Unbreak My Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  “Memo to Ian—you’ve been weird your whole life. It didn’t start when your cells metastasized.”

  He liked it when I didn’t shirk away from the reality—he didn’t want me to whisper the name of his disease or call it the C word. “It is what it is, and I’m going to kick cancer’s motherfucking ass.”

  Back then, I’d slowed at a light and reached out to stroke the dog’s chin. “I like this non-sexist woman-power canine.”

  Sandy was a fitting name for the dog. Sandy Koufax wasn’t just the greatest pitcher ever. He was resilient. He played through pain, pitching with a damaged elbow, throwing heat with injured fingers. The name would be a fitting tribute, not just to a baseball legend, but to my brother.

  In the back of my mind, I knew the dog would outlive Ian. But I wanted to believe that my brother—who was kick-ass at everything he did—would drop-kick cancer’s ass too.

  Now Sandy is all mine. She always was mine, truth be told—even though we called her Ian’s dog, she made her allegiance clear. The first night home she slept in my bed.

  I’m going to miss this dog like crazy.

  With Sandy waiting in the front seat of the car, I knock on Mrs. Callahan’s door.

  She opens it in seconds, and a smile launches across her weathered face. “Hello, Andrew. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m going away for a little while. A few weeks, I think. Can you—?”

  “Consider it done. The lawn will be a gleaming shade of emerald when you return, and the flowers will be blooming.”

  I nod and thank her, then I drive Sandy to Jeremy’s tiny bungalow. He’s watching his parents’ two Chihuahua–Min Pin mixes, and Sandy races to the yard and starts rounding up the diminutive dogs.

  “You’re the only one I trust to take care of my dog,” I remind Jeremy.

  “That dog is in good hands.”

  “That dog catches Frisbees on the beach. Those are hard to come by.”

  Jeremy points to the tiny beasts in his yard. “Those dogs are not chick magnets. I take those dogs to the beach, and the girls want to take me shopping and ask which shoes to buy.”

  “My dog is a lady magnet,” I say, and pat Jeremy on the back. “You will score endlessly with her by your side.”

  “I’m taking her to the pier every day.”

  “Take good care of her.”

  “I will. But I’m not sending you photos of her.”

  “But text me, okay? Let me know how Sandy is doing?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re embarrassing. You’re like a girl when it comes to this dog.”

  “Don’t be a sexist pig,” I say.

  “Get out of here, asshole.”

  I call Sandy over, rub her head, pet her ears, and tell her to be good. She tilts her head as if she’s listening. Her tongue hangs out of her mouth. I tell her I love her in a voice so low Jeremy can’t hear me say it.

  Next, I go to Kate’s home to say goodbye to my cousin.

  She parks her hands on my shoulders and looks up, her eyes fierce. “Don’t crash any cars or punch any walls in Tokyo. It’ll be harder for me to come rescue you.”

  “I’ll do my best to exercise self-restraint.”

  I take off for the law firm. I tell Don Jansen, the managing partner, he can reach me on my cell if he needs anything. That might be one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever said to anyone.

  “I’ll do my best not to call,” he says with a smile.

  He won’t call. He’s never called me. Even when I interned here. Don’s been running this place since Ian cut back his hours, then when he quit earlier this year. I might own the joint, but I’m not needed day in and day out. Don is.

  He claps me on the shoulder. “Looking forward to seeing you here when you’re back.”

  When I’m back—because I can’t live in this in-between state forever.

  That’s why I’m leaving.

  I say goodbye and head to the plane that’ll take me 5,400 miles away. I’m ready to meet Kana, to see my brother’s doctor, to learn the things I don’t know.

  When I sink into my seat in row twenty-three, Holland by my side, I’m not sure if this is real. Or maybe this is the new surreal direction that life after a hall pass has taken.

  For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel so alone.

  14

  Andrew

  A body of water broke us up.

  It’s the largest and deepest one on earth, reaching its fingertips from the Arctic Ocean to Antarctica, from Asia and Australia to the Americas.

  This 64-million-square-mile beast covers one-third of the earth, and that was more than enough to make Holland and me an impossibility three years ago.

  I guess sometimes you want something so badly, you jump even if you know you’ll crash. The jump was worth it, an exhilarating free fall, despite what was coming.

  It’s ironic that we’re now crossing the Pacific together, but we’re not together. Three years ago, I’d have given a million bucks, years off my life, or my right thumb for a way for us to stay together.

  But that was the wide-eyed younger me—the one who had only experienced one seismic shift, not two.

  Now, I take what I can get from Holland, and it’s a strange new breed of companionship between us as we fly over the vast blue water while watching a spy movie set in space.

  “It’s so ridiculously unreal—all the CGI—that I love it to pieces,” she says, waving at the seatback screens as she tugs out her earbuds.

  “I don’t think they could shoot it on a set,” I say drily.

  “Ya think?”

  “Smartass.”

  “Same to you.”

  When the flick ends, we play cards, with Holland killing it at gin rummy.

  “Card shark,” I mutter.

  She blows on her fingers.

  When the meal arrives, she angles her phone above the tray full of rice and vegetables to snap a shot.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “For my Yelp review.”

  “You’re really doing a Yelp review of airline food?”

  “Absolutely. The only question is how many stars it’ll earn.” She spears a piece of wilted pepper and bites it. After chewing, she declares, “Two-point-five.”

  “You’re a harsh Yelper.”

  She smirks. “It’s hilarious that you thought I’d really do that.”

  I set down my plastic fork, indignant. “The whole thing was a setup?”

  She nods, proud of her ruse.

  “See? You do take advantage of me.”

  Those words immediately evoke the other night. She locks eyes with me, and the joking ceases. Heat blazes across her irises, and a groan works its way up my chest. She’s thinking the same thing, remembering the same moments I am. How we crashed into each other, all need and pent-up longing, how we nearly set the couch into flames. I can hear the sounds she made, feel how she moved. I see it all in her eyes, the images flashing like a film reel snapping. A hand on a face. Fingers laced through hair. Legs wrapped around hips. Lips parted. Eyes closed. Breath coming fast.

  I’d watch that film again a thousand times over, even though it always ends the same.

  We cut to black.

  And now we’re here, riding across the sky, knees brushing each other, the guy on the other side of me snoring.

  “I don’t take advantage of you,” she whispers.

  “I know you don’t.”

  “I don’t,” she says again, firmer this time.

  I’m firm too. “It was a joke.”

  “Okay,” she says, like she’s giving in.

  “It was, Holland.”

  She plucks the in-flight magazine from the back of the seat and snaps it open. “Storytime,” she declares, and then reads me an article. In Japanese. “What did you think?”

  I scratch my jaw. “Considering I have hardly a clue what you said, how much of a disadvantage will I be at in Tokyo? I haven’t been there in a few years.�
�

  She shoots me a look. “I’m aware of that.”

  Open mouth. Insert foot. That seems to be the stilted way we are today.

  “It wasn’t deliberate,” I mutter.

  She sighs then fixes on a smile. “It’s okay. It was the decision we made. Besides, you couldn’t just jet off to Tokyo whenever you wanted.”

  “And you couldn’t just jet back to LA either,” I toss back, because there’s still room in my mouth for more of my foot.

  “Anyway,” she says, shifting gears, “you’ll be fine. You studied it when you were younger, right?”

  I nod. “My parents made us take classes as kids. I don’t remember much though.”

  “I bet you’ll pick up the language again quickly. It’s there in your brain—it just needs to be dusted off. I’ll help you as much as I can, especially since I don’t start for another few weeks. By the way, what’s first on your treasure map?”

  I think about this for a minute. “Probably the teahouse. Have you been?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “Do you want to go with me?”

  “Sure.”

  I feel like a kid in high school asking a girl out, since I don’t have a clue what her response of sure means.

  Then I remind myself—she’s been crystal clear. She laid it out at my house over toast. We aren’t a thing. We’re not here as a couple. We’re here as . . . sidekicks.

  Explorers.

  Adventurers.

  We’re Indiana Jones. Harry Potter. Star-Lord.

  We’re on a quest to understand my family.

  It doesn’t matter if we’re awkward, if we rehash the past, if we tease, or if we don’t.

  We are only this, and no more.

  * * *

  I’m not tired when I file off the plane, pass through customs, and purchase two tickets for the train from the airport into the center of Tokyo. I’m not tired, either, when I sit on a red upholstered seat for the quick ride to the city center.

  Holland is a different story. Her eyes start to flutter.

  “You can rest your head on my shoulder,” I tell her.

  “I’m okay,” she says on another huge yawn.

  “Really, I won’t bite.”

  “Maybe for just a minute.” She lays her head on my shoulder, and I check my messages.

  For a sliver of a second, I imagine Ian’s written to me, like he did the weekend in April when I flew to Miami with some of my classmates for some pro bono work required for a course.

  Ian: Don’t forget sunscreen. And be sure to enjoy the view on South Beach. It’s the land of beautiful people.

  Andrew: I’ll be trotting out my best pickup lines between helping the indigent with their legal needs.

  Ian: No one ever suggested you had good pickup lines. ☺

  Andrew: You’re right. They all suck. Because I learned them from you.

  Ian: As if I’d share my best material. BTW, love ya. Glad you made it safely.

  Andrew: Back atcha. The love thing.

  Ian: You can say it. C’mon. Serve it up to me.

  Andrew: Fine. Love ya. Bye.

  We’d made a promise when our parents died that we wouldn’t forget to tell each other we gave a shit. I don’t think we ever forgot to say we loved each other—in our way—when one of us traveled.

  As the train rattles, a sharp sensation cuts through me, like a slice down my chest. This trip is the first time I’ve flown since he passed.

  There are no messages from him waiting. There will never be another one, and the cut deepens as I read through some of our old texts. Sometimes, it’s the little habits that are hardest to say goodbye to. Harder to break. Harder to mourn.

  I close the thread before the cut smarts any more.

  There’s a message from someone else, and I need to tend to it. Holland’s sound asleep on my shoulder as I open a text from my cousin.

  Kate: Hope you landed safely! Keep me posted. Also, just a thought—maybe you want to move the date for your Bar exam? Happy to do that for you if I can!

  I curse and run my hand through my hair. I fucking forgot. How did I forget to move it? I spent so much time in the spring studying for it, and then I stopped. There’s no way I can take the Bar next month.

  I start a reply, then stop mid-word when I remember the day I hit the car in front of my house on purpose. How dismissive I was to Kate when she tried to help. How numb I felt. How empty I was.

  Even here, with Holland snoozing on my shoulder and my brother’s favorite city mere miles away, I’m still closer to that version of me than I am to some brand-spanking-new iteration.

  But I also have enough distance to know I don’t have to be a douche to Kate.

  I was definitely a douche to her that day, and probably on others too. Taking a breath, I reply.

  Andrew: That would be awesome if you can reschedule the Bar. I completely forgot to do that, and I would be so grateful if you could work your supreme wizardry magic. Also, in case I haven’t said this enough—I appreciate you for all you’ve done. Thanks. Love ya.

  Kate: Thank you for saying that, and for letting me help. I love you too! More soon! xoxo

  I close my phone and gaze out the window at the lush green fields we’re passing in the suburbs, which soon turn into squat apartment buildings at the edge of the city, which then become skyscrapers and sleek, steel structures in the middle of Tokyo. The train arrives gently in Shibuya Station, and I rustle Holland, who stirs, sighs, and blinks.

  “Hey. We’re here.”

  She takes another deep breath but can’t seem to shake off the sleepiness. I grab her suitcase from the rack and toss my lone backpack on my shoulder. I packed lightly, not wanting to bother with checked baggage. I stuffed everything I might need—laptop, shorts, T-shirts, some books, and a pair of flip-flops—into an oversized camping backpack. My sneakers are on my feet.

  I roll her giant suitcase behind me as she ambles along by my side. It’s strange to be helping her, since she knows this city so much better than I do.

  The doors open, not with a screech but with a whoosh, and the crowds of people do not push or shove. They politely shuffle off. It’s five-thirty in the evening on a Sunday night in June, and the station is bustling.

  We push through the final turnstile at the Hachikō exit. We’re at one of the busiest, craziest intersections in the world, because Shibuya Station sits at the convergence of a half dozen streets, where Holland took that selfie for me—a picture I love. I want to capture a new moment here, right now, three years later. Then I want to text it to her and tell her she doesn’t have to miss me anymore, ever. She can have me. I’m here.

  But it’s just for now.

  So there’s no point in a for now selfie.

  My hands remain at my sides, and instead, I watch her as she drinks in the view with wide eyes. “Home,” she whispers, and it hits me like a fist in the solar plexus.

  This is her place.

  Her land.

  I’m in a foreign city—no kidding—but this is her stomping ground.

  I knew that, logically, but I didn’t truly get it on a deeper level until this second.

  I’m not her home. And her home doesn’t include me.

  “Look,” she whispers reverently, pointing. “That was one of Ian’s favorite things.”

  I turn and nod. “Yeah, it was.”

  Carved into the street-side wall of the subway station is a bright, chunky mosaic of stars, rainbows, and a white Akita with a perfectly coiled tail. The story goes like this—the dog Hachikō followed his owner, a university professor, to work every morning and waited for his return in the evenings. One day in 1925, his master failed to show. He had died while teaching. But Hachikō was loyal to the end. The dog walked to the subway stop every day, waiting for the same train for the next several years until his own death.

  I tap the dog’s head once for good luck. Holland taps his chin. She gestures to the intersection. “I can walk you to your
place.”

  “It’s okay. I know how to get there. Go get some sleep.”

  As if on cue, she yawns again. “It’s possible I might conk out. See you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll text you later to make plans.”

  Then I go one way, and she heads another.

  Two directions.

  Two lives.

  Two apartments.

  We’re together, but we’re not at all. Perhaps it’ll always be this way.

  I cross the intersection and join the sea of people fanning out in all directions.

  I’m with all these people, but I’m still alone.

  15

  Andrew

  I open the familiar glass-paneled door to the lobby of the apartment building that still feels more like Ian’s than mine, even though it was ours, and press the elevator button.

  The last time I was here was an impulsive trip the summer after my first year of law school.

  The day classes ended, Ian surprised me by picking me up on campus, looking all cool and Risky Business with shades on. “We’re getting out of town,” he’d declared, smacking his palm on the shining red door of his car.

  “Vegas, baby?”

  He scowled. “Hell, no. We’re flying far, far away. I have a craving for fish, and I have credit card miles burning a hole in my pocket.”

  Enough said. We took off on a ten-hour flight across the sea and went to the fish market for breakfast the next morning.

  “I’m going to OD on sushi,” I’d said, patting my belly while pushing away the bowl of rice and fish at the food stall we loved.

  “If you do, I’ll revive you, so you can have some more.”

  “That sounds like a most excellent plan.”

  My stomach growls as the elevator rises, and I’m hungry from thinking about breakfast. I’ll need fuel before I go to the teahouse tomorrow.