Page 88 of Sapphire Spring

Naser knew Los Angeles well. He’d visited West Hollywoodplenty during his college years, usually to hit crowded gay bars with Connorand their college crew. But his sister’s home was in Silver Lake, agood wayseast. Despite being heavily gentrified, it wasstill considered an artsier, funkier alternative to the more affluentneighborhoods of LA’s West Side. The terraced hillside houses sported stunningviews, but they sat on smaller lots and lacked the eye-popping infinity poolsof the celebrity mansions perched throughout the Hollywood Hills.

Pari rented the lower unit of a two-story, paint-peelingwooden house that tumbled down a leafy hillside and looked out over the SilverLake Reservoir and the rolling green hills beyond. Mostly he visited here toattend her wild parties, so it was the first time in a while he’d encounteredher narrow street when it wasn’t fully clogged with parked cars. Her guestswere always a blend of starving artists and funky Hollywood types who dressedlike starving artists even though they made seven figures a year, to whom his sisterwould introduce him as if he were somealienfromanother planet. “This is my brother. He is an accountant. Forgive him, please.”Her friends would in turn ask him concerned questions about why he still livedin Orange County, as if some form of systemic oppression had prevented him frombeing granted political asylum in Los Angeles. When he told them he loved hispeaceful condo and that his favorite thing was to watch planes take off fromJohn Wayne Airport, they’d pinch his cheek and call him “adorkable,” and he’dhead back home the following morning, reminded again that he and his sisterinhabited different worlds.

The black Prius at the curb wasdefinitelyPari’s, but LA was such a dry city he couldn’t tell if the dustywindshield meant she’d returned home the day before or an hour before.

Hell of a detective he’d make.

He raced down the rickety set of outdoor steps that led tothe porch outside her front door and saw the curtains on her windows werepulled shut.

He didn’t knock. He banged, his bottled-up fear spilling outthrough his arm and fist.

“It’s open!” his sister yelled back.

“Wait!Seriously?”

He stepped inside, taking care not to slam the door behindhim, which is exactly what he wanted to do.

Pari’s apartment was mostly open space, the bedroom cordonedoff with some tapestries she’d dyed herself. The furniture in the seating areawas made up of precisely arranged stacks of beaded pillows that required gueststo sink to their knees before taking a seat. His sister lay across a mound of themwith her arms thrown out, as if she’d been dropped from a great height. Smokerose toward the ceiling from her right hand.

Persian rugs covered the hardwood floor. Piled just insidethe front door were plastic tubs full of fabric rolls, bags of sequins andbeads, and several sewing machines. She’d either cleared out her studio spaceor she’d started to after the Bliss Network dropped her.

A noxious odor hit him in a suffocating wave. He coughed andwaved a hand in front of his face. “Weed? Seriously?”

“I know. It’s terrible. Why is this a thing?” Even as sheasked this question, she brought the joint to her mouth and inhaled.

“Youtell me. You’re smoking it.”

She exhaled dragon style. “I had to try something. I’m offsugar, and mushrooms seemed extreme.”

“Celebrating your new investor?” He knewgoodand well this wasn’t a celebration.

“Soyou drove up to gloat, is thatit?”

“More like Maman’s worried sick. I had to cancel a datetonight.”

Pari’s eyebrows shot up like rockets. “A date?You?Withwho?”

“I’m the one who just sat in traffic for three and a halfhours. I get to ask the questions.”

Pari shrugged. “No phone.”

Naser knew his sister wasn’t going to offer him anything todrink, so he made a beeline for the fridge. “Since when?”

“Since I threw it.”

“Threw it where?”

Pari gestured over one shoulder. “Out the window. It’s downthe hill, I think. Or a coyote got it. I don’t know.”

Naser took a long slug of caffeinated soda, knowing he’dneed it. “Why are you feeding phones to coyotes?”

She stubbed out her joint and gave him a heavy look.“Feelings,” she answered, as if he’d never had one and she was too tired toexplain how they worked.

Naser dashed off a text to their mother informing her Pariwas alive and there was something wrong with her phone. Covering for his sisterwas reflexive. The little fib only stung after he’d sent the text. He pocketedthe phone. “Should I call someone you actually feel like talking to?”

“I don’t feel like talking. That’s why I threw my phone.”

“Are you sure? I mean, there’s lots of reasons to throw aphone. Anger’s usually at the top.”

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