He takes his time answering, the words coming out sharper, bordering on suspicious. “Photos, letters, and pictures of you I found behind a framed photo of Kana. Three pictures of you, to be exact.”
I tilt my head, processing this news—news I don’t entirely like hearing. “Exact, indeed.” My hackles are raised, and I arch a brow. “And where were the photos taken?”
“In the park or something. Another was at karaoke.”
I furrow my brow, trying to remember those times. They feel vaguely familiar. “A park sounds like someplace I was once,” I tease, trying to diffuse the situation.
“What did you guys do together?” Andrew’s voice is strained, and his face is anguished now.
And I officially know why he’s off today, why his mood has been too even. He’s holding something in, and he’s thinking something he shouldn’t be thinking whatsoever.
A plume of righteous anger rises in me. I don’t let it burn me, but I won’t let him tread in these dangerous territories. Not only for his sake, but for mine too, because I won’t bear this burden. I hold up a hand. “Don’t go there.”
“Go where?”
I shake my head, keeping calm. Inside, I’m wound tight, because I know where his brain has traveled, and he’s so insanely wrong. “Be careful before you say anything.”
He licks his lips. “What do you think I’m going to say?”
I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t know, but I think if you do go someplace dangerous, you’ll regret it.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, like it hurts. “I’m sorry.”
The rawness in his voice hooks into me, and there’s a part of me that’s proud of him for not saying more. There’s a part that’s pissed, though, that he even let himself think the worst—of his brother and of me.
No wonder he looked guilty.
I soften. Slightly. “Why don’t you ask me about those times?”
He sighs heavily. “What did you do with Ian when he was here?”
The question is so needy, so honest, that I understand why he hurts. He wants to know his brother, and he wants to know me.
“I hung out with him and Kana. I loved your brother—don’t you get that?”
“I do get that. Trust me, I do.”
As he stares at the woman stirring the vat of soup, I catalog the features I know well: his cheekbones, his strong nose, his square jaw. His lips I love. “But do you want to know what we talked about?”
He turns to look at me. “What did you talk about?”
I point to him. “You.”
He smiles, a childlike wonder in his expression, a flicker of home-brewed happiness in his deep brown eyes. “Yeah?”
“I asked him about you. He told me stories of you. We talked about you. So before you start thinking stupid things, think better of your brother. Think better of me.” I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.
“I do. I do think better of you, and of him. Sometimes I’m just a fucking mess.” He shrugs. “Forgive me?”
I smirk. “I forgave you when you had the guts to not say it.”
“Good. That’s good. Glad I shut my trap at the right moment.”
I reach for his arm, set my palm on it. It’s hard for me to not touch him. “He had a life here. He loved Kana. And I loved him—as a friend, and only ever as a friend. And we did things together. I don’t know why those pictures are behind the frame, but I know this: you were never far from his mind, or mine.”
“I’m an asshole.”
“Are you though?”
“Am I?”
I look him over, as if I’m appraising him. “I think you’re a step or two away from it. There’s a thin line between almost and asshole.”
He laughs. “I’d like to not cross that line.”
“You’re doing okay so far.”
He wipes his hand across his brow in relief. “Whew.”
The guy behind the counter asks Andrew if he wants more tea.
“That’d be great. Thanks, Mike.” Andrew turns to me and lowers his voice. “Mike mentioned my sister came to visit Ian. Neither one of them ever told me about it.”
I pat his arm and shoot him a smile. “If it makes you feel any better, neither one of them told me either.”
He laughs. “A little better.”
Mike slides him the tea. “Here you go.” He tips his chin to me. “Do you need anything else . . .?” He trails off like he’s waiting for my name.
“I’m Holland.” I offer my hand.
He shakes. “I’m Mike. And it’s nice to meet Andrew’s girl.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Andrew and returns to his food prep.
I don’t correct him. I’m not his girl. But in many ways, I suppose I am.
Instead, I tell Andrew, “You should reach out to your sister and ask her.”
“I should, and I will.”
Mike hands me the fish and rice bowl, and I thank him.
* * *
We wander through the market, stopping in little stalls selling teacups and chopsticks, plates and fans.
Andrew points to a display of sapphire-blue square plates in every size from about one square inch to large enough to hold two Thanksgiving turkeys.
“This.” He lifts the tiniest one. “Is this for when I’m not very hungry but just want, say, one blueberry?”
I laugh and grab the next size up. “This is obviously for a pat of butter.”
“But just one pat,” he says in mock seriousness.
“Of course. With one of those cool scalloped designs in it.”
“Do you ever wonder how someone learns to do that?”
“Become a butter sculptor? I’ve actually never thought about that. Do you think you need to go to art school?”
“Probably, unless there are butter sculptor schools.”
“I suspect the butter sculpting academies also teach ice sculpture.”
We meander into the next stall and check out the vast array of fans. As I flick open a pastel-green one with a sparrow design, I turn to him, fanning my face. “Should I get a parasol to go with it?”
“Yes, and then try and use both with a straight face.”
“That would be impossible.”
We make our way around the shopping area, like we’re exploring together. Which we are, and we aren’t. Tokyo is foreign to me, yet it’s also my home.
But here with Andrew, the man I once wanted to see the world with, this feels like something we were always meant to do.
Something we once daydreamed about.
One afternoon during the summer we were together, I was lolling around in his pool, floating on a raft as I glided over to him. He hung by the side of the water, elbows on the ledge, sunglasses on because it was high noon, with the kind of heat that made you feel like you’d been baking from the inside out. I pushed his shades on top of his head and said, “Let’s go to Fiji.”
“Let’s go to Tahiti.”
“Bali.”
“How about the Cook Islands? It’s practically off the map.”
“The Maldives.”
“Seychelles.”
I splashed water on him. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“The Maldives? I think you might be showing off too.”
“I was just trying to impress you. Geography was my best subject. I can totally name all fifty states. Just try me.”
He pulled me off the raft and brought me up against his hot, hard body. “It’ll make me want you even more,” he joked, even though he seemed to want me a helluva lot right then.
“Do you know how long I’ve liked you, Andrew Peterson?”
“No. How long?”
I spread my arms as wide as they could go. “This long.”
“That’s a long time to harbor a crush, Holland St. James.”
My nerves skittered, but I kept them at bay. I was going to say the word—the word that was so hard to say when real life gave us a timeline that my heart didn’t want to ma
tch. The word that meant everything.
“Not just a crush, Andrew. I’m in love with you.”
He smiled, slow and happy, his eyes sparkling. “I’m so in love with you.”
The guy I loved, loved me. My greatest dream was coming true. My greatest dream would soon end, since I was going away, but in that moment, I let myself revel in the bliss. “I’ve been in love with you for so long.”
We kissed gently, and we kissed feverishly, and when we pulled apart, his hands were on my hips, my bikini top was gone, and we were about to figure out if pool sex would work. “I want to go to all those places with you.”
“I’ll take you there. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“Take me anywhere, Andrew.”
Now, here we are, anywhere.
The memory rushes over me, spilling into the present, mingling with who we are now, on the other side of pain.
We’re those same people, but we’re so very different too.
And still, we’re talking, joking, teasing, wandering, figuring things out. We’re anywhere together, and for a few moments, this feels like part of the healing.
It’s a healing we both need—from the years apart. From the number that time and distance did on our one-time greatest dreams.
We explore more stalls then wind up on the outskirts of the market where vending machines line the concrete walls. I stop at one peddling mango, pineapple, and grape chewy candy.
“I love these,” I say as I peruse the offerings.
“Let me guess. Grape?”
Nodding, I reach into my pocket for change.
He wraps his hand over mine and shakes his head. “Allow me. A gentleman always pays for vending machine candy.”
“Ooh, that is the height of chivalry.”
I drop the unused coins back into my jeans pocket while he slides in some money and punches the button for the grape Hi-Chews.
I grab the packet and unwrap the end, handing him one. “Peace offering.”
He pops it in his mouth. “Yum. I like it when you come in peace.”
My eyebrows rise. “Naughty,” I whisper.
“Who me?” He adopts an I’m-so-innocent look.
“You know you are,” I say. I should stop grinning, but I can’t.
He smiles too, but then as he stares at me, the smile disappears. His eyes darken, and he moves closer. “I don’t feel like the strong one right now.”
Butterflies sweep through me, thrilling and scary. “Why aren’t you strong?”
His gaze locks with mine. “I need you to know, Holland, that I thought about you all the time. It was so hard when you left, and then you came back, and now you’re here in front of me. And when we kissed the other night, it felt like the only thing that made sense in the world. Do you know that?”
“I could tell when you were kissing me,” I whisper as I lean against the machine, his words sending my pulse racing, my hopes bursting free.
“But every now and then, other things make sense. Talking to Mike, walking through the fish market, messaging Kate . . .”
A light goes on in my chest, and my heart glows. I’ve needed this desperately—to know he has other routes to happiness that don’t go through me. I don’t want to be his crutch. I want to be a choice he makes freely, not a desperate second chance he’s clinging to. “That makes me happy. I want other things to make sense for you too.”
“They’re starting to.” He points to the packet of grape candy in my hand. “Like this candy.”
“I love that candy.”
His eyes sweep over me then lock with mine. “But you—you still make the most sense.”
My heart soars so high, so near to the edge of the atmosphere, I worry it’ll escape.
Because I know what he’s saying. We’re saying the word love without saying the word.
I drop the candy in my pocket, then raise a hand to reach for his shirt. “You make the most sense to me too.” I grab the fabric and pull him near, the wish to get closer to him blotting out my worries. “I’m not the strong one either. Forgive me for this moment of weakness.”
“It’s already granted,” he whispers as I bring those lips I love to mine.
I breathe him in and let his warmth spread through me. His kisses undo me. They weaken my knees. They flutter my heart.
I never knew a kiss could turn me upside down. But with Andrew, it feels like light and stars and hope and sex and love and all the moments I want to get lost in. It feels like flying, and I don’t want to land.
His lips trace mine, and I swear I’m soaring with open wings now.
I wrap my arms around his neck and bring him close, loving, just loving the feel of his body against mine. It’s mind-bending, unraveling, and I wish I could understand it, list out the elements that make me melt.
But the why can’t be duplicated—he kisses me like he loves me and like he’s in love with me.
That’s also why we have to stop. Our connection—for now—is fueled by a ragged need. He’s not ready for us again. He could lose himself in us, like we’re the Bermuda Triangle. As for me, my own desire to heal him is too consuming. It’ll consume me if I don’t take it slowly.
I remember some of Ian’s last words to me.
“He still loves you so much it hurts him. Give him time.”
I break the kiss, my hands on his chest, my breath coming fast.
His eyes are wild and hungry as he cups my cheek. “I’m not the stronger one, Holland.”
“Then I’ll have to be.” I peel his hand off my face and thread my fingers through his. “Let’s go see Kana.”
He needs that more than he needs more of my lips.
18
Andrew
On the subway, Holland’s busy reading a book on her phone, so I write an email to my sister. While primal instinct tells me to cut straight to the point, I rein that in. There’s a card from her in the pile on Ian’s desk here—it meant something to my brother. And if she came to visit him, I need to break out my best cordial self. Besides, she’s emailed me every week since the service, and every week before for the last few months. They’re short notes—mostly she checks in, or sends an internet meme. Usually, I’ve seen them already, so I respond with a word or two. Sometimes a sentence.
Hey Laini,
Hope you’re well and the kids and hubby are good. I trust everyone is busy in your neck of the woods. I’m in Japan right now. I needed to get away from LA, so I’m taking care of some things here. I heard you saw Ian earlier in the year. Would love to hear more. Call me or email me back.
Andrew
I hit send, rewarding myself with not-even-an-asshole-at-all points, when my phone buzzes instantly. That’s fast. But the reply’s not from her.
I click open the text from Jeremy, and a photo fills the screen. The shot is of a pretty brunette wearing a gray V-neck T-shirt and board shorts, her hand resting on top of a dog’s head. My dog. Sandy’s looking the other way, but I can see half of her furry face. I laugh as I read the text.
Jeremy: This is Callie. I met her at the beach last night. Guess what? She loves dogs! Who woulda thunk it?
Jeremy: Also, for the record, I am not, technically, sending you a photo of your dog. I am sending you a photo of a babe.
I bang out a reply.
Andrew: For the record, I’m not thanking you for the photo that happens to include a head of a dog. I’m thanking you for where that woman’s hand was when you took that picture.
I bump my shoulder to Holland’s and show her the picture. She pretends to pet the dog’s head through the screen. “What are you up to, Sandy?” she asks the screen.
God, I fucking love her.
The dog, and the woman.
* * *
When we reach Shibuya again, the nerves kick in. “I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office.”
“Do you think you’ll wind up in detention?”
“I don’t know what to expect when I talk to Kana,
” I admit as we pass an electronics store where a salesman hawks a TV set.
“What do you most want to ask her?” Holland asks. The midday rush is full of men and women in business suits, mingled with über-trendy girls who click-clack down the sidewalks in chunky boots and playing-card earrings and dudes who wear plaid pants and sport dyed-blond hair. I try to picture Ian and Kana here on a weekday afternoon, weaving their way through these crowds.
I squint, but I can’t quite see it. That’s why I want to talk to her. I want to know him better.
But I hardly know her. We’ve talked briefly on the phone a few times, but that’s all. When she came to visit Ian one weekend in the spring, I was in Miami for pro bono work, so I never met the woman who captivated him.
“I want to fill in the puzzle. I want to know what he was like when he was here. Why he was so joyful.” I tilt my head, considering the possibilities. “Hell, maybe it’s patently obvious. He was probably happy because he was getting laid.”
Holland laughs, her hand on her belly as we pass a boba tea shop. “Sex is a natural pain reliever.”
An image of the unopened bottle of Percocet flashes before me. Correction—opened. By me. A slash of guilt cuts through me, but I tell myself I can stop. I will stop.
Hell, maybe that’s why Ian stopped taking his meds.
“Endorphins, right?” I ask, as much to take my mind off the topic as to keep the conversation moving.
“Sex increases the production of oxytocin, the love hormone. It’s released from the brain before climax, along with endorphins, which are a natural painkiller. Make sense?”
I scratch my jaw. “I’m not sure.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “I feel like I’d do better with a hands-on tutorial.”
She swats my elbow. “Oh, stop.”
Unbreak My Heart Page 9