by Sarah Kuhn
I can’t miss this chance. I can’t.
But I also can’t tell Auntie Och what I’m up to.
I shake my head, furiously trying to get my brain to turn on, to come up with some miraculous solution that will allow me to claim this thing I want so badly—
“I can help.”
Four Rakuyama women whip around in unison to gaze upon the source of that remark—Henry Chen.
“I can help,” he repeats. “With getting through this rush. The faster we get through all these customers, the sooner Rika and I can go study. Right?”
“Hmm.” Auntie Och squints at him, her naturally suspicious gaze somehow turning even more suspicious. “What experience do you have, fancy TV star? You know anything about working in a restaurant?”
“Not really,” Henry says cheerfully. “But I cook dinner with my parents all the time when I’m home in New York. I can probably pick some things up.”
“That’s so wholesome,” Belle murmurs.
“Mmm.” Auntie Och sizes him up some more, then seems to come to a decision. “Okay—hai. I run across the street to the store and get more panko—if I send one of you, I know you will get the wrong kind. Rika, you and Belle take turns waitressing and making the katsu.”
“And I’ll do the salad!” Rory sings out, dancing over to the counter that’s designated for salad-making, already covered in the piles of cabbage I shredded earlier.
“Henry Chen, you help Rory with the salad,” Auntie Och says hastily—because Rory, despite her proclamation, is actually completely terrible at making the salad. “Then help Rika and Belle with waitressing as needed. Maybe take pictures with your fans, ne? Tell them to tag Katsu That. And location tag, too, very important.”
“Of course,” Henry says, giving her one of his movie star smiles.
Auntie Och smirks slightly to herself, and now I can see her wheels turning—realizing that even though she doesn’t know who Hank Chen is, all of these customers do. And his presence can only mean good things for Katsu That.
As she bustles off to get more panko, I grab Henry’s arm and pull him aside, trying to ignore the blatant stares from Belle and Rory.
“Hey,” I whisper, scanning his face. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“The goal is to get out of here as quickly as we can, right?” he says, his eyes drifting to my baseball cap—and the bright red curl that has come loose yet again. “So we can make the meeting with Grace?”
“With hopefully Grace,” I correct. “I just . . . that crowd out there. Isn’t it bad for your anxiety?”
“Are you worried about me?” he says, his voice light—but there’s something underneath, something charged I don’t want to think about. Before I can respond, he switches back to his easy grin and gives me a shrug. “It’s actually better for me when I have a job, something to do. I can focus on that—on each piece of the task, even if it’s something as simple as smiling for the crowd. I’ll be fine, and we’ll be outta here in no time.”
“Okay,” I say, but he’s already marching over to Rory’s salad-making station. She’s dumped all the ingredients for Auntie Suzy’s signature miso dressing into a big bowl—in what looks like all the wrong quantities—and is mixing them together with fervor, her brow furrowed in intense concentration.
“Hey,” Henry says, smiling at her. “Rory, right?”
“Aurora,” she corrects, preening a little.
“Aurora,” he says, not missing a beat. “I guess I’m your assistant, huh? Wanna show me how to make this famous salad?”
“It’s all in the dressing,” she says, brandishing her bowl. “Ma Suzy spent years developing her special recipe. Wanna taste?”
“Sure,” Henry says, grabbing a spoon. He dips it in the bowl, takes a taste . . . and then turns absolutely green around the gills. “Oh, that’s, uh . . .”
I smother a laugh. The dressing is, no doubt, drowning in salt, which Rory always adds with way too much vigor. Whenever one of us tries to gently suggest that she measure the ingredients, she righteously points out that Auntie Suzy never measures anything. And she’s right—but one of Auntie Suzy’s witchy powers is she doesn’t need to. Her food always comes out perfectly delicious.
Rory did not inherit this power.
I’m about to step in and fix the dressing—like I always do—but Henry quickly swallows his terrible bite and reinstates his winning smile.
“Incredible,” he says to Rory, somehow sounding like he isn’t totally lying. “But you know what I think would make it even better . . .” He swipes a lemon wedge from the counter and holds it over the bowl. “May I?” he asks. “Final decision is the chef’s, of course.”
“Ohhhh, I totally forgot about the lemon!” Rory yelps, her eyebrows quirking upward. “Yeah, squeeze it in there.”
He squeezes the lemon in while Rory gazes at him adoringly. I find myself suddenly transfixed by the way muscle ripples up his arm, the way his plain white T-shirt hugs his broad shoulders and accentuates his golden-brown skin—
“Rika-chan!” Now Belle is hissing in my ear, startling me out of my very important study of, um . . . whatever I was just studying. “What’s going on?” she demands, jerking her head in Henry’s direction. “I know this isn’t about”—she draws her words out suggestively—“studying.”
“He’s helping me with the Grace thing—he knows her,” I hiss back, all too aware that my face is now several shades brighter than a fire engine. “And we might have a chance to meet her today, if I can actually get out of here.”
“Okay, I really need to know everything,” Belle says, swatting me with a kitchen towel. “I can’t believe you’ve kept all these important developments to yourself.”
“There hasn’t been a ton of time to share,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything later, but right now I have to . . .” My overactive brain grinds to a halt. So much has happened in the last ten minutes, and it feels like there are so many things I have to do, but I can’t seem to remember where I’m supposed to start.
Part of the problem, I suppose, is that my eyeballs are still glued to Henry Chen’s biceps.
I tear my gaze away from him—all too aware that Belle is tracking my every move—and aim myself at the dining room. At the very least, I can go see if the Becky table is finally ready to order.
The dining room is still in chaos when I emerge, and I let myself sink into it—the noise, the clatter of plates, the irresistible scent of fried panko wafting through the air. The Uncles have gone back to their drunken carousing. The line outside is now more orderly. People are still peering through the window, trying to get a glimpse of Hank Chen. But now that Henry’s been spirited away to the kitchen, some of the rabid frenzy seems to have died down.
The Beckys huddle around their table, combing over each other’s phones with great intensity, probably trying to find the perfect candid shot of Henry to post. Or of me. I wonder how rage-y I look.
I take a few deep breaths, touch the precious photos in my pocket, and remind myself of my quest: all I have to do is get through this late afternoon rush, take some orders, and be borderline pleasant. And then I can go to Grace.
I can do this.
I paste what I hope is an extra-serene smile on my face and march over to table four yet again, pencil clutched in my sweaty hand like a sword.
“I’m back!” I declare, making my smile even wider and infusing my tone with over-the-top brightness. Unfortunately, my attempts at being cheerful make my voice sound completely unnatural and I can’t quite squelch that thread of annoyance that keeps rising up, so my offer of help seems more like I’m threatening to bite their heads off. The girls recoil. I try to tell my face to freaking relax, but—
“Waitress! Hey, waitress!” A loud, sneery voice cuts through my thoughts. I whip around to see none other than Craig Shimizu snapping his fingers
at me, smug grin firmly in place.
I see red before I can stop it, then sternly order my kaiju-temper to stay leashed. The goal is to get out of here, not start a brawl.
“Excuse me for a sec,” I say to the table four girls.
I tighten my grip around my pencil—my sword—and cross the room to Craig Shimizu. His smug look never falters.
“Can I help you?” I say through gritted teeth. My tone is not completely pleasant, but at least I don’t sound like I’m about to bite his entire head off. Yet.
“Yeeeeah,” he drawls, lazily tapping the plastic-coated menu. “Can you explain the cheese katsu?” His nose wrinkles. “Doesn’t seem very authentic.”
“It’s basically as described,” I say, my shoulders stiffening. He clearly wants to start some shit, and I have to remind myself not to take the bait. “Cheese, covered in panko, fried. It’s for our more adventurous customers. There are plenty of very traditional offerings on the menu. As you know, since you’ve been here before. Many times.”
“Hmm.” He makes a big show of examining the menu. I tap my pencil against my order pad, trying to breathe through my full-body annoyance. “Maybe I’ll have a salad. But please ensure that it’s made by an adult who knows what they’re doing—not that brat who oversalts the dressing until it’s inedible—”
“Hey,” I snap, rage stabbing through me. “Do not talk about Rory—”
“You’re right,” he says, his smile getting even bigger. “It’s not her fault she was born into such a mega-freak family. Maybe if she had better role models—”
“May I take your order?” I interject loudly, doing everything in my power to keep my voice steady. I press my pencil to my order pad so hard, the tip almost snaps off.
“There’s that temper,” Craig says, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I’ve always thought that must be your white side coming through—you’re probably the reason Rory’s all messed up, huh?”
I reel back, all the blood draining from my face.
“I . . .” I swallow hard. My voice is wavery, on the verge of tears. I feel like I’m about to explode. Why does he have to do this? Why does he have to choose today of all days to do this?
“Is there a problem here?”
I nearly jump out of my skin, then turn to see Henry standing behind me, toting two big plates of katsu. Without missing a beat, he sets them down in front of two elderly Aunties at the table next to Craig’s. The Aunties gaze at him adoringly, then turn their attention back to me.
And suddenly I’m very aware of the fact that everyone is looking at me. I’m causing yet another disruption. The Becky table chatters among themselves and snaps pictures. The drunk Uncles openly stare at whatever drama’s about to unfold.
“No,” I say to Henry, collecting myself. “Everything’s fine. Go back to the kitchen and help Rory with, um . . .” I swallow again, trying to squelch the flush that seems to be overtaking me, the red haze that’s fallen over my vision. I know my nure-onna fangs are out now.
An excited murmur sweeps through the restaurant, everyone buzzing about Hank Chen’s hunky presence and the rage-y girl who cannot seem to keep herself from becoming the undesirable center of attention these past few days.
“Oh, how nice,” Craig gloats. “The half-breed orphan’s found herself a mutt guard dog.”
“Honestly,” I blurt. “Did your mother just never teach you any manners . . . or . . . or . . .”
He grins as I sputter. Then he leans forward in his seat and locks his eyes with mine, sounding each word out very deliberately.
“At least I have one.”
His retort hits like a slap. I take a step back, trying not to give in to the unleashed rage thrumming through my veins. An avalanche of words clogs my throat, making me choke, and unexpected tears fill my eyes. I blink them back furiously, trying to get a handle on the emotions blazing through me, but they won’t stop, they just . . . won’t . . . stop . . .
I’m out of control again. I’m about to fucking explode. I’m . . . I’m . . .
Henry studies me, his expression unreadable. I know everyone in the restaurant is still staring at us, but they all seem to fade away as my vision narrows and the blood roars through my ears.
Henry turns back to Craig and tilts his head. He looks so unbothered. Like Craig is a gnat, barely worthy of his interest. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Craig a placid grin.
“That was extremely rude. I think you should leave.”
“I’m a customer,” Craig says, relishing every syllable.
“A customer who’s being rude,” Henry says, that placid grin never faltering. “Therefore no longer a customer.”
“My father is very important in this community—head of the Nikkei Week board,” Craig sneers. “I know you might not realize that, being an outsider and all. And I really don’t think you should talk to me that way.”
“Then maybe he should come down here and explain why you’re acting like an asshole,” Henry says—and I marvel at how he still sounds so pleasant.
Craig splutters for a moment. The more worked up he gets, the calmer Henry becomes.
“Fine,” he snarls, scrambling to his feet. He starts to move toward the door, but Henry lightly places a hand on his shoulder.
“Before you go—apologize,” he says.
Same pleasant tone, same placid grin. Like he’s giving Craig tips on flower arranging or something.
“Excuse me?!” Craig spits out.
“Apologize to her,” Henry says, nodding at me.
Craig’s gaze goes to Henry’s hand on his shoulder. Then to me.
“I don’t think so,” he says.
Henry’s expression never wavers. I notice his hold on Craig isn’t firm or menacing at all; he’s just resting his hand lightly on Craig’s shoulder, almost like he’s trying to reassure him of something. Craig could probably easily shake that hand off and storm out.
And yet, he doesn’t.
There’s something about Henry’s posture, the way his gaze never wavers from Craig that makes it seem impossible to do so. Maybe it’s his natural movie star charisma, turned all the way up. He’s so in control of the situation. I am envious—because I’m never in control of any situation. Once my temper comes unleashed, everything spirals and destruction is inevitable.
They stand that way for a moment more, frozen, everyone watching. The restaurant has suddenly gone deathly silent, the weight of everyone’s gaze making the air thick and soupy.
“Henry,” I murmur. “It’s all right. It’s—”
“It’s not,” he says.
Craig finally breaks the spell, shaking Henry’s hand off.
“Sorry,” he mutters in my general direction. He huffs out of the restaurant with as much dignity as he can muster, which isn’t very much.
Henry watches until he’s gone. Then he turns to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
“I—yes,” I say, feeling my nure-onna armor reinstate itself. “Why did you . . . you didn’t have to make a scene. I can handle myself. I don’t need someone else to fight my battles.”
He takes a step closer to me, his gaze probing in a way that makes me squirm. This isn’t movie star Henry or joking Henry or too-cute-for-his-own-good Henry. It’s something clear and heartfelt, something I can’t quite process.
“I know you can,” he finally says. “But you don’t always have to fight alone.”
ELEVEN
By the time Henry and I get to Griffith Park, it’s nearly seven. I find myself wishing really hard that somehow Grace knows I’m coming, that our magical mother-daughter bond snapped into place the moment she crashed into me at the parade.
My nure-onna nature tells me that’s impossible. That I never wish for things, because I know they can’t come true. That I need to p
repare myself for my typical sad ending yet again.
That’s all that’s possible. That’s all that’s ever been possible. Why am I even entertaining such fantastical flights of fancy?
“This is beautiful.” Henry’s voice cuts into my thoughts.
I’m so distracted, I can only respond with an offhanded “Yeah.”
It really is beautiful, though. Griffith Park is a huge sprawl of green and flowering wildlife wrapped around one end of the Santa Monica Mountains. It’s big enough to be at least three parks, and I love all the ways it transports you to different worlds. It’s like a fantastical kingdom with a selection of doors—portals that will take you on an endless array of adventures.
The gorgeous hiking trails winding up into the mountains give you stunning views of the city. Its majestic observatory—featured in a cavalcade of movies that never seem to do it justice—takes you to the stars. And the deeper you hike into its wild clusters of nature, the more untamed and overgrown it gets. It feels like entering a magical hideaway, cut off from the smog and urban bustle of the city.
Because it’s summer, I know all areas of the park will be hopelessly crowded, so I have Henry park in the big lot near the famous merry-go-round—that means we’ll have to hike a bit to get to the abandoned zoo area, but that will be way faster and less frustrating than trying and failing to find parking in one of the tinier areas closer to where we’re going. The tinkly music from the merry-go-round gives us a somewhat eerie-yet-festive fanfare when we exit the car.
Henry can’t seem to stop looking around excitedly as we hike farther in, his eyes lit with genuine awe.
“Do you come here a lot? It’s incredible.”
“I do,” I say, trying to brush all thoughts of my imminent reunion from my mind—even as the fluttery feeling in my gut remains. “I’m kind of surprised at your reaction, though—don’t you have cool parks in that ever-superior New York of yours?”
“We do,” he says, his eyes doing that twinkly thing that means he’s just oh-so-amused. “But this is something else. I didn’t realize such grandeur was possible in LA.”