Searching Lucas

Sylvia might be unwell. Unstable, even. But unlike Michael, at least she knew how to pick her apartments accordingly: a ghetto-free zone, close to a high school crosswalk, with a few convenience stores nearby. Green, mowed grass in perfect square formations to the sides, a bellman ready to move the door handle, and a private parking lot.

How Sylvia is even paying for this is beyond me. Sylvia was no more than a housewife who paraded half-naked most of the time. Sylvia's father is the CEO of a rising supermarket chain specializing in all-natural food products, and her mother sells properties. We've visited her folks at Raleigh—they are good-intended, educated people. But they've never come to the complex, mainly because of the shady location or because they didn't like Michael.

I assumed Sylvia's father gave her some money after the death of Michael to aid her financial situation. That or Sylvia has found a new job—or a husband.

A guy walked past with a pack of dogs, all on different colored leashes: red, brown, and black. One of them looked similar to Bongo. From the sidewalk, I peered at the number written below the address. 202. Sylvia's dorm. I was so close to Lucas. Will he even recognize me? Will he even care?

I can't almost believe that I had gone through all that trajectory only to see him one last time. It'll be worth the effort once that happens. I'll stomach Sylvia's presence if it means sharing time with Lucas, who has to be thirteen by now. Not a kid, almost an adolescent. Talk about unfortunate phases. I could imagine the horror: high-pitched, nasally congested voice, blemishes, acne, and hair growing on his soft skin in unexpected places.

I dropped the kickstand and took a deep breath, mustering the courage to take the first step. Putting my faith in the security of this neighborhood, I began to walk forward to the cobblestone leading to two sleek glass doors. Two ferns adorned each side as a black bellman in a white suit opened the door with a stoic expression. I took another breath. I wish I hadn't overeaten at Louise's place.

A svelte woman went past me with a man in a polo shirt. I realized how slow I was walking. I was basking in the environment, the smoothness, the unhurriedness of everything. This place wasn't half bad. It was above average.

A wave of nausea suddenly struck, like vertigo. The complex was suddenly spinning as though the Earth was on a moving ship: everything swayed, and even the cobblestone resembled a steady ocean. Standing up straight was suddenly impossible. My head felt like it was about to burst into bits. I made my way to a nearby bench, grabbing my head with both hands and pressing in an attempt to make the nausea go away. Sweat began to pour from my head, drenching my skin in coldness, creeping into my neck, and flooding my cheeks with what felt like ants crawling underneath.

I needed a cigarette. I needed to smoke.

With shaky hands, I reached into my pocket for my Winston and lighter. It could have been my smokes—my lack of nicotine coursing through my bloodstream. It could have been my brain tumor—warning me of my death date with each warm pulse.

I needed to make these thoughts disappear. I needed to close the distance between the cigarette and inhale.

I held the smoke inside my cheeks, then released abruptly. Like a miracle drug, I stopped seeing blurry lines. The scenery returned to its serene state. Everything was back to normal. I tossed the half-full cigarette away and stood up perfectly, now with a mild migraine.

I look to my left—to the bellman opening the glass door to a resident. Except now he was smiling.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. I almost wanted to cry.

With my heart beating, I stood amid the doors, watching, waiting.

Lucas looked up at me. I smiled at him. His mouth moved, a beaming look on his face as he seemed to utter the words. "Jess?"