Smith crooked his fingers, calling me over toward the other end of the wall. He stood in front of a massive aquarium, but immediately I saw the fish he was pointing out for me. It was a betta, like Cassandra, but their container was twice as big, their tail twice as frilled. They were a dark reddish orange, and I imagined if a Phoenix were a real animal, it would look a lot like that.
“Good call,” I agreed.
“I’ll go find some help.”
Smith ventured off to find someone who knew how to Jenga the fish out of the wall without collapsing everything, and I took a step closer until I had to tip my chin up to look at the fish. They were perfect.
“You find something you like?” a female employee asked, Smith flanking her on the approach.
I nodded and pointed toward the fiery betta. “This one.”
“A good choice.”
“They’ll make it,” Smith said to me, brow knitting together when the employee threw him a curious look. “His last fish died.”
“On arrival,” I muttered.
The employee looked shocked, adjusting her keys on her arm. “From here?”
“No. From a store by my house.”
She gave me a quick onceover, obviously assessing the differences between me and Smith, correctly judging what part of town I came from.
“Most places neglect their fish,” she said, busying herself with shifting the fish’s container out of the mosaic. Once the fish was free, I realized there were a series of intricate and thin shelves jutting out from the wall to hold the containers. The foundation was sturdy, even if it didn’t look that way.
“And you don’t?” I asked.
“No,” she said simply. “We don’t. Do you need a bowl or food?”
“I still have it,” I rasped.
She nodded, carrying my second chance at fish fatherhood toward the register area. Smith and I followed after her, and I paid her twice as much as I’d paid for Cassandra, accepted her upsell of some treatment for the water, and then Smith and I were on our way. I held the fish on my lap the whole drive backto my apartment, lifting the container off my lap when Smith took a turn too hard. I didn’t want the fish jostled or scared.
I wanted them to have their best chance at a life with me.
“Can I come up?” he asked after we parked.
“I’ve been unpacking all day; my apartment is a mess.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s small,” I said.
“Okay.”
“I don’t even have a couch right now.”
“I can stand,” Smith said.
I realized there was no getting out of it now. Smith Covington was my friend.
“Okay,” I conceded.
We rode the elevator up to my apartment, and if Smith found my studio lacking in any way, he didn’t say a single thing about it. He walked right to my bed and sat down on the edge of it, leaning back and holding himself up with his arms behind him.
“It’s not that small,” he remarked.
“It’s the size of your brother’s bedroom.”
