His belt buckle digs into my ribs and I shift so it doesn’t hurt so much, but the train jerks to a stop and I end up slammed against him. Way too close for public transit. His knee is between my legs and his hand clutches my butt. Because we’re both reaching for the bar above our heads, our chests meet, and I’m far enough under the curve of his arm that I feel his breath hot on my temple, moving along the edge of my hairline to my ear. His lips barely even graze my skin.
And by barely, I mean maybe not at all.
My mouth brushes the skin peeking above the button of his shirt. It’s not a kiss. But when he draws me the last centimeter to him and I look up, that is.
It feels like a first kiss.
Not our first kiss because that was wild. Breathless. And this is not. It’s soft and tentative.
And in the middle of Japan Rail less than one stop from Ueno.
That thought more than any sense of propriety makes me pull back. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Now. I mean, with your father. You didn’t mean for me to know. I get that. I don’t expect—”
“I wasn’t even considering meeting him before Saturday. Before we had that fight. But then I walked and I thought. I was going to tell you. But then everything happened and I couldn’t. I thought if I saw him maybe then…”
The train lurches to a stop, but this time instead of melting together we break apart. We get separated by a bunch of school kids leaving the train, but Finn waits in the middle of the platform for me and his hand finds mine as I walk up beside him.
His hand is sweaty. Hot. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. But probably not. I squeeze his fingers and try desperately to think of something to say that’s the right amount of comforting but casual. Something that will make him laugh. Smile.
We go through the turnstile, and Finn’s grip tightens. I grab his forearm with my other hand. “Are you…”
My “okay” is drowned out by the shout from across the hall, the deep Irish brogue that rings above all the Japanese chatter filling the station. “Son. It’s good to see you, m’lad.”
chapter twenty-one
Finn’s father is Irish. As in from-Ireland Irish. I don’t know why this never occurred to me—Finn certainly has the name for it—but it surprises me. Although not as much as the fact that he’s very good-looking. Like stop-and-stare good-looking. Dark hair graying at the temples. Tall. Broad shoulders. Trim waist. He’s Finn, improved with age.
I pictured someone…different.
He’s the last person you’d expect to be the dick he is. Right. Understood.
Finn takes a few more steps, then stops. I’m still clutching his arm, and I let go, although when I try to untangle my fingers he squeezes them tighter.
His father’s eyes are dark like Finn’s. They flicker, even though his mouth smiles. “Thanks for coming. Ya look good.” The eyes drift over to me. “Who’s your lass?”
“I’m Zoe.” I answer before Finn can. I don’t want him calling me Zosia.
“Nice to meet you, Zoe. Call me John.” To my relief he doesn’t reach out his hand but turns to Finn. “Beer might make this easier, but I’m off the stuff. Coffee?”
“Coffee’s fine,” Finn says. His tone is easy, but he seriously might break my fingers.
We join the next wave of people exiting the station, and John breaks the silence once we veer off toward the coffee house. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine.” Finn’s mouth twists a little. “How’s Lexy?”
“Son, I—”
“Don’t.” Finn’s voice hardens instantly.
John nods like he expected that. “Lexy’s long gone. You haven’t heard from her then?”
“Nope.”
John turns to me as I walk in between them. “So how did you two meet?”
I have no idea what to say. A quick glance at Finn makes it clear he’s not answering and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be offended if I didn’t, but I feel uncomfortable ignoring the question in case it makes things worse. “Um, we knew each other in Westfield.”
John nods, and his eyes linger in all the wrong places. “Things must have been different up north. You’re a far cry from the girls who used to come around.”
I think he means it as a compliment, but it feels like a leer. And I don’t know where I pull my retort from. Maybe I’m channeling Amelia because my voice doesn’t even sound like me when I say, “Disappointed not to have a shot, are you?”
After the words come out, I feel awful. Respect your elders. Mom and Dad drilled that into me. And that wasn’t respectful. Never mind if he deserves it or not.
John, however, grins. “And she’s a feisty lass. Good on you…”
He stops just short of “son.” Finn hears it, too. “The coffee shop is there. I’ll meet you inside.”
“Black coffee?” John asks.
“Nothing. Thanks. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Finn waits until John pulls the door before he looks at me. His eyes are deep and black. “So, Zoe, where did that come from?”
I flush a little. It’s more the fact he’s calling me Zoe than his tone. It sounds so foreign. “Don’t know.”
“Really?” He raises his eyebrows at me, and a smile plays around his eyes.
“Only people I care about get to call me Zosia.”
“Good.” The smile moves to his mouth, then fades. “I guess I should do this, shouldn’t I?”
“Probably.”
His gaze shifts to the door and back to me. “I can’t… I have to do this…by myself. I can’t…”
“I know.” I bite my tongue so I won’t try to say something helpful. “Should I wait?”
“I might be pretty shitty company.” That’s not a no, and my hopes soar for 2.5 seconds before he says, “I don’t know, Zosia. I don’t know.”
He’s not talking about me waiting. He’s talking about this whole thing. The conversation with his dad. Us. He wants us. Me. The fact I’m standing here at all is evidence of that. But the want can’t take away the rest of it. It might even make it worse.
“You want me to make good on my word, is that it? That I’ll fight for you?” I choke a little on the last word.
“Maybe.” Finn lets go of my hand and brings his to cup my neck. “I bet you put up a hell of a fight.”
“I bet I do.” I let my fingers walk up his chest. His gaze cuts to the window again, and I force myself to let go. Whatever we’re going to be won’t be decided now. “Okay. Go. Do this.”
He kisses my forehead, and I rest my chin on his chest, breathing in the scent of him. No Obsession for Men. Just soap and cotton. I squeeze his arm and step away. “I’m, um, going to the shrine.”
He nods. “You, uh, want a book?”
A book? Um, no? I shrug. “Sure.”
He digs in his backpack and hands me one. I take the smooth cover between my palms, but my eyes fix on Finn. This won’t be the picture in my head either. It won’t. His skin glistening in the sun. His eyes crinkled like they do when he smiles. He does smile for just a second, but it’s gone in the next blink. “Okay, I, um…”
“Go. I love you.”
I wait for him to say it back, and when he doesn’t, it stings. A lot. In the span of seven seconds, I rationalize it, explain it away. Excuse it, even. But it doesn’t stop my eyes from filling as I walk across the dirt path to Toshogu Shrine.
Dammit.
I run my fingers along the ema, small wooden placards lining the path up to the main gate. People write their wishes and hang them at the entrance to the shrine as a declaration, hoping the gods answer their desires. Wealth. Health. Love. I know the kanji for love, and a quick scan confirms eight out of ten are looking for just that. Mine would be no different.
Dammit again.
I pay the two hundred yen to go inside the temple, if only because there are fewer people. There’s a school group near the big bell, listening to the guy giving the tour. I catch a few words. C
elebration. Mochii. I don’t realize I’ve stopped on the edge of their group until two boys who’d been messing around stop. As if I’m going to discipline them. I smile at them a little when they look up at me from under long bangs. The only thing I’m going to do is head to the back near the peony garden.
If Finn looks for me, it will be here. We’ve come here before, to the bench in the shade away from the main entrance to the gardens. It’s quiet—or, at least, as quiet as a shrine in the middle of Tokyo is going to get.
I wonder how things are going with John. Finn’s never once called him “Dad.” I thought of that sometime over the past few days and it stays in my head now. Of course he wouldn’t. My father…he’s Dad. John? Father is a stretch. It’s not even like Finn calls his father John because their relationship changed, moved to a new level a la Mindy and Liz. Finn and John don’t even have a relationship.
God, please let him be okay. I’m in the wrong place for that prayer, but the Japanese are pretty lax about their religion, and I don’t think they’d mind.
I cross and uncross my fingers.
Pull my hands through my hair.
Tap my leg.
Check my watch.
Ten minutes.
My God, it’s only been ten minutes.
It feels like a last resort when I pick up the book Finn gave me. I can’t read a fucking book. I can barely sit still, and no doubt judging by the stark black cover with the white origami crane in the center, it’s a serious one. Finn reads everything, and while I’ve definitely expanded my reading repertoire, I still prefer numbers to words. I thumb the edges and finally flip it open near the front. Page twenty or so.
And my heart leaps out of my chest.
The page is filled with Finn’s careless scrawl. Every page is filled with it.
It’s his notebook. The one he’s carried around all summer. The cover’s new, taped over the torn red cardboard underneath. Aside from the first night we spent together, he’s never let me touch it. Not that I’ve asked. But he hasn’t offered and the unspoken agreement is hands off. It’s his. Too personal to share.
My hands tremble as I turn to the front, and at first I can only skim, trying to read it as quickly as possible. The first page: Leaving on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. If luck holds, maybe never.
Drawings, doodles. I imagine him on the plane, slumped in his seat, his long legs folded in front of him. Half-watching the movie, pen in hand.
Another page of just words. Black. Teeming. Cacophony. Ants. Hurrying. Scurrying.
A few lines later from the day we met here dated June 5: True. You. Trust…just. Lie. Why? Flame. Same.
Two pages later, from that day in Kamakura. I only know because it says Kenchoji across the top. The name of the temple. Stop and listen. Did you hear those frantic voices cease? Or do you never hear them because you’ve found your peace?
And on the next line: I asked her. Jesus.
Another one: Your skin is hot. You moan and say you’re just about to scream. Kaboom. I wake. And fuck it’s just another damn wet dream.
That’s so unexpected I read it twice before turning the page. Angry black lines nearly rip through the paper, covering the words underneath. But not enough so I can’t read them. I never wanted to see you again. I never wanted to see you again.
And the next page. You think you can come here with your swagger and your smile and ask me to forgive? Why should I? To make it easier for you to live…with what you’ve done? Who you are and all that you’ve become? Or is it so you can pretend you still have a son?
A lump rises in my throat, and I look up across to the peony garden. His words are raw. Real. So real I doubt for a second if he really meant to give this to me. But he wouldn’t make a mistake like that. He offered it specifically. His heart in my hands. That’s what it feels like.
If I had any doubt, the last page erases it.
She looks like she’s flying on gossamer wings
The night is so black, you can’t see the strings
She’s soaring, she’s floating, she’s touching the sky
She’s an angel, a vision, a trick of my mind.
The song. From that first night. The same except the last verse.
She kisses the stars and closes her eyes
Dancing in circles she lights up the sky
She’s beauty and love and goodness and light
She’s real and true and somehow she’s mine.
The tears stream down my face. I fly off the bench, my sandals slapping on the stone slabs of the walkway through the temple. Past the meandering tourists. The school kids. The big bell.
I dig in my bag for my phone, stopping in the pathway when I feel its smooth case. People stream around me as I press the button, the screen filling with a photo of me and Finn I took in a random noodle bar. We both have huge grins on our faces, and I half-smile at the memory before realizing I’ve got no texts, voicemails, or missed calls. Should I stay here? Maybe. But, good Lord, I can’t just sit here and wait.
Even sitting outside the coffee shop would be better than this.
I start again, more slowly this time, looking through the crowd for a dark head that towers above the rest. There are a few tall guys, but none of them are Finn. Is that good or bad?
I’m near the ema when I see him.
Through my tears, it’s impossible to tell where his shirt ends and the bright white of the sun begins.
But I run. As fast as I can. Toward that sun.
I’m completely out of breath when I reach Finn. So much that I have to actually put my hands on my knees and gulp in air. Shows what three days of moping and a coffee-only diet will do. The only good thing is that he can’t tell I’ve been crying until I straighten up, and by then I’ve gotten it a bit more under control.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
I nod. There are a million things I need to say, and I try to say them all at once. “Your father. I didn’t expect…I mean, he’s…you…you were coming to the temple. And the book. It was your notebook. You gave me your notebook. I can’t believe you did that. It’s…I…”
“I wanted you to read it. In case you didn’t know.” The way he’s looking at me with his head tilted up and the sun striking a shadow on his face, he looks almost sad.
“In case I didn’t know what?” My throat starts to close up again, and I swallow.
“Who you are to me.” His voice drops, the way it does at the end of a sentence when there’s nothing more to be said.
Still, I half-expect him to say something else. To label it. Me. Even though it was all in the notebook. I bite down on my tongue. Hard.
This. Right now. Is not about us.
“How was it? In there?” I nod toward the coffee shop.
“Yeah.” He glances over. “He’s, um, still there.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he said he wanted to make amends. I thought it was bullshit. But he’s…I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m seeing what I want to see. He’s still an asshole, but he’s sorry. He’s never been fucking sorry for anything. Ever. But now he says he’s starting over. Moving to Sydney and he wants to go with a clean slate all around. He went to counseling or some bullshit, but he says that’s what got him here, what gave him the courage to contact me in the first place. It’s fucked up, but I don’t know. He actually sounds sorry.” Finn’s grip tightens on my shoulder while he’s talking, and it gets another degree tighter. “He asked about you. He wanted to meet you. I mean, you met, but…”
I loosen his fingers, taking them in my hand. “I told you before. I’ll do anything you want me to do.” I look to the door and take a deep breath. “Including going in there.”
“I know. It’s just…I feel like…”
He won’t ask. I get that. “I need the bathroom anyway.”
He grimaces and shakes his head. “Are you sure?”
Not even a little bit. Aloud I say,
“Yeah. I’ve had a lot of coffee.”
This is true, and now that I say it, I really do need the bathroom. I yank on Finn’s hand to propel him toward the door.
I won’t let myself look around when we walk in, heading immediately for the bathroom. It’s Western-style, thank God, and I have it to myself. After I use the toilet, I splash water on my face and take the band from my wrist and pull my hair up. My cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are still bright from crying. I’m not a crier. I never have been and even less so after Mom died. I cried for her a lot. Until I decided one day I didn’t want to feel that close to the edge anymore. I didn’t want to feel that much, period.
Now, though, it all bubbles to the surface. Finn. Mom. Hurt. Love. Longing. Hello. Goodbye.
My eyes well up again, and I yank my ponytail tighter. I grab a piece of toilet paper and rub my eyes. I need to go out there. I said I’d do anything.
That’s the thought that gets me out the door. Sitting at the table next to Finn. Facing John. The café is crowded. Much like it was the first time we were here, but today it’s a mix of families, couples, and tourists. English swirls through the air, and I catch a few words before I look up at John.
“So…” I don’t get more than that out before the waitress sets a coffee in front of me. It comes in its own little pot this time, with cream and sugar alongside.
Finn goes to pour but stops as John reaches for it. “May I?”
I nod and watch him fill my cup. It’s Japanese custom to pour for others at the table. There’s some status involved in who’s supposed to be pouring for whom which I don’t understand, but I know women typically pour for men. It’s a running joke between Finn and me, and I smile a little when I look back to John. “Thanks.”
He notices my smile. He’s got Finn’s eyes in more ways than one. “So Finn says yer headin’ to University of Rhode Island?” He doesn’t let me answer. “What are ya’ gonna major in then?”
“Um, math probably?” I take a sip of coffee, even though it scalds my throat.
“That’ll serve ya’ well. Ye can do a lot with that,” John says.
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