Haruki (Haruki Arima Book 1)

by Laine Watson

  I look at Haruki. I heard Hayden say it too. “What’s ‘ah-dee-mah’?”

  “Oh!” Haruki laughs. “He’s saying Arima, my last name. He’s just rolling the “r.” I hate when people don’t know how to roll it. It seriously bothers me.”

  Halfway through, I stop listening to him and find something to build dislike off of. It is hard, but I latch onto the language thing and consider it a flaw. Ugh! Because someone doesn’t speak like you, you hate them? Idiot! Haruki is just like every other guy.

  “Did you hear me?” Haruki asks.

  “Yeah, I heard that stupid stuff you were saying, but stop talking to me, so I can do the damn test. Stop wasting my time,” I snap, and then realize I didn’t find my pencil in my bag. “Do you have a pen or something?”

  “Wait! First you insult me, then you ask to borrow something?”

  “Either let me borrow a pen, or I’m leaving. It’s up to you.”

  “You’re the one who needs help!”

  “And I’m the one asking for something to write with, asshole.”

  “Oh, my God!” He snaps his head back and massages his tense muscles. “What is wrong with you? You have like split personalities or something? When Trent came in here, you were all innocent and cute, now you’re like a banshee from hell.”

  Wait, did he just call me—doesn’t matter, I’m on a roll!

  “Give me something to write with! You said you needed this job, didn’t you, Haruki?” I purposely don’t roll my “r.”

  “Oh, my God. I just said, I hate when—”

  I cut him off, “I don’t care!”

  “You could at least try to say it right.”

  “Did you not hear me? I don’t care.” I hold the practice test in my hand and threaten to end this right now. “Give me something to write with, or I’m ripping this paper up and leaving. It’s not that important to me, and neither is your stupid ass name!”

  “Clearly,” he grunts, as he gets up and looks for something to write with. He opens the desk drawer and pulls out some mechanical pencils. “Here!” He rolls one over to me on the surface of the desk.

  I scrunch my nose and pick it up. “Thanks!”

  “You’re welcome,” he says with a bad attitude.

  I try to get comfortable in the chair. He watches me for a while as I study the test and try to come up with answers.

  “What are you looking at?” I snap.

  “Nothing! There’s nobody else in the room. It’s human nature for eyes to veer when something moves.”

  I scoff, trying to get comfortable and concentrate.

  “Do you want something to drink? I’m going down to the vending machine,” Haruki asks, interrupting my concentration.

  “You don’t even have an accent!” I snap, clearly not responding to what he has asked, just talking to build up the wall between us.

  He sighs. “You only listen to what you want to hear.”

  “You’re trying to tell me something about rolling an ‘r’ when you don’t even roll your own.”

  “Okay. I’m going to assume that’s a no on the drink and completely ignore what you just said. It’s not like you give a damn that I was born here. You’ve already been unrealistically racist, so I’m just going to go.” He leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

  As soon as the door shuts, I sigh heavily, putting the pencil down and check my phone. I have a text from Darby: “Hey, there’s a party. You should come.”

  I smile, but it slowly melts off my face as I begin to think about Haruki. I’m not racist, he’s just … he’s just stupid. I bend down and look in my bag to see if I have some extra clothes. I do.

  I hear the doorknob turning, so I hurry up and get back to working on the test.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Haruki holding two bottles in his hand. He walks past the desk and places a bottled water next to me. I watch his every move, hypnotized by how his clothes fall on him. He sits down, opens his bottle of juice, and takes a sip.

  Why is he being nice to me when I am trying to push him away? Nothing makes sense about him, but he has a really nice body. How the hell did I even notice that?

  I didn’t even notice that I was noticing. What is wrong with me? I look over at him and roll my eyes exaggeratedly. “I said I didn’t want anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Water is good.”

  “I don’t like this water.”

  “Everybody likes water.”

  “I said, ‘I don’t like this water.’”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you brought it to me.” I say angrily, rolling my eyes and sliding the bottle on the floor with my hands.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you some racist-ass bitch or some sexist-ass one? Do you just hate all men? Or Asian ones, specifically?”

  “Yes! Especially guys with stupid names like Haruki.”

  “That’s not how you say it!”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Do your fucking test and get out of my room!” Haruki howls.

  A shiver goes through my body. I’m being unrealistically hateful toward him. Still, there’s something about Haruki that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s because he’s making my heart beat out of my chest for no reason at all. I gulp and work on my test again.

  Some time goes by, and we say nothing to each other. Finally, I’m done with the practice test.

  “Okay, I’m done,” I say, handing him the sheet of paper.

  We exchange looks, and while he analyzes my answers, I anxiously wonder what takes him so long.

  “Okay.” Haruki lowers the paper and smiles. “It’s not that bad. You’re actually okay at Calculus. You seem to get through the work just fine, but a few steps before you reach the answer, it looks like you just get lazy … or bored.”

  Definitely bored.

  “You just need to focus.”

  “Okay.” I roll my eyes and stand up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving. I’ve been here for two hours. Like you said, ‘finish my test and get out.’”

  “But we could knock—”

  I stop him from talking by holding my hand out in the air. “I’m bored, and you’re boring. Plus, I have plans.”

  “If you just let me show you how…”

  I sigh. “Give it up. I’m not staying. I might not even come back.” I bend down to get my shirt out of my bag, lay it on the desk, and reach for the bottom of my shirt. I pull it over my head, exposing my nude lace bra.

  Haruki stops asking questions as I undo my bra and slide it off my shoulders. I have no idea what the blank look on his face means. Guys have seen my boobs before, so it doesn’t matter if anyone sees them.

  “Um,” he says, searching for some words.

  “What? You’ve never seen boobs before? Stop acting weird.” Even though Haruki makes me feel different, he’s still a guy and thus, scum. I grab my other shirt off the desk and put it on. I stuff the first one in my bag and slide the bag on my shoulder.

  Haruki still wears a blank look on his face. “You just stripped right in front of me and didn’t bat an eye.”

  “I’m in a hurry. I told you I have plans.”

  “Is tha—is that normal for you?”

  “I just changed clothes, idiot. Haven’t you ever seen a girl’s body before? You’re so immature.”

  “I’m sorry. Girls don’t just come into my room, pick fights, and then flaunt their breasts in my face.” He balls his fists beside him and leans forward.

  “Because your name is Haruki.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No girl strips or does anything else for a guy named Haruki,” I snap, “Stupid ass name.” I walk to the door, with every intention of storming out, but Haruki grabs me.

  In his hands, my skin burns like fire—a pleasant sensation. I cannot speak as he stares me down. I am overwhelmed with all his strength and gentleness. With our proximity, the aroma of all his masculinity infiltrates my n
ose and I gulp.

  “Say-it-right,” he demands.

  “What?” I peep.

  “Say it! Roll the ‘r’,” he orders.

  I say nothing. I simply stare at him while trying to grasp my feelings.

  “Say it! Haruki.”

  I gulp. My thoughts amiss as I am overtaken by all of him. Don’t say it. Don’t say it like he’s saying it. Don’t say it.

  “Say it!”

  My mouth waters. Almost involuntarily, I open it and words flow out, “H-a-r-u-k-i.” I roll the ‘r’ as my body simultaneously rolls into him.

  His eyes pierce into me, causing a sensation of deepness to cascade over me. His eyebrows furrow. He’s so angry with me, but still so kind. How?

  I want to say his name, over and over—I don’t want him to let me go.

  My breaths are heavy as I shimmy out of his grasp. I manage to pull myself away from him but not completely. I become immobile as I stare into his eyes.

  His grip loosens enough for me to escape.

  “I have to go.”

  6 Years Later

  Chapter Three: Comparing

  The fleeting sensation of being the agitated object of affection for men and giving nothing in return, gets old fast. No matter how much I try to pretend I like the empowerment, it’s a lie and my true desires surface. I push them down, but the feelings that bubbled up inside of me for the beautiful, greenish-gray-eyed college senior with the strange name, always surface. Even if I want to be loved by someone, I can’t be sure someone, especially someone I like, will ever reciprocate my feelings. So why give any consideration to it?

  By the time I actually get to college, I don’t care about the same things. My mother continues in her success, getting her own office and practice. However, our relationship suffers, especially once I decide not to go back for the Junior Entrepreneur Program my senior year of high school. I don’t go to college right away either. To my mom, my lack of drive makes me nothing but a nuisance, or so it seems.

  Six years later, that’s where we stand, and I’m okay with that. My biggest focus is not letting my loneliness consume me. I’ve about given up on being successful at anything: falling in love, finding a career, and living life.

  What is life anyway? What’s the point of being successful, and who measures success? I think I’m doing awesome, honestly. All the people I know who are successful aren’t even happy, and they treat people like crap most of the time. Even their success stories are stupid. They got there either by neglecting other things, riding on someone’s coattails, doing manipulative stuff, luck, or by being a complete asshole. Unfortunately, I don’t have the will in me to flatter someone enough, nor feed them bullshit and use them as a steppingstone.

  I’m too lazy to lie, and it’s too much of a hassle to try and step on people’s heads or be a bitch. I’m not lucky. I guess I lack the drive to be one of those people. I’d be considered a late bloomer, who is still blooming.

  Right now, I’m going to Canon University, the fast track university in town. It’s pretty lax and just right for me. Darby’s there too.

  My mother, on the other hand, is not lax at all. She is a highly sought after, accomplished speech therapist who has appointments for her appointments. Most times, she gets home late, and sometimes I make dinner. Mostly, I chill in her office a lot and wait, like today.

  I sit in my mom’s office playing on my phone, my feet crossed on her desk.

  My mother sighs. “Summer, please. Get your feet off my desk. I shouldn’t have to tell you that; you’re not a child. You act like I haven’t taught you anything. You can’t treat this like your friend’s house—”

  “I don’t have any friends.”

  “This is a place of business. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Okay, Mom,” I say, without looking at her.

  “What if one of my colleagues comes in and sees you acting like this is a living room?” She takes a seat across from me at her desk.

  “Okay! You don’t have to talk to me like I’m an idiot.” I sit up and put my feet on the floor.

  “And could you please get off that phone. If you’re going to be here, at least be helpful. Go make copies of these forms for me.” She hands me a few sheets of paper with writing and typing on them.

  I snatch them away from her. “Whatever!”

  “Do not mix them up!”

  “Okay.” There is agitation in my voice, which she clearly picks up on. Not that I care.

  I exit the room and head toward the photocopier. The whole time thinking, Why does she have to talk to me like I’m a child? Like she’s so much better than me. I don’t care about her stupid office. I sigh and make the copies before taking them back.

  She is on her computer doing something. I lay the copies on her desk and sit back down, so I can browse through social media.

  “Is that what you’re going to do all day?” she asks. “Do you have class?”

  “No,” I say, rolling my eyes at her.

  She sighs. “When I was twenty years old…”

  “I know, Mom—when you were twenty, you had a kid, never dropped out of school, and you already had your first bachelor’s degree. By the time you were twenty-two, you added another degree. Blah, blah, blah. I’m twenty-two—whatever. I don’t care. I’m not you.”

  “But you’re not even trying to do anything with your life.”

  “You don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I know you’re still at home with your mother. I pay your car insurance, your phone, and…”

  “I bet that’s why Dad left you!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re always telling me how much better you were than me at this age. I bet you did the same thing to Dad.”

  “I didn’t have to do that. I didn’t have to remind him of how much time he was wasting sitting around doing nothing, but I don’t have to explain anything to you. Until you get a real career and stop wasting my money, I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

  “Whatever,” I say with conviction.

  “Ms. Vaughn?” my mother’s assistant says as she opens the door.

  “Yes, Rachel?”

  “Your four o’clock is here.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right out.” My mother smiles cordially until Rachel closes the door. Her smile leaves, and she glares agitatedly at me. “You need to go find something to do, Summer. I have business to take care of. I can’t watch you too.”

  “Mom, why do you have to say stuff like that? You act like I’m literally doing nothing.”

  “Might as well be,” she says while gathering things and clearing her desk. “Fine. If you don’t want to leave, then go to the lounge. I’ll come and get you before I leave. This is my last appointment.”

  “Whatever.” I get up and head to the lounge.

  The lounge is a white-walled room with a coffee machine, a refrigerator, a square card table and four folding chairs around it. There is a storage closet in the back of the room that doesn’t have a light, just lots of forgotten boxes of papers.

  I sit in one of the folding chairs and browse the web on my phone, but then my mind wanders, and I get lost in my own thoughts. I hate when she compares us. We’re not the same. I do need to figure out what I want to do, though.

  I could be a teacher. If I go for education or communication, I can narrow it down the closer I get to graduating. Yeah. Then my mom won’t think I’m such a screw up. I’ll show her you don’t have to treat people like crap all the time just because you’ve got a bunch of degrees and shit.

  “I should probably move out, shouldn’t I?” I think out loud. Maybe next semester I should stay on dorm; since I’m such a disgrace. I shake my head. I wish I could go stay with my dad but, I haven’t heard anything from him since he and mom got a divorce. It’s not like we were ever close. I stare up into the boxes of papers, a curious gaze in my eyes, I wonder why they got divorce. She never talks about it. I guess I’m a horrible chi
ld because I never ask about it. It was probably because she’s a bitch.

  Some more time goes by, maybe an hour or so, and my mother walks into the lounge.

  “All right let’s go. I’ve got a headache now.” She stands near the door of the lounge with her bag.

  “Okay,” I say, and we leave the office.

  Chapter Four: Disappointment

  On the drive home, my mother is mostly quiet. The silence gives me time to study her mood. She seems more aggravated than usual. I know she gets on my nerves, but I don’t want her to be mad at me all the time.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “What happened in your meeting? Or are you mad at me still?”

  “I—I’m not mad at anyone. My meeting was with this loser who doesn’t know anything about being a father.” She pauses and smirks a little bit. “He is handsome, though. I hate that.”

  “What?”

  “Men! You know the type—the ones who know they are attractive and rock a great body and a great head of hair? It’s like they say, ‘I know I’m good looking, so I don’t have to put forth any effort in life. I’ll just use my looks to get me everywhere.’ And women are dumb enough to allow that—not me.”

  “Oh, Mom. Why do you automatically say things like that?”

  “Things like what?”

  “You’ve never said anything good about any client I’ve asked you about. If they’re so bad, then why do you still see their kids and do business with them?”

  “Because they’re paying me five-hundred dollars an hour. For that much money, you can be an idiot all you want. And this guy is a complete idiot.”

  “How do you know, Mom? That’s so dumb for you to just assume he’s an idiot.” I don’t know why I’m so mad at her for saying it when I think all guys are idiots.

  “Okay—and don’t call me dumb—maybe he wasn’t a complete idiot. He’s a joint business broker for Alson. You know, the big building downtown with the reflective windows?”

  “Oh, yeah. The one with the weird statue in front of it?”

  “Yeah. He’s got a lot of money, which is why I can do business with him. His kid is pretty smart. His name is Max—what a basic name. The guy’s name is Haruki, and he couldn’t come up with anything better than Max?” My mother laughs.