by Sarah Kuhn
“The Asian Hollywood meetups aren’t really public,” Henry says, tapping a message back to someone. “They’re supposed to be a safe space, no social media allowed. We usually rent out a place so we have it all to ourselves. It would actually make sense for Grace to go there, of all places, because she knows we’ll offer her support and actually respect her wishes to stay off the grid.”
“So . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to get my thoughts in order. I’m so scared to let this new possibility truly take root, and yet . . . I can’t stop the excitement flooding through me, making me feel like I’m about to burst. “Can we go there?”
Henry gives me one of his big, goofy grins. “Of course we can.” He reaches across the gearshift and takes my hand. “See? Didn’t I tell you to have hope?”
I want to refute him. To say that our having “hope” isn’t what magically made this happen.
But as he starts the car, I am shocked to find that I actually do have hope. Maybe for the first time ever. Like, in my life.
And as we take our meandering drive to the Thai Town/K-Town/Little Armenia mush, he holds my hand the whole way.
* * *
The restaurant we’re going to—Jitlada—is crammed into one of LA’s corner strip malls, improbable collections of businesses bunched together in a mishmash of rainbow awnings and glittering neon lights.
These strip malls always have exactly three parking spots, none of which are wide enough to position an actual vehicle in. Sometimes in the evening, there’s also a valet outside—as there is tonight. But Henry breezes right by the valet, turns the corner, and squeezes his car into a nearly invisible slip of a spot on the street.
“Wow,” I say, as he aligns his wheels precisely. “That is some smooth parallel parking.”
“Are you swooning over my parking?” he says, giving me an easy grin—but this one’s relaxed, genuine. Not like the smug easy grin from before that unsettled me so much. It’s like . . . he’s comfortable with me.
“What if I am?” I retort.
“How Angeleno of you,” he says, his grin widening. “Come on.”
We exit the car and walk up to the strip mall. Jitlada has a bright red-and-yellow awning, proclaiming its name in both English and Thai. Its windows are festooned with cascading twinkle lights, little strings of colorful beads, and a maze of handmade signs advertising the day’s specials.
“I’ve never actually eaten here,” I muse, taking it all in. “But I keep hearing about how good it is. Especially the southern pineapple shrimp curry—it’s supposed to be so spicy that your mouth goes numb. Auntie Suzy’s always talking about it because she wants to try developing this certain kind of gyoza for Katsu That that also turns your mouth numb . . . what?”
Henry has stopped in his tracks and is just kind of staring at me.
“Come here,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me around to the side of the building.
It is fully night now, and we’re plunged into deep shadows. I lean against the pebbly, cold concrete of the restaurant, barely able to make out his features. But I notice his breathing is uneven.
“Are you okay?” I whisper—even though there’s no one around to hear us. The valet is positioned on the other end of the lot, so far away he doesn’t even know we’re here. But something about the shadows, those soothing swoops of darkness I love so much, feels . . . private. Intimate. Like anything louder than a whisper will shatter our bubble.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly—then leans in so his lips are perilously close to my ear.
I want to move my head just a millimeter, so they’ll touch . . .
I also don’t want to move at all.
“I want to kiss you again,” he says—and I flush all over, suddenly unable to move anyway. “Is that okay?”
“Yes,” I manage to breathe out.
I expect him to just go for it, but instead he pulls back, his eyes searching my face in the dark. I can barely make out his gaze, the hint of that imperfect mouth I can’t stop thinking about. I expect it to be tilted up, giving me one of his smiles. But he looks so serious, studying me so intently—like he’s trying to commit every piece of me to memory. He reaches down and touches that bright red strand of hair that won’t stay off my face, running it between his fingertips and then—very gently—tucking it behind my ear. He does all of this so slowly, so deliberately—like he’s getting ready to perform open-heart surgery or handling some extra-rare, crumbling old document.
Like he’s touching something precious.
His hand cups my cheek—again, so very carefully—and I don’t know why my heart is beating so fast, why my mouth is suddenly so dry, why . . . why . . .
We’ve already kissed once. Why do I feel like I’m about to come apart?
He dips his head and takes my mouth with his.
My whole being sighs, nearly melting against the cold wall of the building. He nips at my lower lip, teases my mouth open, strokes my tongue with his . . .
I gasp against him. I feel too hot. I feel too cold. I feel too . . . everything.
His hands slide from my face to my hair, his fingers tangling in the unruly waves. He really seems to love my hair. My knees go all wobbly, and my hands shoot out to grasp his hips, a desperate attempt to keep myself upright. My fingertips brush against the bare skin just underneath his T-shirt, and he makes this sound in the back of his throat that makes me want to . . . to . . .
Oh, I don’t know. I’m so swept up in this kiss, cradled by the shadows, feeling wild and free, consumed by him . . .
I’ve been kissed before. But never like this.
When we finally pull apart, I think it’s because both of us need to fully breathe again.
“I . . . sorry,” he says, his voice husky.
“What for?” I whisper.
“I really wanted to do that again,” he manages.
“Me too,” I say, grinning a little—and hoping he can see it. “And you asked me if it was okay. So what’s the problem?”
“I just thought it would be somewhere more romantic,” he says, chuckling and leaning in to press his forehead to mine. “Like, somewhere worthy of an epic story you could tell your sisters. Not in some weird, shadowy alley next to a strip mall. But I couldn’t wait.”
I run my hands over his hips and up to his chest, trying not to openly freak out about the fact that I’m finally touching those muscles I’ve become so obsessed with.
“I love this alley,” I say. “I could stay here forever. It’s totally epic.”
He laughs again and—reluctantly, I think—pulls back, standing up straight.
“Not forever,” he says. “We need to go inside and see if Grace is here—see if we can complete your actual epic quest.”
“Okay,” I say. And am shocked to find I’d sort of forgotten that’s why we came here in the first place? How could I forget about my quest, my mother? How is he distracting me this much? “But first . . .” I grab the front of his T-shirt with both hands and pull him close again. “Can I kiss you this time? Because I want to do that again, too.”
“A thousand times yes,” he says.
And then, even though I initiate the kiss, I’m swept away all over again.
When we finally break apart and hustle ourselves to the restaurant’s entrance, I have no idea how much time has passed. We could have been in that alley for ten minutes. An hour. A year.
The swinging glass door to Jitlada sports a festive handmade sign that says private party, surrounded by all the other decorative ephemera I noticed earlier. Not only do the lights and beads and notes about specials make the place seem homey and welcoming, but they also block the windows—meaning no one can see the cavalcade of Asian Hollywood royalty swanning about inside.
“You ready?” Henry says, reaching for the door—and I nearly jump out of my skin. His mouth i
s just so close to my ear again.
I manage to compose myself and nod, and Henry ushers me inside.
I am immediately hit by a raucous wall of noise, roaring laughter and impassioned chatter surrounding me. It’s so overwhelming, I freeze in the doorway, trying to grow accustomed to it all. The place looks like someone’s very beloved tchotchke-stuffed living room, crammed with scuffed, elaborately carved wooden chairs and tables swathed in mismatched bright pink and gold silks. The scent of spicy curry winds its way around every cluster of people, tickling my nose and making my mouth water.
The place is packed full—I guess this is Asian Holly-wood. I can’t help but feel that Belle would be a little disappointed at the lack of opulence, of majesty. Even though I recognize some of the faces sprinkled throughout the crowd, it looks like a pretty normal, no-frills kind of party. Or a massive family gathering.
I don’t see Grace, though, and I feel a prickle in my gut—the one that says I’m about to be disappointed again.
“Hey, my dude!” Suddenly, a whirling dervish of a man is hurricaning his way up to us, clapping Henry on the back. He’s on the shorter side, a little scrawny, with medium brown skin and a big toothy grin. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Henry says, giving the guy a genial half hug. “Rika, this is Mason Choi. Mason, this is—”
“Ahhhh, your new friend,” Mason says, shaking my hand and giving me a broad, cartoony wink. “I’ve seen the socials, I’m up-to-date.” His brow furrows as he takes a step back, sizing me up. “Are you an actress? Comedian? Do you do any storytelling gigs? I’ve got a YouTube channel where I spotlight all kinds of Asian American and Black creatives. You might have seen this one short we did that went viral—”
“Yo, don’t bombard her with the sales pitch,” Henry says, chuckling. “This is her first time here, let her take it in.”
“Okay, okay,” Mason says, holding up his hands. “You know how it is—I get excited about the prospect of new talent. Especially since . . .” He cocks his head at me, scrutinizing my features—like a lot of people do when they first meet me. But it’s not in that way where I’m a puzzle to be solved. It’s more like he’s looking for a connection he already knows is there. “You’re mixed, too, yeah?” he says, then points to himself, flashing that toothy grin again. “Blasian here—Black and Korean!”
“Yeah, Japanese—and some white stuff on the other side,” I say. “I don’t know exactly what white stuff because I don’t actually know my dad, but, um . . .” I bite my lip, realizing I’ve blurted out something extremely personal to a total stranger.
But Mason takes it in stride. “Aww yeah, Halfie Club unite!” he crows, clapping Henry on the back again. “I love it.”
“Mase, we were actually wondering if Grace is here,” Henry says, his eyes scanning the crowded room. “I heard she might show? I, uh, need to talk to her. About the movie.”
“Haven’t seen her,” Mason says, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. “But hey, let’s go ask Diya—she usually does the RSVP list.”
Mason beckons for us to follow him into the crowd. I take a deep breath and wade in. Mason waves to nearly everyone we pass by and seems to have a personalized greeting for each person—a complicated high-five/handshake here, an indecipherable nickname there.
As we push through, I feel a light touch against my lower back and realize it’s Henry—guiding me, making sure I don’t get sucked into the mass of bodies. My cheeks warm and my nure-onna instinct is to pull away, to tell him I’m perfectly capable of making my own way through a crowd.
But I don’t want to. I like the way his hand feels there.
Ughhhhhhhhhh.
Mason finally reaches our destination—a table with two women tossing back very full glasses of wine and laughing uproariously. Like Mason, they appear to be in their twenties. One has glowing brown skin and the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen—actually, she looks kind of familiar, and I wonder if I’ve seen her on TV before. The other is pale with a smattering of freckles across her cute upturned nose and wavy dark brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail—and my heart skips a beat when I realize she also looks like she’s in Mason’s “Halfie Club.” Specifically my brand of Halfie Club.
“Heya,” Mason says to the women, slipping into an empty seat at the table. “Look who showed up.” He gestures to Henry.
“Baby Hank!” the woman I may or may not have seen on TV shrieks. “You came just in time—we ordered a whole mess of that pineapple shrimp curry!”
She grabs Henry’s hand and tugs him insistently into another empty seat. I slide into the last empty seat at the table, already wondering how quickly I can get the story on this “Baby Hank” business.
“And you’re that girl!” the woman exclaims, her eyes lighting up. She drops Henry’s hand and reaches for mine, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. “I’m Diya Dey, and this is Joanna Raine.” She gestures to the other woman, who smiles warmly at me. “And we need to know all about whatever’s going on here.” She waggles her finger—tipped with a perfectly pointed red nail—between Henry and me.
“Ease up, DD,” Mason says, rolling his eyes. “Give the kids some room before you start planning their wedding. This is Rika—” He gives me a prompting look.
“Rakuyama,” I fill in.
“Ah, Japanese?” Joanna sets down her wineglass and claps her hands together. “Me too!”
“Yesss, Halfie Club!” Mason says with a fist-pump. “Diya is an actress—you may have seen her in such illustrious roles as—”
“—as Convenience Store Owner’s Wife and Distraught Indian Woman Number Three,” Diya says, affecting an exaggerated Apu-on-The-Simpsons-type accent. “Just wait, I’m gunning to be the actual Convenience Store Owner next time. Maybe Distraught Indian Woman Number One, even.”
“Also known for a turn or two in my YouTube sketches,” Mason says, grinning at her. “And Joanna is a writer, a novelist—she writes this awesome fantasy series that’s being made into a TV show, so she’s currently going through that nail-biting process.”
“Wherein step one is answering the question, ‘But why can’t they all be white?’ over and over again,” Joanna says, toasting Mason with her wineglass.
“Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You’re all so cool.”
“Trying to be the change,” Mason says, sounding halfway between serious and sarcastic. “But it’s hard out there in the mean representational streets of Hollywood, so Diya and I started this meetup. It helps all of us to have a safe space to commiserate.”
“And by ‘commiserate,’ we of course mean ‘bitch out the system while downing mountains of awesome curry,’” Diya says, letting out an explosive laugh. “Baby Hank is one of our youngest members. We’re trying to make this world a little more welcoming for him and all the babies who come after.” She gives Henry a maternal pat on the cheek.
“Baby Hank has been in this industry since he was an actual baby,” Joanna snorts. “He has more experience than any of us!”
“Ahh, but he’s still so innocent!” Diya says with a smirk. “So earnest, so happy all the time—always believing the best of people! The rest of us are bitter old crones.”
“Speak for yourself, crone,” Mason says, rolling his eyes. “My youth is eternal.”
I sneak a glance at Henry as the group dissolves into good-natured bickering. He hasn’t really said anything, just let them rib him and joke among themselves. But he has the biggest grin stretched across his face, and he’s leaning back in his seat, his broad shoulders relaxed. He is at ease. He loves this—this place, these people, the community they’ve built.
I look around the room, all these Asian faces. These incredibly varied, happy Asian faces. No one’s shrinking or trying to hide, no one’s threatened by Beckys or elders who think they’re a mistake or a blight on their people.
; No one’s acting like they have to . . . I don’t know. Apologize for the fact that they exist?
“This is so great!” I say—then realize I said that out loud, not just in my head.
Four heads swivel in my direction, and I immediately feel self-conscious.
“Sorry,” I say. “I, um. I stick out? In my community. For a variety of reasons.” My cheeks flame. I don’t need to be getting into my tragic backstory with total strangers. “But you all seem so, I don’t know, comfortable in your own skin? Happy, even?”
“Are you expressing shock over the fact that we’re all Asian, but we don’t hate ourselves?” Mason says, cocking an eyebrow.
“Oh . . . oh, sorry, no!” I sputter. “God, I . . . I was only speaking for myself—I always feel like . . . um . . .”
“Mason, give her a break,” Henry says, squeezing my hand protectively.
“Seriously!” Joanna says, swatting Mason’s shoulder. “You know we’ve all fought, like, literal battles to get to where we are. Between racism, white supremacy bullshit, pop culture stereotypes, family pressure, inter-community prejudices and politics, the fact that so many people still don’t even know what ‘Asian American’ actually means . . . I mean, the messages we’re fed about ourselves from birth, both from the outside and the inside, isn’t that why we’re trying to ‘be the change’ and all? So the next generation is less self-hating and grows up totally well-adjusted and comfortable in their identities?”
“Well, yeah,” Mason says, rolling his eyes. “I was teasing—I swear, y’all never get my humor.”
“Ooh, girl, don’t even listen to him.” Diya pats my hand, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Jo is right, we’ve all fought hard to get here. And we all stick out in our own ways—trust me. There’s plenty of purity-policing in all of our communities. So many East Asians like to tell me I’m not actually Asian because apparently brown-skinned girls don’t fit in with their idea of what that should look like.” She harrumphs, tossing her glossy mane of hair.