Love & Other Natural Disasters

by Misa Sugiura

  She grills me as I give my report: But what did Arden say exactly? But her tone, what was her tone? Together, we break down every gesture, every glance, every possible nuance of word choice. Willow is relieved to hear that Dela didn’t seem super into it, but notes grimly, “Arden loves a challenge.” We go over Arden’s weird reaction to my story of our pretend romance. I hedge a little, because a) I’m less and less sure I did see that hard expression in her eyes, and b) Wouldn’t it be better for me if Willow thought Arden didn’t care and couldn’t be won back?

  “By the end, I wasn’t even sure I saw anything,” I say. “She was just so nice, mostly.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. She’s not a bad person—well, she’s a shitty person for leaving me, obviously.” Willow attempts a grin, but it sags almost instantly, and she sighs heavily. “No, she’s amazing . . . Ugh, I hate her.” She takes another steadying breath and continues, “My point is she’s nice, but if you thought you saw something not as nice, you were probably right. Which”—her expression lifts a little—“could be good, if it means she was jealous. Do you think she was jealous? Or do you think she was just suspicious?”

  “I don’t know,” I say apologetically.

  She waves me off. “Not your fault. Ughhh, I wish I’d been there so I could’ve seen for myself! Speaking of which, let’s talk about Saturday. Do you think we should crash their date?”

  “Umm . . .”

  “She’d be so pissed. And she’d deserve it, too.”

  Crap. “It won’t feel weird, spending that much time together?” I say.

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To make things feel weird.”

  It’s now pretty clear to me that we’ll be going to the Ice Cream Bar no matter what. And the only thing worse than accepting Arden’s invitation to double-date would be to crash the date and have Arden go, “But I invited you!”

  So I say reluctantly, “Right. Okay. Well. It’s just that we don’t need to crash it because Arden said it would be fine if we came, too. I just have to tell Dela.”

  Willow’s eyes narrow. “She said what?”

  “She said we could come,” I repeat. “Like I said, though, we don’t have to. In fact, I think maybe—”

  “Oh, we do.” Willow’s expression is thunderous. “She’s totally bluffing. She thinks I won’t go. So now we have to. You weren’t sure if she thinks we’re really together, right? Well, this is a perfect way to show her that we are!”

  The thing is, once I agreed to be pretend girlfriends, I kind of figured it would be all slow dancing at parties, sitting next to each other on the bus, and sharing a bed or a hotel room—the kind of faking you can do without having to actually interact with your audience. Like our social media posts. But we’re not at school where the gossip mill could do the work for us, or on a road trip where kindly old B&B owners we’ve never met will hilariously mistake us for a married couple. Willow’s right. The success of our fake romance hinges on lots of quality time with Arden and Dela.

  Sigh.

  “Good point,” I say. “Okay. So then I guess I’ll talk to Dela.”

  “Okay, awesome. Oh, hey—what if I come to your house beforehand, so we can plan your outfit? I’ll bring some of my clothes, and you can borrow whatever you want. And I can help you with your makeup.”

  “That . . . would be great!” I say. That is to say, Willow in my room, lending me clothes and maybe even touching my face—definitely great. The fact that she seems to think her help is necessary? A tad demoralizing. And there’s the matter of Stephen, Lance, and Max. “Um. You should know that my uncles and my brother might kind of . . . sort of . . . think we’re dating for real.”

  I hold my breath, ready to apologize for spreading a lie, but Willow is delighted. “Oh my god, that’s perfect! The more people who believe we’re dating, the more convincing it is. I’ll make sure to tell my mom tonight.”

  Okay. That’s cool. Very cool. Everything’s cool.

  “So, cool,” Willow says. “Find out what time we need to be there, and I’ll come over like an hour or two before. Okay?”

  “Got it,” I say with a quailing heart. Can I really pull this off? Dela and Arden, okay. Stressful and awkward, but necessary. Stephen and Lance shouldn’t be too hard to fool, but I feel like a jerk, escalating the lie. Lying to a social media audience is one thing. Lying to your family is something else. And Max—I don’t even want to think about Max. I have no issue lying to him, but he’s already a Willow skeptic. And as I’ve mentioned, he’s Sherlock Holmes–level observant.

  Willow gives me a hug, which lifts my spirits and helps me focus. The plan is working. The plan, in fact, is the only reason I have her in my arms right now. If it means surviving the fuss my uncles are sure to make over her, Max’s scrutiny, and one uncomfortable lunch with Dela and Arden, so be it. I just need to focus on making sure that it’s all so great that she’ll want to make it real.

  17

  WHEN I GET HOME FROM THE MUSEUM, MAX IS IN his room. Stephen and Lance have gone out, but there’s a plate of Lola’s lumpia—a secret family recipe handed down from Lance’s grandmother—and a note from Stephen that says,

  Z,

  Talked to your dad earlier! He misses you and he’s dying to see you. Be a good girl and chat with him tonight.

  xo,

  S

  I finish off the plate and dutifully FaceTime Dad, hoping he’ll already have gone to bed, but he’s up.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, Zozo,” is the first thing he says. “Stephen tells me you’re dating that girl I keep seeing on your Instagram.”

  Dad, too? “It’s only been a couple of weeks. It’s really not worth talking about.” I try to move on. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, so you’re deflecting, huh?” he says, all jokey-jokey. “Yeah, I see how it is. A couple of weeks in San Francisco and you’re too cool to share things like your very first girlfriend with your dear old dad.” I can hear the reproach under the joke, and now in addition to being nervous about what to say, I feel guilty for leaving him alone in Chicago and irritated with him for being so needy and making me have to lie to him.

  “There’s really nothing to tell, Dad.”

  “All right, I’ll give you your space. As much as it kills me to do it.” He smiles sadly. “I just feel like you’re growing up extra fast out there.”

  It almost wins me over—he is a good dad, and he means well. But like I said. So very needy. So very nosy. “That’s what kids do,” I say. “We grow up.”

  “Yes, you do,” he agrees. But giving me my space apparently is killing him because he adds, “Just be cautious, okay? You have a tendency to throw yourself into relationships so wholeheartedly—your friendships, your crushes, every teacher you ever had in elementary school—and that’s such a great quality, but . . .”

  It’s hard to hear him say all of this, especially when there’s nothing to say it about. (Yet!) Fighting back the urge to scream, I say, “Hey, Dad?”

  “What, honey?”

  “Remember how you just said you were going to give me my space?”

  “Okay, okay. Oh, but wait—here’s an idea: What if you FaceTime me with her, so I can meet her?”

  “DAD!”

  Finally, he backs off and we switch to topics where I don’t have to lie my face off, like my work at the museum (fine), how I’m getting along with Max (fine, mostly), and whether any pizza restaurants around here have managed to pull off a decent Chicago-style deep-dish pizza (no), before we say goodbye and he makes me promise to use my best judgment with Willow. Of course I will. I will be sensible and cautious, and I will carefully assess how things are going at every stage of the relationship.

  Just not in the way he thinks.

  Once we’ve signed off, I watch some makeup tutorials, searching for looks I can ask Willow to replicate for me when she comes over, anticipating how it will feel when she touches my face. Halfway through the third video, Max comes in and I quickly p
ause it and switch tabs.

  “Was that a makeup tutorial?” he asks. “Here’s a tip: give up and wear a mask.”

  “Shut up, Max.”

  “What’s with this new obsession with makeup anyway? You never used to wear any.”

  Huh. I’ve been wearing makeup since the first day of work; I thought it was strange that he hadn’t noticed. But I guess he just didn’t care enough to mention it. “Just trying to expand my horizons.” I wish he’d go away and leave me alone.

  “This is about Willow, isn’t it.” It’s not a question. In fact, I get the unsettling feeling that he was heading this way all along.

  “What? No.”

  “It’s definitely about Willow. You’re trying to impress her.”

  “I am not,” I say perhaps a touch more defensively than I mean to.

  “Copying someone’s look and pretending to like their hobbies won’t make them like you more,” he says. “Just FYI.”

  “Just FYI.” I mimic him in my most pompous voice. “Like you’re such an expert. Why are you always trying to undermine my relationship with her?”

  “You know how I feel. I’m just trying to protect you.” Just like Dad. As if I’m going to be a victim to Willow’s every passing whim.

  “Well, thanks for the sentiment, but I don’t need your protection. Anyway, Willow already likes me plenty, so you can just fuck right off.” If he had any idea just who’s pulling the strings—how much control I have over the situation . . . well, he’d still be a jerk about it.

  “Whatever you say, Makeup,” he says with infuriating calm. Before he goes, he tosses a package on my bed. “That came for you this afternoon. It’s from Mom. Apparently, she loves you more than she loves me, because I didn’t get anything.”

  “That’s because you’re a dick,” I say, and he laughs and leaves me with the package.

  I open it to find two lipsticks, a liquid eyeliner, a palette of twelve shades of eye shadow, and a card. This is so weird. How did she know? I open the card and read it. It says,

  Dear Zomi,

  I heard from Max that you’re into makeup these days—looks like your sweetie is, too! I’m so glad you’re having a little fling out there in SF—now’s the time to experiment with everything: lovers, makeup, jobs, life! Just make sure to use a dental dam if you have oral sex, okay? I know I’m being cringey, but it’s important to be safe.

  Love,

  Mom

  Dear Mom, I imagine replying,

  Sweetie is almost as bad as bae, so please never use it again. Or lover, for that matter. Please do not talk to me about dental dams and oral sex like you’re reminding me to wash behind my ears. Finally, please don’t use the word cringey. It’s literally making me cringe.

  Love,

  Nozomi

  I do kind of love that she sent me all this makeup. It’s nice to have one parent who sees that I need some freedom to live my own life, to experiment—but she’s just as annoying and intrusive as Dad in her own way, pumping Max for information about me and giving me unwanted advice and making me feel nervous about lying and worried about whether I can make the lie come true. On top of that, it’s like both of my parents are trying to give themselves a do-over through me. Sure, it’s sad that their dreams fell apart. But it would be nice if they’d find new dreams for themselves instead of foisting their old ones on me.

  18

  I AM A MOSSY BOULDER IN A ZEN ROCK GARDEN.

  I am calm. I am patient.

  I am floating peacefully in time, which means nothing to me, because I am a rock that has existed for—

  Forty-six minutes. She’ll be here in forty-six minutes.

  I drum my fingers on my chin and wait again.

  Be a boulder.

  A second, a minute, an eternity . . . what is time, after all, to a boulder?

  Forty-three minutes and thirty seconds. Gahhhhh.

  I can’t stand it. I’m going nuts. I’m too jittery to focus on anything online. I can’t put on makeup because Willow’s going to do it for me. I can’t choose an outfit because she’s going to help me choose one. Will she expect me to get undressed in front of her? What if—what if she wants to switch tops with me? The thought of us both taking our shirts off and standing in front of each other in just our bras sends an electric thrill through my body. Maybe I should change in the bathroom to show her that we’re just friends and I’m not trying to seduce her or anything, because what if she figures out how I feel, and then laughs at me? On the other hand, how am I going to move us toward More Than Friends if I keep pretending that I only see her as a friend?

  Forty-three—what? Oh, whoops. Forty-two minutes.

  Maybe I’ll make some scones, out of that Trader Joe’s scone mix I saw in the pantry the other day. They’ll be ready by the time she gets here. “Come in and have some scones,” I’ll say as delicious sconey aromas waft from the kitchen. “I just took them out of the oven.” And—bonus!—I’ll be a baker, just like Arden. Willow doesn’t need to know they’re from a mix.

  Inspired, I bound down to the kitchen. Stephen and Lance are reading their phones and drinking coffee; Max is standing by the sink, guzzling water, having just come in from a run, from the smell of it.

  “You smell revolting.” I wrinkle my nose and turn away from him.

  “Thanks, so do you.” He takes one more glug of water and starts heading out of the kitchen. “Are you . . . baking?” he says as I pull the mix off the shelf. “Is this because of Willow? You must not like her that much after all.”

  “Guess what, Max. Fuck you.”

  “Language,” says Stephen absently, and Max smirks at me.

  After checking to see that Stephen’s not looking, I flip Max two silent middle fingers.

  Because the thing is, he’s right. My baking portfolio, such as it is, is basically a series of images from Nailed It! My confidence wavers, and I read the instructions on the box with a new sense of trepidation. They seem simple enough, but the risk of having to present Willow with a tray full of carbonized hockey pucks is very real. With a dark scowl at Max, I put the mix back on the pantry shelf. “I’ve changed my mind,” I say.

  “No! Come on, I’ll help you, sweetheart,” says Lance, but I refuse because I want Max to feel bad.

  Finally, at 9:57 (three minutes early!), the doorbell rings. My heart does a twirl and I fly downstairs to answer the door, shouting, “I’ll get it!” On my way down, I’m tempted to beg Stephen and Lance to act normal, but Max is back in the kitchen with them (having showered and changed, thank goodness). If he knows how nervous I am, he’ll do everything he can to throw me off my game.

  Willow’s got a casual weekend look going—leggings, powder-blue Chuck Taylors printed with some logo or other, an oversized sweater, and an artfully messy braid over her shoulder—but she still manages to look glamorous.

  She hands me one of the three shopping bags she’s carrying: “I didn’t know what you had in your closet, so I brought a ton of clothes for us to try.”

  “Give me those, honey,” says Stephen, who was apparently unable to wait for us to come upstairs on our own and has appeared behind me as if by magic. As Willow takes her shoes off, he exclaims, “Oooh, are those the new Dior Converse?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “Aren’t they cute?”

  “It’s a collaboration between Christian Dior and Converse,” Stephen explains on our way up the stairs, anticipating my question. “Haute couture meets streetwear.”

  “Did someone say Dior Converse?” says Max as we emerge into the kitchen. Feeling the need to show Max how real we are, I take Willow’s hand, and thankfully, she plays right along and doesn’t look surprised at all.

  Willow smiles at him. “Blue ones,” she says.

  Max whistles appreciatively. “Nice.” I watch him warily, waiting for a sneaky comment about . . . I don’t know. Something about how he’s surprised she’d want to hang out with a fashion fail like me. Or a reference to some NBA player being great at
rebounds, wink wink, nudge nudge. But nothing comes. Maybe he’s decided to be polite.

  I’m just extricating Willow from the social niceties, grateful that we’ve escaped without having to make up any stories or answer any hard questions, when Lance says to Willow, “So, where are you going? We’ve asked and asked, but this one here has not been very forthcoming.” He gestures at me affectionately, and my eyes almost pop out of my head. I’ve been ambushed! I wonder if Stephen put him up to this. I’ve been cagey with him about our destination, on the off chance that he mentions it to Cliff, and Cliff tells him that’s where Dela’s going, too.

  Before I can stop her, Willow says, “No, not at all! We’re going to the Ice Cream Bar for lunch.”

  Stephen looks at her as if he isn’t quite sure he’s heard her right, and I seize up inside. “The Ice Cream Bar?” he repeats. “By Golden Gate Park?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “But that’s where Dela’s going with her new girlfriend!” he says. “Cliff just told me yesterday. Did you know that, Zozo?”

  My fears are coming to life before my very eyes.

  “Uh-huh,” I say weakly. “We’re actually meeting them there. Double date,” I add. Because Willow and I are Officially a Couple and going on a double date is a Thing That Couples Do.

  “You’re . . .” Stephen looks completely flummoxed now. “But isn’t . . . I mean, Dela’s girlfriend. Isn’t she . . . er, your ex-girlfriend?” he says to Willow.

  “Yes, but it’s . . . it’s fine.” Willow stumbles at first but lands it smoothly. “Totally fine. It was tough in the beginning, of course. But things are much better now.”

  “Still.” Max casts a dubious eye at Willow. “No offense, but a double date with the ex? Is that really a good idea? Won’t it be kind of awkward?”

  “Shut up, Max. Mind your own business,” I snap. I knew his manners earlier were too good to be true.

  “Hey. Someone had to say it,” says Max, raising his hands defensively.

  “No, they didn’t.” I glare at him.