This is what I’m supposed to be doing before I buckle down and focus on work. Figuring out how Ian was the most joyful when he was dying. Because I’m living, and I sure as hell don’t feel anything but empty.
I flip open my laptop and plug Tatsuma Teahouse into the browser, but I can’t find a website for it, only a location in Shibuya on a few city guides. There’s a short review on one of the sites, so I copy the Japanese words into an online translator and read the results.
“Tatsuma Tea is a very healing cure.”
Is this a result of a bad translation? Or did he turn to some other kind of cure, and that’s why some of his meds were left unopened? Did he go overseas searching for a brass ring that didn’t exist?
I grab my phone and call Holland. I skip the hello and launch into questions. “Did Ian stop taking his meds when he was in Tokyo?”
She makes a startled noise. “What?”
“Do you know if he stopped taking his meds when he was there? You saw him.”
“I didn’t see him that much,” she says gently. “And I don’t think so, but he was in remission most of the time.”
“He still had meds for remission,” I say, since Ian was on those meds for a while, well before he first noticed signs in January that the cancer might be recurring. The disease roared all the way back in March, two months before it KO’d him.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Did he stop taking them here?”
“There were things your cousin Kate and I cleaned out after . . .” She lets her voice go. Finds it again. “But I didn’t inventory his meds. I didn’t count pills. Besides, there weren’t many left when . . .” Another abandoned sentence. Another side effect of death. Words go AWOL. “So we just got rid of what was left.” She clears her throat. “What’s going on?”
I swallow hard. “There are things I need to understand.”
“What? What do you need to understand?” Her voice wavers, and something in it—maybe the threat of her tears—stabs at me.
I want to tell Holland. I want to show her the note so we can devise a plan together, a map of what’s next. My decision to go to Tokyo is the first thing that’s felt like a spark, like a flash of light and color, in months. Because it’s something, it’s movement, it’s not just the vast expanse of endless, hollow days.
But I remember the whiplash of lunch the other day.
Of every day with us.
The you’re beautiful.
The it’s okay.
The let’s see a movie.
The I have an appointment.
We are both attracting and repelling each other, and right now I need facts, not endless feelings for the girl I want to fuck and kiss and bury my sorrows in as I fuck her some more.
But I’m not fucking her or kissing her. Because she’s not mine, and I can’t get caught up in her again.
“I’ll call you back later,” I say.
“Promise,” she says, a flash of urgency in her tone.
“I promise.”
“We can get Chinese,” she adds.
“Yeah.”
Hanging up, I grab my phone, keys, and wallet.
I could call or e-mail Kana, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing to her.
I head to see someone else. Someone who knew my brother on this side of the world.
10
Andrew
At the hospital cafeteria, Trina shakes three sugar packets crisply between her thumb and forefinger. She rips open her sweet trifecta and dumps it into her coffee. “Fuel,” she says, tapping the paper cup. She wears blue scrubs, a white lab coat, and has her long black hair looped back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. “You want one?”
I shake my head.
She waggles the cup at me. “I’d much rather give you this than the other thing.”
“I’m not here for that.”
She lets out an exhale. “Good. So what’s the story, morning glory?”
I tell Trina about the letter as clinically as I can, like an unbiased reporter, because I want her unbiased report in return. I tell her about the absence of meds at my house.
“You’re going to go, right?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away because I expected more back-and-forth.
“You’re going to go and meet this woman and read the cards, and see this temple and go to this teahouse?” She chugs half her coffee. I wonder if it burns her throat.
“You really think I should go there?” I figured I was crazy, casting about for something, anything, and Trina would knock sense into me. But logical, rational, sensible Trina thinks Tokyo is a good idea.
She nods several times. “Next flight. Go.”
“Why?”
“First off, because of the meds. That’s a little weird if he wasn’t taking them, and to leave them behind. That doesn’t sound like Ian. It’s one thing to stop meds when you’re at the end, but a few months before then? Cancer patients usually take their meds, especially when his returned so aggressively. Because, you know, meds fight the cancer.”
My heart drops, sagging heavily under the weight of the possibility that my brother simply stopped wanting to fight.
That notion feels so foreign, so at odds with the man I knew, that I don’t know how to fit it into the picture of him. He was a lawyer, and a damn good one, like our dad before us. Like I’m going to be. The Peterson men know how to fight. It’s in our blood.
“I should go to Tokyo, find Takahashi, and ask if my brother was taking his medicine or not?” I ask, sounding like the parent checking up on the sick kid.
“He must have had a reason for not taking them. Do you want to know?”
Desperately. “What about the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing? I thought it was against the rules or something.”
She shrugs. “Technically. But that’s all about getting sued, and this isn’t a TV crime drama. There isn’t a trial going on where someone’s being compelled to testify. Plus, in some countries, the doctors are accustomed to talking to the family. Friends of mine who’ve worked in Asia have said as much. The family sometimes learns stuff before the patient does.”
“But what do you think this temple and teahouse is all about? Is that like some new medical treatment for cancer? Some alternative healing or whatever?” I shrug in question. “That doesn’t sound like Ian. Not at all. He was very traditional. No voodoo shit, he’d say.”
Trina doesn’t answer right away. She takes another drink. “I don’t have the answers, Andrew. But whatever it was, it sounds like a good thing, like spending his last few months in that manner was a good way to go.” Her voice softens as if she’s talking to a worried patient. She reaches a hand out and places it on mine. “Drinking tea. Sharing stories. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
I nod briefly and look away. I’m glad he wasn’t in pain every single second. I hate that my strong, tough brother, the man who taught me how to tie a tie, how to fix a flat tire, how to ask a girl on a date was even in pain at all. Watching him throw up, watching him wither away after his treatments—nothing prepared me for that. Not even losing our parents first. Because when they went, it was a quick, clean slash of lightning. With Ian, it was a relentless downpour.
For years.
“Hey,” she says softly. “Do you need anything before you go?”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “A couple more?”
She looks around the cafeteria and shakes her head. “Shh.”
“Just kidding.” I’m not kidding at all.
She walks me out to my car and gives me a hug in the parking lot. “I’m here if you need anything. If you have questions, text me.”
“I will, Trina.”
She takes a breath. “I found a picture. Of the three of us. That night we were all up late studying, and you convinced Ian we needed to go to the pier and ride the roller-coaster.”
“He was always a sucker for the roller-coaster.”
She reaches into the pocket of her whi
te coat and takes out an envelope. “I had a copy printed.”
She hands me the envelope and says goodbye. When I get in the car, I slide my finger along the seal, opening it. Ian’s leaning against the pier, looking casual, Trina’s smiling, and I’m right next to them, laughing at who knows what. I don’t look like the kid brother who tagged along. Ian never made me feel like I was four years younger, or like I was an obligation.
I miss him every damn day.
I set the photo on my dashboard and ball up the envelope. Something stops me midway through. I uncrinkle it and fish around inside. In the corner of the envelope is Trina’s parting gift.
It won’t get me far, but I won’t complain about a few more goodies. I peer around to see if she’s still in the parking lot, but she’s gone. She’s sticking her neck out for me.
I send a quick text to say thank you, stuff the pills in my wallet, and take off.
I have a trip to plan, a treasure map to follow.
There’s only one thing left to take care of.
11
Andrew
Two hours later, Holland’s at my door, holding cartons of Chinese food, her black canvas purse on her shoulder. “I don’t think the rice is sizzling anymore, but the pepper steak will taste good if we heat it up. Can I come in?”
“Anytime.”
Truer words . . .
She walks straight to my kitchen and takes out two ceramic bowls, pours the soup into one, and pops it into the microwave. She knows my house. It’s scary sometimes, how much she knows about me. She knows what foods I like, what books I read, what movies I’ll watch all the way through and which ones I’ve walked out on. I know little details about her too—she’s a card shark and wins at nearly every card game I’ve ever played with her, she likes simple clothes and simple styles, and she’d happily serve this dinner on her own, but she’ll be even happier if I help her.
I root around in the utensil drawer for spoons then grab plates. We quickly work together to heat and serve then sit down at the counter, a plate of Chinese food for each of us.
Like we used to do. There’s so much familiarity, and I don’t know how to separate the way I used to feel for her from the way I want her now. But those feelings—the past and the present ones—are a knot inside my chest I can’t untwist.
Getting away from here might help.
“I know how much you like Captain Wong’s,” she says.
“I do. But that name kills me every time. Why the hell is it Captain? Is he flying a ship full of Chinese food?” I affect a sci-fi voice. “Hello. I am Captain Wong.”
“I have come to take over your planet,” she adds. I laugh, and she does too, and then her laughter fades. We eat in silence for a minute.
“So are you going to Tokyo?” she asks.
I set down the spoon. “How did you figure it out?”
Her blue eyes pierce me. “I know you.”
The way she looks at me—my heart pounds against my skin, trying to make a mutinous escape to land in her hands.
“Yeah? What do you know?”
Does she know how much I want her? How much I never forgot us? How much I wanted to grab her all those nights she was at my house last month, press her to the wall, and kiss her till I forgot the world around me?
She has to know. I’m so transparent.
“You won’t rest till you understand.” A flicker of worry is in her tone.
“Is that so?”
“That is so.” Her eyes linger on me, soft and full of kindness.
Earlier, I didn’t want to show her the note, but that’s the part of me that’s prone to shutting down. I don’t have to with her. Hell, she didn’t even judge me for hitting the car. I’d rather let her in than keep her out.
“I need you to see this letter. I need to know what you think of it. Help me read between the lines.” I reach for the letter at the edge of the counter where I left it, and slide it to her. “What can you tell me about any of this? You know Kana—she’s your friend.”
She reads it, swiping at her cheek at one point, erasing a rebel tear. When she finishes, she looks up. “I didn’t go with him to the teahouse and the temple. I only saw him a few times when he was in Tokyo. He wasn’t there to see me—he was there to see her.”
“Do you think I’m grasping at straws? I read this, and I feel like I don’t know him.”
“It might feel that way now, but you knew him better than anyone.”
That’s what I want, and yet, this new wrinkle eludes me. Not the what, but the why. The trouble is I only possess the answer at the end of the equation—it looks like he stopped taking the meds. The law school part of me knows there are three options based on that evidence: either he ceased taking the meds in lieu of an alternative, or he wanted to get life over with, or he stopped for some other reason.
Whichever it is, I don’t know the why, and I need to know.
The need bangs insistently on the back of my brain, like a drip of the faucet that won’t turn off.
I take a deep breath and voice my hope. “I want to believe I knew him well.”
She tilts her head, studying my face. “But you don’t believe that?”
I don’t answer her directly. I’m not sure I’m ready to admit that fear—that I didn’t know him as well as I hope. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t go?” I ask, because the one reason I’d stay is if she asked me to.
She pushes her plate away. “You should go.”
Her command both emboldens me and crushes me.
Tell me you miss me. Tell me to spend the summer with you.
She inches her hand across the counter just a little bit closer, and that hand, I want to grab it and hold on. I glance at our fingers, so close all it would take is one of us giving an inch.
Give. Take. Come. Stay.
I can feel the warmth from her hand. One stretch for us to reconnect, so I wait. Wait for her to put her hands on my face and press her lips against mine and kiss me like it’s been killing her not to.
But I can’t wait.
I break first, saying her name in a lonely, desperate rasp. “Holland.”
“Andrew.” Her voice is a whisper.
“Go with me,” I blurt out.
She blinks. “What?”
I shake my head.
Leaving the kitchen, I stalk to the living room, pacing like I can sort out what to do if I get just a few feet away from her.
She’s right behind me, her hand on my arm. “Say it again.”
I swivel around, and with her blue eyes on mine, her body close, I break to pieces. With her, my heart beats too fast, my blood pumps too quickly. I have no will to tell her to stop being so near to me but not near enough to make everything better.
“Say what again?” I ask, as if I’ve forgotten.
“Ask me,” she presses.
And she wins. She fucking wins. “Go with me. Come with me.”
She squeezes my arm. “Is that what you want?’
I cup her cheeks. She gasps. I’ve shocked her. Let’s shock her some more.
Her lips part, and she whispers my name. “Andrew.”
It’s like the stars are glowing. Like the sky is blazing at night. “You know what I want.”
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”
“But you do,” I insist.
“Do I?”
I bend closer, giving her the time, the space, anything she needs to stop me. She doesn’t. She lifts her chin, an invitation.
I RSVP.
I drop my mouth to hers, and the second we make contact, I’m high.
She tastes fantastic—like strawberries and desire. I brush my lips over hers, and this is like riding a bike. I will never forget how she likes to be kissed. How she craves a slow build. How she wants to get lost in kisses that start as whispers.
Her lips dust mine, and a sweet sigh falls from her mouth. I catch it on my lips and swallow it, and her lips part wider. She opens for me, and I kiss he
r a little harder, a little rougher, until she’s angling her body to mine, and we connect.
This is the way we were.
We can be that way again.
She can be the one to make me happy.
I lift her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her to the couch.
As I lower her, our mouths disengage, and I wait for a sign. A cue. A word like stop. But it doesn’t come. Instead, she slides a hand into my hair and yanks my face down to hers.
“Kiss me again,” she commands.
I smile as I kiss her lips, as I travel over her jaw, as I nibble on her ear.
She arches against me and lets out a moan.
This kiss isn’t a solo rider. It’s heading to all the lands where we used to travel. Since she returned, the energy between us has pulsed. The air we breathe has been charged.
She wraps her legs around me, gripping me tight, tugging me close. She seals her mouth to mine, a hungry, consuming creature. Yes, Holland, you can have me.
When she kisses me, my world spins on its axis. When she ropes her hands in my hair and pulls me closer, I’m home. She’s better than any pill. She’s stronger than any combination of chemicals. The effect she has on my brain is only bested by how she exhilarates my heart. It ricochets in my chest as I kiss her, as I rock into her, as I can’t get close enough to her.
She writhes and pushes and presses, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted. It’s all I need to get through a day.
She lets out a little cry chased by a long, lingering one. She’s not stopping either. She wants this. She wants me to grind against her till she gets there.
God, there’s nothing I want more in the universe than to get her off.
My entire body sizzles. My brain goes haywire, all hot static and mind-bending pleasure.
Endorphins explode in me. I feel something good, something great, something mind-blowing.
I want to spend the summer fucking her. Making her come over and over. Making her fall apart. I want to numb my head with pleasure, cover my broken heart with sex.
Unbreak My Heart Page 5