Diego stood over us, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Morning, sunshine. Or afternoon, technically." He nudged my leg with his boot.
Lorenzo was still asleep beside me, his breathing even.
I groaned and rolled away from him.
Diego took another drag. "Every cop in Rio is looking for you, by the way. Church mobilized Sacra Custodia units. You've got maybe forty-eight hours before they find this place. We have to go make arrangements to get out of here. That means you’re on duty making sure your boyfriend here doesn’t bleed out while we’re gone.”
I frowned and sat up. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Just try not to kill each other while we’re gone.”
The door closed behind him and Jasper with a hollow echo.
I turned and looked down at where Lorenzo was sleeping. It’d been a full day since he’d passed out in the shower. He’d come around a few times since then, mostly to eat, drink, or find his way to the toilet. But we hadn’t talked. I certainly hadn’t asked him why he’d said what he did.
Now we were alone.
Maybe I’d get lucky, and he’d stay asleep the entire time Jasper and Diego were gone.
As soon as the thought crossed my mind, Lorenzo stirred and groaned, one hand going to his bandaged side. His eyes opened and found mine immediately.
"You're still here," he said quietly.
"So are you."
He pushed himself up and limped toward the back of the warehouse, where the bathroom was. When he returned, it was with a bottle of cachaça and two glasses.
"Are you sure that’s wise?" I asked as he twisted the cap off. “You were barely conscious a few hours ago.”
He poured himself a glass, and then another. “All the more reason to get drunk. And I’m not drinking alone.” He slid the second one toward me.
"I don't want to—"
"I don't care what you want." He picked up the second glass and placed it in my hand. "Your father's dead. He was the closest thing to a father I had, and I killed him. We're both fucked. So we're going to sit here and get drunk."
I sighed and closed my fingers around the glass. "To being completely fucked," I said and drank.
The cachaça burned all the way down my throat. Lorenzo drank his in one go, then held out his glass for more. I hesitated, then poured him another.
By the fourth glass, the edges of everything had started to blur. I'd migrated to the floor at some point, back against the wall. Lorenzo sat across from me.
"What was your mother like?" he asked.
“Why the fuck do you care?” I spat before I could stop myself.
To my surprise, Lorenzo wasn’t hostile. He shrugged. “I barely remember mine.”
I winced and looked away, trying not to think about how similar he and I were.
"Kind," I said eventually. "Too kind for the life she married into. After she was diagnosed with cancer, I prayed every day for God to save her. I begged. Pleaded. But she died anyway. Then Gabriel drowned." I took another drink. "What kind of God lets a kind woman die, lets a child drown, and leaves a man like my father untouched?"
"Maybe He doesn't choose," Lorenzo said. "Your mother got cancer because cells mutate. Gabriel drowned because pools are dangerous. Not because God decided they deserved to die."
"So God just watches? Does nothing? What’s the point of prayer then?"
"Maybe we're supposed to make our own choices. Fight our own fights."
I sighed. “Saint Augustine said that prayer is an exercise in desire. In seminary, we’re taught that unanswered prayer isn’t evidence of divine silence. It’s a conversation. But it’s always felt one-sided to me.”
