Searching Lucas

Nightlife in its splendor shone from the far west side of the buildings to the beachline, where tiki torches lit pathways for a trail of silhouettes. Floridians, tourists, and residents roamed in the tropical ambiance that embellished the area since the Cuban immigration. The state is known for its diverse culture, fishing, and of course, Disneyland.

Monica's balcony offered a distance that felt like solace, like a bubble on the sixteenth-floor luxurious complex. Monica Williams was very young for her age. 30 years old. Never married. Constantly works around the Bay Area as a real estate agent. She pulled her cascading black hair into a strand-free bun and clasped it with a red clip. Monica had her scarlet blazer and a white shirt underneath and had not removed her evening makeup when she opened the door for us. I looked down at her flats, then at the spaciousness of her living room—the minimalistic decor and the L-shaped couch. Lucas seemed hesitant, but Monica offered us a smile and a tour around the house like we were family.

She even had a spare bedroom we could use, along with a mattress wide enough for Lucas to sprawl his limbs. We had turbot in garlic butter sauce with green collards and biscuits: soul food meets Caribbean cuisine. I helped Monica with the cleaning, the two of us talking, laughing, and sharing stories.

Past the vast living room, the lone ashtray on the glass table brought a dreaded sensation, a need to take off the edge.

I already had a cigarette between my fingers, the faint glow blending in with the bright lights below, a flume of smoke mixing in with the salty air. The portable radio was on an 80s-themed station, complete with a DeeJay who spoke smoothly about the nightlife, the starlights, and the upcoming meteor shower. He was right. It was a starry 4th of July, even with all the light pollution down below.

My mouth was almost caving in the brown part of the cigarette when the sliding door behind me made that slight creaking noise. I quickly and discreetly flicked away the poisonous stick past the railing, pretending I'd never held one.

He was there in the pajamas I'd brought him: silky race car pants, a hundred percent polyester blue shirt, and fuzzy white socks. Lucas seemed embarrassed to wear it at first. A faint smell protruded from him: cocoa butter and a splash of cologne.

"Did you use Monica's perfume without her permission?"

Perplexion made Lucas's face hard and stern, confused, even. He darted his eyes for a moment before replying. "Maybe,"

I hummed, then turned to place my elbows on the railings. Lucas joined in, as I hoped he wouldn't notice the smell of smoke. Or if he did, I hoped he'd think it was one of the neighbors or from a group of chain smokers that gathered in a nightclub a few streets away.

"What do you think? Do you like it here?"

Lucas shrugged. "It's fine, I guess."

"Monica has treated us nice,"

"I don't think she likes me."

"What makes you say that?"

"She's not like you."

Monica had her routine: to have her bedtime set at a predetermined hour and when to take her iron tablets. Years turned Monica into a sheltered, ambitious woman—no time for niceties or fake manners.

When we ended up in the living room, Monica said this aloud while Lucas headed to the fridge for a glass of orange juice. "I don't like goodbyes. If I can leave a place without bidding farewell, I'll take that chance. No, it's not because of the possibility that if by doing so means that I might never see that person again. I don't believe that. I don't do it because it makes everything awkward and uncomfortable."

She wasn't wrong. Her statement did make her come across as distant, not intentionally. Monica was as honest and unfiltered as she came.

"She can be intimidating. Monica is—well, a very adamant, independent woman. You'll get used to her."

At the dining table, Monica spoke to Lucas and asked questions. She never had brothers, so it's no wonder her method was abrasive, especially since it was challenging to remember that Lucas was still a kid. A naive, intelligent kid who needed a push from someone. Monica worked a lot. Meaning her time with Lucas would be brief. It worried me far more than it worried Lucas.

"We'll get to spend the whole day with her tomorrow." I pulled a convincing smile. "Maybe then you'll change your mind."

"We'll see,"

We stayed there in silence. I wondered if Sylvia had started to suspect something. What if she had it in her to call the cops in one of the frenzies?

Another beating pulse reverberated in my head, a strong one that felt like it would split me in half. I cupped my forehead. It felt warm.

"I'm going to take a shower,"

I extended a hand on the door hinge to open the door. Monica was on the futon watching a telenovela.

"Jess?" Lucas called.

I spun around. "Yes?"

"Can I ask you something? And don't be bothered if you can't."

"Anything. What is it?"

Lucas pressed his lips together and darted his eyes to the ground. Our eyes met, his with innocence, mine with a hint of skepticism. "Can you not smoke anymore?" He said. "When you were gone, Michael used to do that often."

Without second-guessing, I picked my carton with my complementary lighter and tossed it toward the edge of the building. The lighter fell fast on the pavement, nearly hitting a group of tourists, and the Marlboro box fell flat soon after.

I stared at Lucas with a wave of emotions: remorse, a stupidity that stemmed from my choice to live recklessly. And that was because I was a coward to come clean to Lucas about the fact that in 29 days, I'll be gone.

"I'm sorry, kiddo." I leaned in for a quick hug. Lucas stood there, not knowing how to react.

When I turned and returned to the living room, it was like the possibility was there: the days, the hours. The big hand was there, ticking, striking each second, edging closer, counting my final days as Lucas's only sister.