Love & Other Natural Disasters

by Misa Sugiura

  I’ve never heard her admit she’s wrong about anything. I feel my pulse start to quicken.

  “When did you change your mind and start being okay with—”

  She holds up her hand and shakes her head. “I’m not okay with. Gay is not a natural thing.”

  I feel like she’s slapped me with that outstretched hand. “But you—”

  “I don’t agree with the gay marriage. I don’t approve gay. But I accept it because I love Stephen. I accept Lance. Even I love Lance, because Stephen loves him.”

  This is not what I was hoping for.

  She purses her lips in a little frown. “At first, he said I could be in his life if I would love Lance and be okay with the gay marriage. But I told him I shouldn’t have to force to change my views just to talk to my son. I was too angry at him for making a condition for me. Then later I said I would accept, but he said that accept was not enough. Back and forth. I had to grow, and he had to grow. It took a long time because our family is stubborn. We don’t like to compromise our ideals.”

  She flips the page and starts off on another story: the time she secretly taught herself to drive her father’s car. But I’m still stuck in the past few moments. It took Baba five years to compromise her ideals and accept her son back into her life. All that time, all that heartache, and she hasn’t really changed her mind. Will she ever?

  I may never have the relationship that I want with Baba. I feel pretty sure now that if I come out to her, she’ll still love me and want to have some kind of relationship with me. And maybe it’ll feel good to be open and honest with her. But I’ll always have to know that deep in her heart she doesn’t approve of who I am. Her relationship with Stephen is proof of that. And me coming out will probably upset her and cause all kinds of family stress that none of us needs right now. Can I justify pushing her to change and grow for my sake when she’s already overwhelmed by the way her life is changing?

  Or can I let go of my need for her to change? Can I let go of my dream of having a picture-perfect relationship with her?

  I don’t want to. But I think I can. I think I have to. I don’t have to stop trying to change her mind. But if Baba can’t love me the way I want her to right now, maybe I have to learn to accept her love in the only way she can give it to me.

  45

  NOW THAT THE TANABATA PAVILION IS UP AND running and fully staffed by volunteers, and the gala is over, Dela has stopped coming to the museum. So at least I don’t have to see her avoiding me. The obvious drawback to this, of course, is that I never get to see her at all, and I’m left to the hellscape of my imagination. Most of the time I imagine her with some new girl who’s smarter and more talented and better dressed than me, who looks like a supermodel, and who doesn’t do anything rash or mean or insensitive. It takes every last atom of my (limited) self-control not to pop into the gift shop every other day to ask Willow if Arden has heard from Dela, and if Dela is seeing anyone new. The cold dread I feel when I imagine that the answer is yes is another deterrent.

  I’ve been trying to let go of so much: my dream of being part of an impeccably styled, A-list romantic comedy couple; my need for Baba to be strong and sharp and willing to change; my illusion that Dad really worked to save his marriage; my fury at Mom for cheating. I’m trying to face the messiness of my life and not run away from it, and to focus on loving quietly and patiently, with empathy. It’s been feeling more and more possible, but I still struggle.

  I wish the universe would just let me hang on to one small thing, just this one little relationship with Dela—but it’s been a couple of weeks with no word from her, and I’m resigning myself to letting go of her, too. It’s really hard.

  Max is tapping away at his laptop and I’m on my way out of the staff room to do some Digital Archive Interning one morning when he calls to me.

  “Hey. I heard one of the Tanabata Pavilion volunteers is out sick today. And Dela’s subbing in.”

  Dela? I freeze.

  He clears his throat and says with a mischievous grin, “If you hurry, I bet you can get the other volunteer to give you their shift.”

  Why does he have to be so mean? “Shut up, Max. I learned my lesson, okay? Reality, good. Escapist rom-com plans, bad. You don’t have to rub it in.”

  “No!” Max’s eyes go wide. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant for real. Listen, I know I give you a hard time about all your romantic bullshit, but . . . life is less fun when you’re not reaching for something big. I don’t like seeing you all sad and defeated. And I think you deserve a chance to apologize, at least. And maybe if you’re lucky . . .” He shrugs.

  I stare at him. “Wait—are you suggesting that I take an emotional risk without any guarantee that it’ll pay off? Are you perhaps implying that a little optimism might be a good thing?” I almost smile at this.

  “Best-case scenario, you get back together. Worst-case—and this is more likely, if you ask me—you apologize and she tells you to fuck off.”

  “So there’s a best-case scenario now? And it’s a happy ending? Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

  “Did you not hear me say the worst-case scenario is the most likely?”

  “But the best-case—”

  “Shut up and go to the courtyard.”

  There she is, in her usual jeans and T-shirt; her jacket is hanging on the back of her chair. I freeze. What do I do? I can’t go in and sit down next to her. But I can’t exactly quit and walk out.

  I could, though. I could pretend to be sick. I could pretend to sprain my ankle and have to be taken to the hospital. I could pat my pockets and go, “Oh! My phone!” and run out like I’m just going to fetch it, and then never come back. Dela probably wouldn’t care, anyway. In fact, she’s probably hoping I’ll do just that. She’s probably hoping I’ll—

  Sigh.

  I can’t leave.

  Deeper sigh.

  It would be cowardly.

  I’m taking a breath and getting ready for an even deeper sigh when someone taps me on the shoulder and says, “Um, excuse me. Are you going in?”

  It’s one of the Academy of Art students, looking very artsy with multiple facial piercings and electric-yellow hair. I step aside and let them pass, and then, because I am not a coward, I walk into the courtyard after them.

  Dela greets Yellow Hair with a polite smile, which fades when she sees me.

  “Um. I think I’m supposed to sit here with you for this shift,” I say.

  “Welp. Have a seat, then.”

  We sit at the Wishing Table in agonizing silence for ages, during which Dela doodles on one of the wishing papers and I watch her out of the corner of my eye and wish I were anywhere else. I can’t even escape into my phone, because we’re supposed to be playing a role, like actors.

  It’s torture.

  I try to call up all the imaginary conversations I’ve had with her over the past weeks, but the only opening lines I can remember are terrible:

  Hey, how’ve you been?

  I can’t stop thinking about you.

  Ahoy there, matey! (This was if I saw her at the Pirate Supply Store on Valencia, where I went with Stephen last week. Though I would not have said Ahoy there, matey! in real life. In my imagination, though, Dela thought it was hilarious.)

  Out of sheer desperate need for something to do, I start doodling on my own piece of wishing paper. I hope she doesn’t think I’m copying her.

  I go through a couple of sheets of scribbles and curlicues, and then as my mind drifts, I find myself drawing a horse—the only thing I’ve ever practiced drawing. It’s appalling—vaguely equine at best, only distinguishable from any other quadruped by virtue of its mane and tail. On a whim, I add a horn on its forehead, and immediately regret it. Now it’s a vaguely horse-shaped creature wearing a party hat.

  I’m about to crumple it up when I have another idea. Carefully, I draw a speech bubble over my party horse unicorn and write in my fanciest script You are a rare and magic
al creature and I’m sorry I was such a monster. Only I run out of room, so I have to write such a monster in a microscopic scribble. I probably should have just stuck with I’m sorry, but it’s too late now. It’ll be too hard to draw another horse. Unicorn. Unidentifiable four-legged beast.

  Before I can change my mind, I fold it into a crane, and push it over to Dela—just as she drops her own origami crane in front of me. We look at the cranes, and then at each other. This has to be magic. I don’t dare speak; I hardly dare to even breathe. I pick up the crane that Dela has given me, and unfold it carefully, keeping an eye on Dela so we open our papers at the same time.

  I undo the final fold and my heart leaps. It’s a horse—or the suggestion of a horse, just a few strokes drawn with a swift, sure hand. Along one of the lines that represents the mane, written in tiny block lettering, are the words I’m ready to listen. I turn my head to look at her and see her squinting at the last line of my message. “It says, ‘such a monster,’” I tell her. “You are a rare and magical creature, and I’m sorry I was such a monster.”

  Her mouth is a line, but it’s turned up at the corners. She faces me and turns my picture toward me, and I can see the laughter in her eyes. “You weren’t kidding about not being able to draw horses,” she says.

  “It’s a unicorn,” I say a little defensively. “And I can’t help it if I suck at—”

  “I like it.” She allows her mouth to open into a full smile, and my heart feels like it might burst—from joy, from relief, from hope. She likes my drawing. That has to be a good sign.

  There’s no time to say more, though, because a field trip of campers comes in, and then another one, and we’re busy folding wishes until our shift finally ends at lunchtime and Dela gets up and stretches one of those velvet theater ropes across the brass posts on either side of the wish-writing table. The other Administrators stroll out, chatting and checking their phones.

  “Can you two lock up for lunch?” says the yellow-haired art student, and Dela nods. And then we’re alone.

  Dela takes my paper out of her pocket. She reads it again, and then looks at me expectantly. “So?”

  “I’m sorry. For a couple of things. Number one, I said some really shitty, ignorant things about your mom, and about you, and I’m sorry. You should be allowed to feel sad or angry or however you feel for as long as you need to. And I understand if you hate me and you don’t want to see me ever again.”

  Dela nods silently and I feel my heart pounding in my head. All the hope I felt a moment ago starts to drain away. She liked my drawing, I tell myself. She smiled at me and told me she liked my drawing.

  “It’s not fair to ask me to be happy and positive right now,” she says finally.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Not everyone can be as upbeat as you all the time, even under normal circumstances.”

  “I know that, too.” I hesitate, then add, “But I’m not sorry about that part.”

  Dela smiles wryly. “That’s fair. And maybe I could lighten up a little. I’m working on it.”

  I move on to the second part of my apology. “Also, I’m sorry I lied to you about Willow. I’m sorry I set up that whole scheme in the first place. I wanted to remake myself out here, like, take on this new identity—and I got carried away, I guess. I treated you—I treated everybody—like just another part of my plan. But you were the best part. The only real part. I’m sorry I treated you that way. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  “Why, though? Why would you even need to remake yourself?”

  I tell her what I’ve figured out about myself—about how dreaming up and focusing on my plans for a perfect summer was so much easier for me than slogging through the painful realities I was facing. How Willow seemed so perfect, so far above the messiness of my life with her beauty and poise and talent—and how it felt like winning her heart would help me rise above my parents’ failures, and Baba’s, and my own.

  “Anyway, I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want some perfect fantasy that I made up in my head. I want something real, with a real person.”

  “I may be real, but I’m a mess.”

  “So am I. But I’m trying to be better. And anyway, life is messy. So.” I take a breath and say, “Do you think you might ever want to start over and try again? For real? With me?”

  This is the part where we kiss. Where we stand nose to nose, arms around each other, our lips almost touching but not quite. The part where, for a moment, for an eternity, we float in that liminal space between fantasy and reality, where I feel her chest expand as she breathes in, and I see her eyes flutter closed as her lips part in a tiny smile, and then I don’t see anything else because my own eyes are closed and we’re kissing, and it’s exactly like in all the movies and books, just like I’ve hoped and dreamed it would be.

  Ha. I wish. But that’s not what happens.

  What happens is Dela sighs. A big, long sigh. She says, “I’m not going to be the bright, sunny girlfriend of your dreams.”

  “You like lemon meringue pie. You can’t be all bad.”

  “I don’t want to be a sucker.”

  “You won’t be a sucker. You’ll be someone who believes in something good.”

  She takes my hand in both of hers and turns the palm up, then back over. “You’re leaving at the end of the summer.”

  “We’ll make it work. We’ll talk all the time. Maybe I can fly out and visit.”

  “You won’t lie to me and tell me things are fine, and then bail? Long-distance relationships are hard. I don’t want to fall in love and then get burned.”

  I choose my words carefully, for once. “I guess you’re right. I can’t promise anything.” I think for a moment, then add, “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want it to, and love doesn’t always conquer all. You know that better than I do. But you can acknowledge that things are bad, and still find a way through. And maybe sometimes that means you stop loving each other, or maybe you have to find a new way to love each other. I know that. So, okay. It’ll be hard, but I’m still hopeful. I want us to be together and I’m choosing to believe that it’s worth trying. Because I’m really, truly, head over heels for you.”

  I feel a little light-headed, and I can’t quite believe myself—I really laid it out there. Panting slightly, heart racing, I watch Dela’s face for a reaction.

  “Wow,” she says. “That was quite a speech.”

  “I meant it,” I say.

  “I believe you,” she says, and smiles.

  Okay, now. Now is when we kiss, for real.

  Author’s Note

  In Love & Other Natural Disasters, I wanted to explore (among other things) the complexities, contradictions, and limitations of love, which means that some of the characters end up making tough compromises in order to maintain loving relationships. I think it’s important to remember, however, that everyone has to make decisions according to their individual situations, that love can be deeper and more forgiving than we might expect, and that people can change and surprise us in all kinds of wonderful ways. Whatever compromises you make—or don’t make—in your life, my wish for you is that you end up surrounded by people who can give you exactly the kind of love you need.

  xoxo

  Misa Sugiura

  Acknowledgments

  During the process of writing and revising this book, I discovered that romantic comedies feel light and effortless because their authors (at least this one) toil mightily and with lots of help to make them so. Hopefully, I’ve pulled it off—and if I have, you may give credit to the following people:

  I owe so much to my agent, Leigh Feldman, for her faith in my abilities and her staunch, savvy, tireless support of my writing, both as my advocate and as my adviser. I am beyond lucky to have her in my corner.

  If you found yourself swooning or laughing or nodding in agreement as you read, it’s thanks to Stephanie Stein’s patient, good-humored, and insightful guidance from the (not very romantic or very comic
) first draft all the way to the gorgeous book you are holding in your hands.

  Speaking of which, you would not be reading or listening to this book if not for the work of all the talented people who put the finishing touches on it, gave it its physical shape and form, and sent it into the world: Stephanie was ably assisted by the indispensable Louisa Currigan; copyeditors Christine Corcoran Cox and Alexandra Rakaczki smoothed out the bumps in my grammar and usage (all remaining errors are mine); Alison Klapthor designed the sweetest cover ever; artist Hannah Good brought their ideas beautifully to life (follow her on Instagram @hannagoodart); and my publicist, Aubrey Churchward, and HarperTeen’s fantastic production (Erin Wallace and Kristen Eckhardt), marketing (Lisa Calcasola and Audrey Diestelkamp), conference and convention coordinators (Lindsey Karl and Stephanie Macy), and school and library mavens (Patti Rosati, Katie Dutton, and Mimi Rankin) spread the word about this book and made sure it got onto bookstore and library shelves, both real and virtual.

  I am extremely fortunate to have been able to work with authenticity readers C. B. Lee, Camryn Garrett, Zia Stephen, and Kyra Miller, whose counsel on sensitivity and authenticity issues helped deepen the characters, sharpen the dialogue, add texture to the settings, and even improve the plot of this book. Any inaccurate or insensitive representations are on me.

  Many thanks to Traci Chee, Gordon Jack, Kelly Loy Gilbert, Lisa Moore Ramée, and Sonya Mukherjee, the brilliant YA authors who read early drafts and helped me get unstuck when my characters went on strike. (Do yourself a favor and read all their wonderful books.) Many more thanks go to my monthly writing group, Viji Chary, Sandra Feder, Alicia Grunow, Louise Henriksen, and Rebecca Isaacson, who convened over Zoom to provide feedback on key scenes.