Unbreak My Heart Page 12

It wasn’t the first time one of us had acknowledged the thing. The inevitable end of the summer. The inevitable end of us.

  I cupped her cheeks. “I’m going to miss you so much too.”

  We’d tried to figure out a path through the next three years. We’d played our options like moves on a chess board. What if we flew back and forth? What if I tried to go to law school in Tokyo? What if she tried to get loans instead of accepting her full ride?

  What if, what if, what if . . .

  In the end, time and distance won the battle, vanquishing our hopes and dreams.

  Those two forces will likely checkmate us again. We won’t be in-between once I board a plane and slingshot myself back to the United States. We’ll be apart.

  And I’ll miss her so fucking much.

  Probably more.

  That’s why I don’t want to waste a chance at good times now.

  “Will you come with me to Kyoto tomorrow?”

  She smiles. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  22

  Andrew

  I wait at the train station in the morning, looking around for Holland. I don’t see her among the sea of people moving like schools of fish toward train tracks, kiosks, and escalators. I turn in circles, scanning for her.

  I startle when a pair of hands covers my eyes. But I smile as soon as I smell lemon-sugar lotion. “I can smell you.”

  “Do I smell good or bad?” she whispers in my ear.

  “Neither.”

  She drops her hands from my eyes, and I turn around to meet her quizzical gaze. “Neither?” she asks.

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “You smell the best.”

  A flash of pink spreads on her cheeks. “Thank you. You smell pretty yummy yourself,” she says, then shifts gears immediately. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready or not. Also, were you trying to surprise me or trick me?”

  She shrugs as we head to the platform. “Neither. I was just being silly.”

  “Silly or flirty?”

  “Do you think I’m a flirt?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Do you think you aren’t?”

  She laughs. “You’re a flirt.”

  “Yeah, but you started it.”

  She smiles and looks down the tracks. The silver train coasts into the station. “Maybe I am a flirt. Do you think old habits die hard?”

  “I don’t see how either one of us can stand before a court of law and deny that.”

  On the train, we grab our seats, and I take out my phone and my earbuds. “Want to share Pizza for Breakfast?”

  “Is that a new band you’re listening to?”

  “Mike from the food stall sent it to me. Want to listen?”

  “I’d love to.”

  I hand her an earbud, and we lean in close, sharing the music and the headphones as the train pulls out of the station.

  Midway through the fifth song, I slide a finger across the screen, angling my phone away from her.

  Andrew: Do you like the music?

  Her phone buzzes from her pocket and she grabs it, laughing as she reads the message. She taps out a reply.

  Holland: Sort of. What else do you have?

  Andrew: Tons of tunes. What do you like?

  Holland: Surprise me.

  I find another band and hit play. Holland makes an ick face.

  I switch to another one, and she gives a thumbs-down. I try one more, and she pretends to gag.

  Andrew: You’re tough to please.

  Holland: Not in the least. You always know how to please me.

  I cast my gaze to her and mouth, Such a flirt.

  She mouths back, Same to you.

  I scroll through my playlists. It hits me—like a flash of lightning across a darkened sky. Feeling a little bit like a movie-star hero who uncovered a secret weapon, I head to Spotify and find what I’m looking for.

  I hit play, and a few seconds later, Matt Nathanson croons in our ears.

  The smile that lights up Holland’s face is magical. She turns to me and mouths, I love him.

  I imagine she said I love you, and it feels like the most right thing that could happen not just to me, but in the universe. I close my eyes, listen to the refrain, and take a chance. I reach for her hand and take it in mine. Our fingers slide together, and it’s electric and comforting at the same damn time.

  When her fingers curl around mine, I breathe out, a wonderful exhale. I smile like a fool too. My eyes are closed, my music playing, and my girl’s hand is in mine.

  It doesn’t matter that she’s not mine yet. It doesn’t matter that we’re in-between. Right now, we’re on the same page. I can feel the connection in the same way I can feel this music humming in my body.

  I imagine everyone on this train has disappeared and it’s just Holland and me. We ride the train as far as it goes, into the night, an endless night together. It could spill into the next morning, then the next one, then the next.

  This connection is more than chemistry and stronger than history. It’s fueled by the present and stoked by a raw sort of knowingness—she knows me inside and out, no games, and no pretending.

  I know her in the same way.

  I know something else that’s starkly true. I can’t let go of the piece of my wasted, ragged, worn-out heart she irretrievably owns.

  It’s a permanent piece of my real estate that she has all the property rights to, for perpetuity.

  The train slows at our destination a few hours later, letting us out at Kyoto Station, a sleek, metal, modern spaceship. Soon we’re escaping the crowds and the streets jam-packed with tourists who snap photos.

  Holland tells me where to go, kisses my cheek, and says she’ll see me when I’m done with Laini. She bounces on the toes of her pink Converse sneakers. “I’m going to have lunch with my parents.”

  “Tell them I said hi.”

  “I will.”

  I watch her go, and it’s weird she’s doing something as normal as having lunch with her parents, who live three hours away from her here in Kyoto. But it doesn’t hurt thinking of her plans, and it doesn’t hurt watching her head to see them.

  It’s just her normal, and this is mine: meeting my sister.

  I find my way through the quieter alleys, the small shops, and the narrow lanes that lead in and out of gardens and temples, and that bring me to a walking path that runs along a stream. A narrow set of steps looms in front of me. After five minutes of going vertical, the steps end at a stone bench that looks out over the gurgling water below.

  Laini sits on the bench. She stands, and for a second, I think she’s going to simply wave, but instead, she closes the distance and hugs me hard.

  “It’s so good to see you.”

  When we let go, she’s crying.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen my sister shed a tear.

  23

  Andrew

  Since Laini is fifteen years older than I am, it’d be easy to think I’m the “oops” baby. But there’s the pesky case of the middle child, eleven years younger than her.

  Since our parents had Laini when they were in their early twenties, Ian and I decided she was the “oops” baby. But by the time we got around to knowing what an “oops” baby was, and teasing her about it, she was long gone.

  That’s the thing about a big age difference—Laini is more like an aunt than a sister. She wasn’t a big part of my life growing up. I don’t remember when she lived with Mom, Dad, Ian, and me since she left home when I was three and Ian was seven.

  She wasn’t a part of our lives. We weren’t a part of hers.

  When our parents died seven years ago, Laini was already married, with one child and another on the way. She returned for Ian’s memorial service in May and was gone just as quickly, back home to India.

  I hardly know her, and I hardly know why she’s in tears. “What’s wrong?”

  She doesn’t answer. Only sobs harder.

  Fear runs through me. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

  �
��I’m fine,” she says, all wobbly. “It’s just so good to see you.”

  I furrow my brow. What the hell is going on with my sister? She’s never been affectionate, but as she leaks tears, she tightens her hold on me.

  “It’s okay,” I say gently, patting her hair, since I think that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never been the one to comfort, and the only female I’ve been close enough to help—Holland—was always the strong one.

  More tears fall, and I keep murmuring, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Laini loosens her vise grip on me, fixes on a smile, and swipes at her cheeks. “There. That’s done. I’m all good now.”

  I laugh incredulously. “You just needed a good cry?”

  “I think I did.”

  I shake my head, trying to make sense of her. “Who are you?”

  She squares her shoulders and adjusts the strands of brown hair that have fallen from her loose bun. “I’m Laini, and I’m the bad sister.”

  “Don’t say that,” I say softly.

  She smiles ruefully. “I am, and I know it, and I’m so glad you reached out. I brought lunch. You were always a big eater.”

  “When I was three?”

  She nods. “You could put away a pizza pie then.”

  “Ah, so that’s where my love of pizza comes from—a childhood spent adoring it.”

  “I hope you like sushi as much.”

  “Maybe more,” I whisper conspiratorially.

  We sit on the bench. Laini hands me takeout sushi in a plastic container. I pop a piece of hamachi into my mouth, and as I chew, Laini cuts to the chase. “You wanted to know about the time I saw Ian, right?”

  “I do.” I take a beat before I say more since I didn’t expect her to be so blunt. But if that’s the style du jour, I’ll continue in the same vein. “It surprised me, Laini. You kind of fell off the map after Mom and Dad died.”

  She takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose, nodding. “It wasn’t my finest moment. Or moments. But I didn’t realize it at the time. I was so caught up in my life, and my job, and being a mom. It was hard for me to process everything that had happened. And I was so far away. I think in the back of my mind that’s how I justified it.”

  “I guess I can see how that would happen.”

  “But then my daughter turned thirteen several months ago,” she says, and holds up her hands like claws then hisses.

  I laugh. “Rough times?”

  “She’s like a whole other person.” Laini reaches for a piece of yellowtail and chews. “But it has made me more aware of everything I say to her, of every single word. And how important every word can be.” She locks eyes with mine. “That’s why I reached out to Ian. To make peace.” Her voice is soft, contrite even. The tone of it hooks into me.

  “But you weren’t fighting with him.”

  “I know, but I wanted to do more than not fight. I wanted to make sure I had a chance to tell him I loved him.”

  “Was he surprised when you came to see him?”

  She shifts her shoulders back and forth, like a seesaw. “Yes and no. Mostly I think he was happy. We talked about my work and my kids, and we also talked about the past. How we felt like we never knew each other as well as we could have, and we missed that. And then I told him I loved him.” She raises her hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I needed him to know that.”

  I picture the tuxedo cat card in Ian’s pile of mementos, and the words on it—so glad we did that. “He knew that, Laini. He was glad you visited. He kept the card you sent him after.”

  Her lips quiver. “Yeah? He did?”

  I nod. “He kept it with some other important mementos I found when I arrived. Didn’t take a lawyer to assemble the clues,” I say with a smile. “He was absolutely glad.”

  She lets out a breath. It sounds like it’s one of relief.

  I feel a momentary peace thinking about how Laini was finally able to say the important stuff to Ian before he died. That’s a gift, in a way, to be able to have the last thing you say to someone be the last thing you want them to have heard from you.

  Ian didn’t need to tell me they had met up. He had found his peace. He had restored another relationship important to him.

  He had said goodbye.

  I shift the conversation to her kids, learning her daughter is taking guitar lessons and her six-year-old son loves to make his own comic books. Her husband works hard, but plays hard too—he’s taken up badminton for fun since he’s mastered cricket.

  “And how are you doing?” she asks. “I send you emails every week, but you don’t say much.”

  “It’s hard for me to say much. To anyone.”

  “But how are you?” she asks again, pressing.

  A bird chirps in a nearby tree as I consider her question. A few weeks ago, my answer would have been empty and numb. Even a few days ago, I’d have said raw and exposed. But none of those are the adjectives I’d choose today.

  “I’m better,” I say.

  I’m stretching and reaching. I’m grasping for something I can almost touch with the tips of my fingers.

  Possibilities.

  I don’t think Laini and I are going to be best of friends. I doubt we’ll be the brother and sister who catch up each week over long, friendly phone calls. I suspect we’ll always be merely an item on the other’s email to-do list.

  But she’s still my sister, still my family. I drape an arm over her shoulder. “Hey, Laini.”

  “Hey, Andrew.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Sometimes that’s enough of a reason to see someone. Most of the time, it’s the only reason that matters.

  24

  Holland

  The clean, antiseptic scent excites me.

  The feel of scrubs sends a little thrill through me.

  And the prospect of taking temperatures, checking pulses, and helping those who need it turns me on.

  Not in a sexual way.

  In a professional way.

  As I hand in the final set of paperwork to the head nurse a few days later, I can’t rein in the smile. I start my new job in a week, and I can hardly wait.

  Harumi Ikeda looks up from her desk. “Thank you very much, Nurse St. James,” she says in Japanese.

  I bow my head. “Thank you very much, Nurse Ikeda.”

  She runs her finger over the paperwork, nodding as she checks the photocopies of my work documents.

  When she’s finished, she raises her wrinkled and weather-worn face, her eyes tired behind her glasses. But she smiles too. “We are so glad to have you here. We hope you will be with us for a long time.”

  Since the medical center sits in the business district, it attracts expats as well as English speakers on longer work assignments. My fluency in both languages is one of the reasons I snagged this plum job, a rare opportunity for someone who only has a year of experience.

  “I hope I will be here for a long time too.”

  After I finish, I leave the medical center and text my mom as I head to the street.

  Holland: Loved seeing you and Dad the other day. Hopefully, we can do that again soon!

  Mom: We want regular lunches. Maybe dinners too? London will be coming through Tokyo next month, so we must plan a fancy sushi dinner in early July.

  Warmth rushes over me, and it has nothing to do with the late June weather and everything to do with how fantastic that night sounds. It sounds so great that I want Andrew to join us, like he used to when we were younger, hanging out with my parents and my sister. I’ll have to ask him if he can join us.

  Holland: Activating plans for fancy sushi dinner with the family. ☺

  When I tuck my phone away and drop my shades over my eyes, the smiley-face feeling vanishes. Reality sinks in as I make my way through the midday business crowds.

  I can’t believe I let my mind trick me into thinking I could simply invite him when I don’t know if he’ll
be here or how long he’ll stay.

  He can’t stay forever.

  He probably can’t even stay much longer—he has a home, a business, and a dog in Los Angeles.

  I have a great job and a family here.

  History is repeating itself. The ending looms, but yet the time with him feels worth the inevitable end.

  These last several days with him have been intense, wonderful, and hopeful. As I weave through the crowds, I replay my moments and nights with Andrew, starting with Ian’s death, when his life changed irrevocably.

  Like a flip book, I see him in anguish, then stuck in a cruel sort of emptiness, spinning his wheels. But the images slowly shift, as if he shucked off the heavy cloak of grief when we stepped onto the plane.

  Over here, I’ve seen him smile and laugh, tease and play. He’s become not only the man he was before, but a new man. He’s stronger and tougher, but kinder too. I see it in his eyes, in the little gestures, in how he talks to me, and how he talks to others. I notice it in his willingness to seek, his courage to find, and in how he’s enjoying the little things again—naming fish, debating capsule life, and flirting on trains.

  Flirting off trains.

  Flirting everywhere.

  I can feel the changes in him—in his kisses. The way he kissed me by the vending machine last week made my heart spin round and round, and it tasted like candy and music rather than pain and sorrow.

  I picture a whole new flip book—him coming to dinner with my parents, cooking noodles with me after work, and waking up tangled together on a lazy Sunday morning. We’d skip breakfast and have each other instead.

  There’s so much I want to do with him: go to the movies, the arcade, baseball games, and karaoke. Then I want to bring him to my place, dim the lights, and let him kiss me madly, everywhere, the way only he can.