“Let me do it,” Grace says. She shoves Raj again and gets up. “I grew up in a ‘no burnt toast allowed’ household. I got this.” She hip-checks Yuki out of the way and pauses. “Hey,” she says softly, and waits until Yuki turns to face her. “I’m going to kiss you, okay?”
Yuki makes a face. “You don’t have to announce it, Honey Girl.”
Grace crosses her arms. “Why not? Consent is sexy!”
“Um, yes,” Yuki says, “but if you make this a habit, I’m going to scream and probably, like, implode? So, I feel like maybe we can just assume unless I say otherwise.”
“That’s fair,” Grace says. She puts careful hands around Yuki’s waist and just—kisses her. Good morning, hi, I want to keep you.
Yuki curls her fingers around Grace’s neck, or rather, around Grace’s hoodie. She probably looks terrible right now: exhausted and bleary and a little sick, but Yuki keeps kissing her anyway. She pushes her hood back so she can see more of Grace, can see the bags under her eyes and her chapped lips and limp hair, free from its myriad of products.
“Rice,” Raj calls as they pull away. “Toast. I have a flight to catch, and I can’t show up to the airport like this. It’ll really ruin my whole vibe for the trip, which is already not great.”
At the reminder of last night’s drunken confessions, Grace feels herself tense. It’s ridiculous because they were both drunk and mean and bitter, but she still feels the words burn like the tequila did, right at the center of her chest.
“I’ll do the toast,” she says quietly, and slips out of Yuki’s hold. She hears a sigh behind her, before the microwave opens and starts to hum with warming rice. She turns to the toaster. This one simple thing, she can do.
She remembers making toast after Colonel’s surgery. He was aching and ill-tempered and snappy. He couldn’t move and with his meds couldn’t really eat, so Grace got up every morning before work and made toast with jam. The meds made his stomach upset, and the pain made him upset, and she remembers, too many times, the bread and plates that went flying.
Jesus, Porter, it’s burnt, while Grace got on her knees and picked up slices and crumbs and wiped at stains. I got one goddamn leg and a daughter burning my toast. Get off the damn floor, Porter. Just leave it, I said. I’ll have Sharone order something.
So, Grace knows how to make toast. Perfect toast.
She stands guard at the toaster because you can’t leave it too quick or too long, or the whole thing will be ruined.
“You’re watching it like it’s going to eat you,” Yuki says. “Or like it’s going to up and disappear.”
Grace leans on her elbows. “Habit,” she says.
The microwave dings, and Yuki pulls plates down out of the cabinets. Raj drags himself in and settles on the floor. “We’re eating here,” he decides. “This is where I deserve to eat right now.”
So, they eat rice and toast on the floor. Yuki can only find one clean fork. She and Grace share it, passing it back and forth between bites, and Raj digs in with his hands.
“Just like home,” he mumbles through a mouthful. “Meera says it’s ‘uncouth’ now, but that’s only because the white kids at her college told her it was weird.”
“Fuck white people,” Grace and Yuki say together.
“True that.”
Soon enough, he has to leave. Grace follows Raj down the steps, and they stand in the warm summer breeze waiting for his Uber.
“So,” he says, arms crossed. “Wild night, huh?”
Grace hmms. “Threw up twice this morning, but sure. Wild. Not disgusting at all.”
“Ha, I’m at three, probably more after airplane turbulence.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “I win.”
She crosses her arms, too. The little moving car on his screen says four minutes until his ride arrives. “What do you win?”
He doesn’t look at her. He’s held Grace up more times than she can count. Figures eventually he’d knock her down at least once, too.
“Maybe forgiveness?” he says. “For being a total and complete ass last night? Tequila really doesn’t agree with me.”
Grace turns to him. Her head is pounding; her throat is still dry. Somewhere, in the cavernous hollow cave that is her chest, drunk, angry words sit embedded in a perfect target. “You weren’t all wrong,” she admits. “I didn’t just spend eleven years sacrificing my own things. I also sacrificed so much time with you all. Being there for you. Drunk words equal sober thoughts, right?”
“Okay, first,” he says, “that sounds like a Pinterest quote. Never say that to me again. Second—” He takes a deep breath. “It’s in the big brother handbook to call you out on your shit. But your shit isn’t just hard, it’s a bunch of systemic bullshit. I know that. I was wrong to suggest otherwise. So, thanks for calling me out, too. Maybe little sisters know what they’re talking about, sometimes.”
Grace smiles, even though it hurts. The sun is too bright and the city is too loud and everything is too much. Everything has been too much for far too long.
She sniffles, and Raj freezes up. His hands hover somewhere around her shoulders, like he has no idea what to do. She wipes her eyes as she laughs at the absurdity. “I’m telling Meera you said that, too.”
They look at each other, hesitating like they never have before.
“Just hug it out!” Yuki yells from the window. “Who knew earth signs were so goddamn emotionally incompetent?”
“How do you know I’m an earth sign?” Raj asks.
“Broke into your phone while you were in the bathroom and added you on that astrology app,” she says, disappearing inside. “Your passcode is whack!”
He looks back at Grace. “You really picked one.”
She looks up at the window. “Yeah,” she sighs, unable to keep the affection from her face. “I really like her.”
“I like her, too,” he says. “She’s good.” He opens his mouth and takes a moment before speaking. “I really am sorry.”
Grace holds her arms out. He leans in, and she inhales his familiar scent. “I’m sorry,” she breathes out. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry I never asked. I would have—I don’t know what I would have done. But I could have tried.”
He laughs quietly. “I know you would, dummy. I’m sorry I never told you. I’m sorry I got mad that you’re trying to figure out your own shit, and I can’t figure out mine.”
“Not your fault,” she says firmly. “I love you.”
“Love you, Space Girl.” He pulls away. A gray Honda pulls up to the curb. “My chariot awaits. Next time you talk to me, I may be in the market for a new employee in Boston. Right up your alley.”
“I’m there,” she says.
“You ready?” the driver asks.
Raj nods, taking a deep breath. “Wish me luck?”
“Good luck, I guess. I’m conflicted about it.”
“Well, as long as you’re conflicted,” he says, climbing into the car. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“Impossible,” she whispers, and the car zooms off, into the busy streets of New York.
Later, while Clueless plays on Yuki’s laptop, and Grace nurses her second cup of hojicha, her phone vibrates.
She groans. Raj already texted that he arrived in Boston safe and sound. Ximena sent her photos of the therapy dogs in the hospital today, golden retrievers and German shepherds and little Yorkies with bows in their hair. Agnes sent a string of skull emojis, but she also had group therapy tonight, so it checks out.
Meera, the display says.
“Shit.”
Yuki makes a questioning noise, half asleep from half a bottle of wine. “Me or you?”
“Me,” Grace answers, rolling off the bed. She snatches the phone up and says, “Give me a second,” before she presses it to her chest. “Gotta take this. I’ll be right back.”
Grace shakes her head. “I’ve seen this movie like a hundred times. Please.”
She tiptoes out the room. Dhorian is in the living room, case studies and paperwork laid out in front of him on the coffee table. He’s in comfy clothes, sweats and a long-sleeved shirt that says Black by Popular Demand. He gives Grace a little salute when he hears the bedroom door shut.
“Is that Porter?” Sani calls. “Tell her and Yuki we’re having a Crash Bandicoot tournament once you’re done trying to save the world.”
She waves her phone, and Dhorian nods. “She’s busy,” he says. “Must be important, because who the fuck talks on the phone anymore?”
Grace shuts herself into the bathroom. She gets in the tub and pulls the curtain for extra privacy.
“Hello?” Meera sighs impatiently.
“Hi, Meera.”
“Finally,” she says. “It took you forever to say hello. What if it was an emergency? What if I was on that game show where you have to phone a friend? I would have lost.”
“Are you talking about Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Is that what you’re talking about? Why would you be on that?”
“Have you ever heard of hypotheticals?” she asks. “Like, hypothetically, my brother is driving me crazy with his weird guilt over whatever went down with you two while he was in New York. So, spill. What did he do?”
Grace glares at the shower tile. Trust Raj to leave it up to her to fend off Meera. “It was nothing,” she lies. “We were just drunk.”
“He said he crossed some lines,” Meera says. “You know I’ll let him have it if he said something wrong. Love my brother, but he can be—well, my brother.”
“Seriously, M, it’s fine. He was just nervous about the meeting. The pressure was getting to him.”
She knows she said too much when Meera turns from protective to worried. “Pressured about what? Did Baba say something to him? I swear he lets that man guilt him into anything. I’m gonna call him back—”
Grace curses. “It wasn’t like that,” she says soothingly, voice quiet. “He just wants to do well. You know how much he loves the tea room. He wants to make a good impression. That was it. I probably shouldn’t have let him get so drunk the night before.”
It’s quiet for a moment before Meera speaks again, sounding small and scared, like a little girl. “You promise? You’d tell me if he said it was getting to be too much for him, right?”
If I told Meera I didn’t want to run the tea room, she’d drop everything, and she’d do it.
“Promise,” Grace says, the lie settling in with the rest of the sludge in her chest. “If he said anything like that, I’d tell you.”
Meera sniffs a little, but Grace hears the relief in the silence. “It’s good he has you,” she says. “He still thinks he has to protect me, but I’m glad he can be honest with you.”
“Me, too,” Grace croaks out. “But enough about that. Tell me about you. How’s that class?”
“Oh my God,” Meera says. “It’s seriously the best decision I’ve ever made. I love it. I can’t imagine doing anything but psychology. It just feels right, you know?”
She’d give up everything if I said I didn’t want to do it.
“That sounds so great, M,” Grace says. “You have time to talk? I wanna hear all about it.”
When they’re done, she creeps back into the bedroom.
Yuki’s eyes blink open, bleary and swollen, as Grace scoots closer. “There she is,” she says quietly. “The favored girl of the sun.” She reaches out and pulls Grace in. “Honey Girl.”
“Are you drunk?” Grace asks. “Or just sleepy?”
Yuki burrows into the covers. “Both. Are you done talking on the phone like it’s 1999?”
“Okay,” Grace scoffs. “Is that gonna be the new apartment joke? It’s already tired.”
Yuki hides a smile in her pillow. “Perhaps.”
She looks sleepy and giggly. No longer the lazy dream in Grace’s memories, but the real thing.
“Yes,” Yuki answers to a question unasked, looking back up at Grace. “You can kiss me, yes.”
Maybe Raj was right. Maybe Grace has been selfish. There are decisions to be made. She has a life to live and a home that waits. She cannot spend the rest of her days kissing a girl that tastes like tart red wine. She cannot stay huddled around a radio listening to the origins of misunderstood things. But she wants to. She wants to hold on to this just a little bit longer, before the universe makes her choose.
Soon, she will have to face the rejections in her inbox. She will have to apply for more positions and sit through more interviews. She will have to answer all their questions, and she will not give them the satisfaction of walking out. If there is anything she’s learned with Yuki, away from the constant pressures in Portland, it’s that it is okay to be the monster. To be the feared creature lurking in the dark with teeth and claws and blood.
She will embrace it. She will stare them down in their fear, and she will demand their time and their consideration and their equal opportunity. She will not let them spin her into a scary story, a thing whispered about and cast aside.
But Grace will also hold on to this good thing, her good thing, for just a little while longer. She has earned the right for something to be easy. She has earned the right to hold on to this place, this peace, this girl, this red-bricked home.
Just a little longer, she whispers to the universe. I will cling to it like stardust.
Fourteen
August comes with humidity and open windows and music speakers blaring from the stoops on the block. It’s Grace’s birthday month, and the passage of summer weighs heavily on her.
She spends one night of it on Yuki’s bed watching House Party while Dhorian two-strand twists her hair.
“You need to be committed to the protective style,” he says. “Don’t let your half-white side break down your edges.”
“I’m committed!” she argues. “I don’t want my edges broken! I do protective styles! I sleep on silk!”
Yuki gets dressed, hiding halfway behind her closet, ready to make her way to the radio station. She shimmies into some jeans that are more holes than denim. Grace peeks at her, eyes roaming over Yuki’s curves and the way her back is shaped like a bow. There’s a little bruise on her hip, purpling like wine, and she flushes at remembering how it got there. “You better take care of your edges,” Yuki says. “I would hate to be married to a bald-headed bitch.”
“Can you go?” Grace whines.
“Please,” Dhorian adds. He points at the TV and Grace’s hair. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a delicate cultural process right now?”
Yuki holds her hands up in surrender. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.” She bends down and pauses, just for a moment, before she kisses Grace on the cheek. There is a lipstick imprint left behind, Grace knows. “Listen to the show tonight?”
“Always,” she says, and Yuki gives her a helpless smile. “Text me when you’re there.”
Yuki rolls her eyes. “Cute how my wife thinks I can’t kick anyone’s ass if I need to.” She blows a kiss at them and the scent of her soap lingers.
In the quiet, with just the TV and the lull of Dhorian’s fingers, Grace remembers this is Colonel’s favorite movie. She hasn’t seen it since she was a teenager and found him watching it in the living room. She was grounded for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong girl, caught by a cop who knew her father.
She was brought home in the back of a squad car, heart thumping with each mile, eyes trained on the baton and the gun and the cold metal handcuffs. He dragged her by her arm up to their front door, and she listened, standing on the doormat, as Colonel assured him it would never happen again. Not with his daughter.
&n
bsp; She was grounded. No phone, no TV, no iPod. Just school and homework and helping Miss Debbie file papers and listening to her endless tirades about how rude and disrespectful and disappointing Grace was to her father. That was the true punishment. So, when she crept down the stairs at the sound of loud music and Colonel—Colonel—bellowing with laughter, she didn’t expect to see him lounging on the couch, watching a movie about college kids with ’90s haircuts and ’90s clothes.
She fully expected to be sent back up to her room, but Colonel hadn’t minded her joining him. There were two beer bottles in front of him, empty, and he sprawled on the couch, relaxed. “You ever seen this?”
She crept closer, sitting primly on the edge of the cushion. “No. What is it?”
Colonel groaned. He groaned. “Damn, Porter. How have I never showed you this? Sit down. I’ll start it over.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Got to,” he said, rewinding. “This right here is a classic. A staple in the culture.”
She sighed, getting comfortable in her own little corner. “If you say so.”
“Oh, I say so.”
It’s a good memory, Grace thinks, brought back to life here.
Dhorian’s pager beeps. “Shit,” he says. “I’m the on-call resident this week.” He completes one of Grace’s twists; there are only a few left to do in the back. “You can finish these up, right?”
“Go save Harlem,” she says. “You’re like Spider-Man.”
“Only if it’s the Miles Morales version,” he says, grabbing his bag and his hoodie from the living room. “Bye, Porter!”
And then Grace is alone. The movie loses some of its appeal in the quiet of the apartment. There’s just the hum of the huge fish tank and her circling thoughts. There is Yuki’s incense and bottled sea salt and rough-cut crystals. Her mishmash butsudan has small, cutout pictures of her grandmother and dried flower petals and candles and a glass of water she changes out every morning, first thing. It has all become familiar to Grace.
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