"Yes, so, we don't have a Sylvia living here at the moment." She didn't even bother asking if I was there, assuming that I'd be clinging deseperately onto the receiver.

"Do you have any records of where they might have gone to?"

"We can't provide that information, miss."

I sighed away from the reciever and uttered a Christ. Then I moved the phone back to me. "I am Jessica Jones, Michael Jones's daughter."

Silence. I held my breath.

"OK?"

Now I was getting annoyed. "Put me Alicia on the phone," Alicia was the owner of the complex, she knew me since I was sixteen, she'll be more help than this brat.

"Alicia is out for the moment, would you like to leave a message?"

Another choice is to drive up to the complex and speak to Alicia personally about their where abouts.

"No, that'll be all." I hung up without waiting for a reply.