Songs to Make You Stay (Playlist Book 3)

by Jay E. Tria

  They went slow, just as he’d thought they ought to, and he meant to keep it there, slow and leisurely, for as long as he could. It was hard to remember what else he’d planned though, with Jill’s fingers pulling at his hair, her nails scraping down his back. She laughed—soft, short, and often—, and kissed him a lot, kissed him everywhere.

  He made sure to return each kiss, and give her more. Kiss her in places she didn’t know required attention. He moved deeper, faster, pulling back when it felt like too much, too soon. Not yet, he would remember. There’s much to do.

  He would smile at her. A smile she would easily return, before she’d pull his head down to hers again. It was over though when he bit the soft skin of her neck. Her deep moan filled what little space remained between them, and wrecked what little restraint he had left. They both wanted it, everything, and now.

  Shinta’s forehead fell just below Jill’s shoulder in the aftermath, close to where her heart was still racing. He pressed his lips there, keeping her tight against him.

  It was her, with him at last, and that was why it was perfect.

  Hours later, they stood with their shoulders bent, hunched shapes forming a two-person huddle in Shinta’s spotless kitchen.

  “Okay,” he said, arm wrapped around her waist. “This is our goal.”

  Jill’s eyes volleyed from the map on the table to the one magnified on her phone screen, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “Let’s do this.”

  “To go around the city unseen. What?” he burst out when she snorted.

  “That’s not a goal. That’s wishful thinking!”

  “Start small, then,” Shinta conceded. “To get to the fish market without being seen. Okay?”

  Jill nodded, squeezing the flesh of his waist before breaking away from their huddle. “I can’t believe how stressful it is to get good sushi in the Land of Sushi.”

  She didn’t bother to hide her yawns anymore as they made their way to the elevator, down 37 stories. Shinta answered with wide gaping breaths of his own, stretching his arms out before they found their way around her again.

  “We should sleep tonight,” Jill said.

  “We’re on vacation. No one sleeps when they’re on vacation.”

  “People who want to last do.” Jill hit his arm before he could give his cheeky reply. So he bent down to kiss her instead, until the elevator doors opened to the ground floor.

  “Why aren’t we taking your car again?” she asked.

  “Because my father has the keys.”

  “Why does he have the keys again?”

  “Because he doesn’t know I’ve arrived.”

  Shinta knew she wasn’t asking him because she didn’t hear him the first time. She was asking him because he wasn’t giving her the answers she wanted. “It’s not what you think. I so am allowed to date,” he finally said. He sounded like a petulant child told he’d eaten his last piece of candy. Yeah, he heard it.

  “Oh I know that. I know you’ve left behind a long trail of broken hearts. I’ve just refused to keep count.” A pause, then an amendment. “Broken celebrity hearts. Are you allowed to date celebrities exclusively?”

  “Where are you getting these ideas? No more Japanese TV dramas for you.”

  They had crossed the building lobby, an expansive plane of parchment-colored marble, plush leather ottomans, and terracotta walls decorated with charcoal paintings and balls of light against shadows. Shinta grasped Jill’s hand, tipping the rim of his cap to the door guard before lowering it over his eyes. He let out a low chuckle. His father would be alerted of his movements and the presence of his guest before they could cross the threshold. If he didn’t already know.

  “My father is terrified of the thought of us getting together,” Shinta said as they traversed the street leading to the train station.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because this looks like something that will last. And that’s supposedly bad for my career.” He said it matter-of-factly, the way he dispensed his truths. Jill’s mouth sloped up to a smile, the watermelon color of her lips matching the blush staining her cheeks. Good, he thought. We’ll worry about the bad part later.

  Their trek reminded Shinta that a 10-minute walk in Japan translated to double at an average Filipino’s pace. And here he was already walking with a Filipina whose long legs covered more ground than usual. It was still officially spring, but cherry blossoms had long fallen from tree branches, swirling in the wind like the broken edges of stars. Lush green, dense leaves replaced them on thrones up in the trees, while clusters of pink and yellow popped out from plant boxes safeguarding every other store front and plaza. The sun was alert in the sky, glaring down at them. Jill had forsaken wiping the trails of sweat trickling down her temples, and decided to pull up her shirt in a tight knot.

  The steady blast of cool air inside the train was a welcome reprieve. They stood facing each other, sharing a metal pole in a small circle of space, smashed between other passengers of the morning rush.

  Shinta was resting his chin on the top of Jill’s head, so he felt each fidget she made.

  “Your face is plastered on the train’s wall,” she muttered.

  “What am I trying to sell?” Shinta didn’t keep count.

  “You’re holding up a yellow box. A banana-flavored condom?”

  “No, that’s chewable vitamin C.” Shinta let out a low chuckle. “But thanks for the idea. I’ll talk to my father about the fruity contraceptive.”

  Jill was silent as the train skimmed past Hibiya station, then Ginza. She inched closer to him as passengers ebbed and flowed around them. “Wouldn’t a taxi be safer? More private?” She arched up so she could whisper, her breath on his neck. “One driver versus this entire mob.”

  “That’s what they want you to think,” Shinta murmured back. “I haven’t met one that didn’t announce my whereabouts.”

  “What exactly happens when you’re recognized?”

  “Oh, the standard privacy breach package. Pictures in tabloids, ridiculous rumors. Some bystanders may be brazen enough to approach and ask for autographs, but that seldom happens. Of course our faces will be scattered all over social media. And yeah, Internet backlash! That’s always fun.”

  He watched her face as his words sank in. Alarm, fear, and fascination skittered in Jill’s eyes, until only what looked like flat resolve remained.

  “This sushi better be so Zen, it’s life-changing,” she said.

  Shinta almost choked trying to swallow his laughter. The key to blending in was not dark glasses or pulled-up gray hoodies, but moving and sounding like everyone else. People in Tokyo trains perused comics and fiddled with their phones in silence. No one barked out laughter.

  “It is,” he vowed, taking her hand and tugging her towards the doors as the train stopped at Tsukiji station. “I swear it on my father’s libido.”

  Jill groaned. “My appetite! It’s there, dropped and trampled on the train floor!”

  They followed the stream of passengers exiting the station and rising to the streets, past a Buddhist temple to their left and busy traffic to their right. The space narrowed as stalls rose on either side of them. Stores peddling ramen, mounds of fat, heaving egg rolls, boxes of tea, and assortments of dried herbs and seasoned pastes, and of course, seafood in its freshest forms.

  “Not here, not yet,” Shinta said when Jill was entranced by a friendly vendor offering her grilled scallops charred in their shells. “Don’t look down. Look at me, talk to me,” he kept reminding her, jostling her forward when heads turned or gazes locked on his face.

  A few meters more and the space opened to a full view of the outer market. The air was dense with friendly chatter and the smell of blood and ocean. The sun was yellow against the stark white sky, its heat stinging their skin. They were late for a morning in the market, but a sushi brunch was not out of the question.

  “Here?” Jill asked when Shinta parked them behind a short queue leading to a small restaurant.<
br />
  “Here,” he affirmed.

  “Sushi time.”

  Shinta kept his cap low over his eyes as more people filled the line behind them, his fingers tapping out a beat on Jill’s shoulders. The orange tarp fronting the restaurant flew open, revealing a uniformed teenage boy. He bowed two customers out of their shop, and the line edged forward.

  A sharp vibration cut through Shinta’s jeans to his skin. He fished his phone out of his pocket, not bothering to read the name flashing on the screen.

  “Hello, Father,” he said in his native tongue. “So, hey I’m back! I know you said don’t leave the building without telling you. It’s just that I have a guest—”

  “I heard,” Akio replied, his voice booming from the receiver. “It would be nice to see Jill again. Let’s have dinner tonight, shall we?”

  Jill turned her head at the sound of her name, then returned to pretending she wasn’t listening.

  “Now where the hell are you, Shinta?” his father went on. “You didn’t forget about the meeting.”

  Shinta frowned. “There is no meeting.”

  “There is now.” His father’s voice, though still bright and commanding, slid into an excited hiss. “I just got the call. Where are you?”

  For two seconds, Shinta considered not replying. And maybe dropping his phone on the cement and grinding it to pieces with the rugged sole of his shoe.

  “You know what it took to get this call, son.”

  It took his father the usual chase, scouring through his intricate network for the right names, the right favors. A movie Shinta had starred in last year had been a massive hit, and the producers announced a TV drama spinoff.

  Where he worked, actors like him didn’t audition for parts, but got offers based on who they were. Based on what they’d done, and the names they’d built for themselves. The lead in the TV drama should be offered to him—that was expected, but not guaranteed. You have to reprise your role. It belongs to you! was Akio’s battle cry.

  It made sense to Shinta too. Akio’s determination was always the high wave that carried them both.

  “Tsukiji market,” he muttered.

  Akio laughed. “What an adorable first date. The car will be around in 10 minutes. Keep your head down.”

  Shinta slipped his phone back into his pocket. He knew Jill had heard everything. She didn’t need to understand the language to discern what they’d said. She turned to him, gaze intent, not a whisper from her mouth. He knew she was going to make him say it.

  “I have to go,” Shinta heaved out. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, stretching out the last word. “That’s work. Work is important. I’m going to stay here, okay?”

  “Alone?”

  “There are at least three people in line ahead of me and about a dozen behind me. How is that alone?”

  Shinta replied to her sarcasm with dangerously lifted eyebrows.

  She grabbed the front of his shirt, crumpling the cotton in her hands. “I survived a five-song set and a seven-hour flight last night. I barely slept. You know why. Then we spent the entire morning going full-on ninja mode across the city for life-altering Zen sushi.” Her eyes were boring into his with a gaze that beseeched him. “I really need to experience that sushi right now.”

  Shinta breathed out, taking the last step towards her, one arm circling her waist. He thought he heard a few snaps of a cellphone’s camera behind them. Whether that was imagined or real, he didn’t care anymore. “Of course. I’ll have someone pick you up in an hour.”

  “I have a map. And Internet. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you get lost—”

  “I heard the nice people of Japan are always happy to help fumbling tourists. Or I can call you, fine.” She conceded to the growl that was building inside his chest. Her eyes rolled to the heavens and back. “At least give me two hours.”

  “Okay.”

  “Deal. I’ll be in your apartment when you get back.”

  “You won’t wait long, I promise,” he said, dropping a kiss on her pressed lips.

  The snaps were definitely real, and they came with flashes and murmurs that surged around them. Shinta linked both his arms around Jill, making the spectacle worse, making it all the better to kiss her.

  With a flick of the heavy tarp and a polite call, the restaurant staff ushered in the next four patrons. The line rushed forward, Jill with it. Shinta watched as she stepped inside the cool shade of the restaurant, her bow to the staff an awkward curve. When she disappeared behind the tarp, Shinta turned and stalked off, his thoughts a messy web of ways he could try to make this up to her.

  Here I am waiting

  For your reflection

  Why are you taking so long?

  The dusk is coming now

  This room can hold no sound

  I don’t like to wait, you know

  It’s a starless, long quiet

  And I would rather sleep

  But still I’m here, I wait

  I know you’re worth it

  When the light comes I know for sure

  You’ll be here and I’m no longer alone

  The dark will warm, and I know

  You won’t leave me all alone

  Here I am wondering

  Why are you so perfect?

  I think you said you’re mine

  The moon is going down

  I hear your whispers now

  I don’t like to wait, you know

  It’s a starless, long quiet

  But I just can’t catch sleep

  I’m wide awake and I wait

  My soul knows you’re worth it

  When the light comes I know for sure

  You’ll be here and I’m no longer alone

  The dark will warm, and I know

  You’ll never leave me all alone. (Jill)

  September 11, Friday, afternoon

  “You have to understand,” Jill began. “I only brought you here because I like you.”

  Shinta liked this game. Every time he came to visit, Jill had a new revelation, a new secret hideout revealed, like another thin layer being peeled off between them.

  He ducked his head so he could level her intense look, noses point to point, sitting beside her on a pink leather loveseat inside a café. “Is this the doorway to Narnia?”

  “Almost.” She nodded once, curt and firm. “Nobody finds me here. Not Mars. Not even Miki!” She paused, a frown drawing on her brow. “Who was supposed to meet me for lunch today but totally flaked.”

  “Maybe he’s with Ana. The Mini Stop girl,” he added when Jill’s face blanked.

  Ana was the girl Miki had gone out with a few times before, according to Jill’s stories. Shinta hadn’t met her until last night when the band was hanging out post-radio-interview at a Mini Stop. Ana, with her button-up, collared, long-sleeved shirt and pencil skirt to match, sticking out among the cluster of limbs in varying shades of band shirts and dirty sneakers. The one with brown eyes locked on no one else but Miki.

  Shinta wished her the best of luck in that endeavor. He sincerely hoped she could get that ship to sail. For both their sakes.

  “Oh yeah, Ana,” Jill muttered.

  “I’m afraid you’re stuck with just me today,” Shinta said.

  “Eh. You’ll have to do.”

  Shinta reached over and clapped his wide palms against her cheeks, squeezing tight until she cried out. He ended her penalty with a sloppy kiss on her blowfish lips, then jumped off the couch and out of her reach.

  He flopped down on the iron-and-rattan chair across from her, his gaze scanning the shoebox space of the café, skimming past faces of patrons occupying the other white, lacquer-painted tables. The counter stood on his right, manned by a girl wearing tattoos for sleeves. Through its glass barrier, Shinta could see the cabinet heaving with dollops of sweets and tins of tea and coffee. The café’s two perpendicular walls were obscured by six-foot shelves, housing a collection of books both for
sale and for browsing. The lone wall spared was across from where Jill and Shinta sat, only because it had been claimed by a circa 1980s Ms. PacMan machine and two acoustic guitars pegged on either side.

  A sign floated over the game, mirroring the one that hung outside above the shop’s bright red door. It bore an image of what to Shinta looked like a creature half-unicorn, half-beagle, and fully rainbow-colored.

  “Doozy Books and Coffee,” he read, squinting his eyes. “Doozy?”

  “I asked the owner once.” Jill had stood to retrieve the guitar from Ms. PacMan’s left, fingers toying with the pegs and strings as she flumped back in her seat. “She said she had a dog named Doozy.”

  “Did the dog have a magical horn and kaleidoscope wings?”

  Jill giggled. “She didn’t say.”

  “That’s a short origin story.”

  Jill hunched over the guitar, fingers from her left hand skimming along the neck, pressing against each fret, as she introduced herself to the stranger in her lap. Her thumb found a scar on the wooden body, and paused to study that flaw before her fingers took flight across the strings.

  Shinta straddled the edge of his seat, poised to enjoy this intimate show.

  Jill’s eyes flicked up to catch his, as if remembering he was there. She smiled, and the rest was beautiful noise.

  “I wait for the sign/ That all has come undone/ My sins, sins, sins/ Fault lines underground/ Bridges worn to the ground.”

  Did most people get to sit this close and watch someone sing? Shinta hoped they did. It was his favorite thing in the world. This close he could catch each sigh, each twitch of lip, each slow caress of mouth gifted to words as they married with sound. His knee bumped against hers, and each tap of her foot on the floor sent the same beat moving under his skin.