The Broken Hearts Honeymoon

by Lucy Dickens

  ‘Kanpai,’ I reply to him and we both take a sip. This time I can feel the sweet, but not too sweet, liquid dispersing in my mouth, exploring the flavour, like a wine. It’s much more palatable this way, and I quite like it. Luckily. Because inadvertently I’m now one-up on all the other drinkers.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I ask Riku.

  ‘I do like it,’ he replies. ‘Not my favourite-ever sake, but nice. Do you?’

  ‘I like it more than the one I tried at home. So all the sakes we’re trying tonight are local?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Somebody bumps into Riku from behind and he sways towards me a little, steadying himself by leaning more against me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘Are you okay? It’s busy in here.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, shuffling a little to make way for him by turning my body, and oh no, I guess I’ll have to rest my arm on his arm.

  The barman serves us another sake, this time from a different bottle, and Riku listens to the description before turning to me and repeating it for my benefit. ‘So this sake is from a place called Kure, which is on an island an hour or so from Hiroshima. It should be really good, being from there.’

  This one is cloudier and I take a sniff before sipping, breathing in an almost tropical scent. I sip and taste sweet coconut, but I could be imagining that because of the coconut milk look of it. ‘I really like this one,’ I say to nobody in particular.

  The music, the noise, the closeness in the bar, and yes, the alcohol content in the drinks, is all adding to the fun, intimate atmosphere. At one point, warmed from the inside with the rich sake, I take a moment to soak in the surroundings.

  I am here, in a city in Japan, living my life. Being in a downtown bar, drinking with some Japanese boys, one boy in particular, isn’t how I imagined my honeymoon would be a few months back, but is it worse? I look at Riku, I drink my sake, I breathe in the thick air and I let the sound of Japanese chatter and music fill my ears. No, it isn’t worse. It’s new.

  With every cup of sake, Riku and I move closer together, and I don’t think either of us are doing it by accident. What started with his arm on the back of the barstool, and then my arm on his, has slowly, slowly moved to his arm being around my back and my hand on his shoulder, leaning into him.

  We’ve moved onto some bolder sake now, apparently, from the Saijo region which is the main mecca for sake in Hiroshima. The sweet sake is a thing of the past, and now we’re onto a butterscotch-hued version which punches like whisky. Cor blimey.

  How many sakes have we tried now? Maybe six? We’ve sure been at this bar a while. Mmmmm.

  ‘I think I need a sake break,’ says Riku. ‘May I buy you a beer?’

  ‘Sure,’ I agree. I could do with something cold and refreshing; it’s hot in here. While he orders a round for the group, I listen to the music, which is kind of Japanese hip-hop. I’ve not heard it before, but I like it, it’s got a good bass and the melody has me loosening up, dancing a little in my seat.

  When Riku passes me a cold bottle of Asahi he adds a warning. ‘Charlotte, I need to tell you before you drink this. Sake won’t give you too bad a hangover but when we add beer, well, make sure you drink a lot of water before you go to bed tonight, okay?’

  I laugh. ‘Okay, will do.’

  ‘Are you in one of the dorm rooms at the hostel?’ he asks and I think, damn boy, nice segue.

  ‘I am,’ I reply boldly, and take a drink from the beer. ‘Are you?’

  I see him breathe in, trying not to blush, looking over my whole face with those deep eyes and considering his answer. But he plays a safe shot and says, ‘I’m just saying, you don’t want to feel ill in a room full of other people. Drink water.’

  Okay, I nod. And we have a moment of eye contact. I love this part, the flirty looks, the loaded words, the back and forth. It’s just a little bit of very intense fun, and I laugh out loud and give him a wink and command in reply, ‘Drink.’

  Riku and I both lift our beers to our mouths and after all that mouth-coating sake the frosty, bitter bubbles cleanse my palate.

  Riku’s friends are laughing their heads off as they order what I gather is a really strong shot of something for themselves but I wave a no. Think I’ll just mix the two drinks tonight, as I have an epically long train journey tomorrow.

  After Riku knocks back his shot he pulls me into him, pressing his face against my hair. ‘Wooo,’ he says. ‘That was so strong. Don’t let me drink any more of those, Charlotte.’

  ‘I can’t promise that,’ I put my hand up to hold onto his left, which is dangling around my shoulders and he laces his fingers into mine. ‘You’re having fun with your friends, right?’ I ask him. ‘Don’t feel you have to talk to me.’

  ‘I’m having a great time,’ he answers, and I pretend not to hear him so he has to get really close to me.

  Riku, who I suspect may be on to my tricks, let’s a small grin twinkle across his mouth before moving his mouth right up next to my ear. Letting go of my hand with his left, he replaces it with his right hand, so now we’re face-to-face. With his left hand he tucks my hair behind my ear and lightly holds the back of my neck in place while he leans into me and talks to me. I’m tingling against his body and could really do with just lying in the middle of the floor and taking a minute. ‘I’m having a great time,’ he repeats, his breath sweet wine. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His fingers linger a moment longer at the back of my neck, and for an instant of time we’re locked in a dance, the tango that is happening between people enjoying nightlife all over the world right now. But at the same time, in that moment, it’s just him and me and we breathe together, not knowing what the rest of the night holds, but knowing we’re too far into the dance to pretend it isn’t happening.

  One of his friends pulls at Riku, causing him to drop his hand, and they want to pose for a photo together.

  ‘Charlotte, come in the photo,’ Riku calls, his hand still stretched out and holding mine.

  ‘No, no, I’ll take one of all of you.’ I take the phone that’s being passed over and the boys crowd together, piled onto each other, a happy bunch of tipsy friends.

  ‘Now one of you two,’ Moko says, and puts her hand out for my phone.

  I hand it over and Riku passes me my sake cup, which still has a small dribble of the strong stuff left in, and we pose with our heads together, and then he says ‘Kanpai, Charlotte,’ to me again, and we clink our cups and drink the remainder of the alcohol, keeping contact with each other’s eyes.

  Afterwards, when Riku excuses himself to use the restroom, I realise Moko has captured the whole thing, not just the posed photo.

  ‘Are they good?’ Moko asks. I nod, pleased, and she follows with, ‘Your boyfriend is very nice.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not—we just met.’

  ‘You should—’ Moko runs out of English words, so makes me nearly wet myself with surprised laughter when she uses her fingers to mime sex.

  She laughs too and turns back to the bar to order a drink and I look back at my phone, smiling at the photos, and Riku reappears behind my barstool, his body leaning over me from behind while he looks at the photos of us on my screen. He says, over the volume of the bar, ‘You should send me those.’

  ‘I will.’ I put my phone away and look up at him, studying his jawline, and he glances down at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’

  Here’s what I want to do. I want to lift my hands and pull him down to me by the neck. I want to feel his kiss and then maybe just jump him here in the bar. BUT. I’m enjoying the chase too much so rather than tearing into him like some kind of thirsty praying mantis, I’m going to see how it plays out. I’ll know when it’s the right time.

  As we grow further into the embrace of night time in Hiroshima, Riku and I grow closer. I’m not talking about spiritually, I’m talking literally. We stick beside each other, he’s my prop when the sake starts to be the reason for my g
iggles and I’m the one whose shoulders he continues to rest on when he wants to say something to the group but can’t quite speak loud enough over the volume in the bar unless he leans right in.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Riku shouts to the group, and then says it again in Japanese.

  It’s late and we’ve been there for hours, but when we step back on to the street, damp so it must have rained, the night feels young. The atmosphere in the street is just as neon as in the bar, and the cold breeze picks my hair up and gives me a thin excuse to bring Riku’s arm back around me.

  ‘Oh, it’s cold out here,’ I say, swaying a little, and Riku – all body warmth and satin skin – wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his chest while we wait for the others to all pile out of the bar too. Ha, oldest trick in the book and worked like a charm.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asks me quietly, like a gentleman. ‘You tell me if the sake makes you feel ill or anything, okay?’

  ‘I feel fine, happy,’ I reply. ‘But also hungry. I could do with soaking up a little of this alcohol.’

  ‘In here,’ says Moko at that moment, and we all tumble into a tiny restaurant where the lighting is bright and the seating is tight. At the counter, the chefs are making what looks like stacks of noodles with tortillas on top of a vast teppan hot plate.

  ‘Is this okonomiyaki?’ I ask, realisation dawning. Okonomiyaki is a Japanese dish that I’ve heard is big in Hiroshima, even having its own ‘Hiroshima-style’ version where all the ingredients of this savoury pancake are stacked up on top of each other, rather than mixed together before cooking.

  Before us, the chefs use sharp, straight-ended spatulas to layer batter, noodles, cabbage, egg and meat on top of each other before drizzling with sticky, smoky sauce and sliding it over to the nearest customer.

  ‘Have you had it?’ Riku asks and I shake my head. ‘It’s Hiroshima soul food.’

  After we’ve filled up on okonomiyaki, soaking up a little of the alcohol and then replacing it when I go and order another round of bottled beer for us all, Moko addresses the group in Japanese, and whatever she says causes them to all start protesting and shaking their heads, banging their beers on the table. She turns to me and says, ‘The tour is finished now,’ she laughs.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ says Riku calming the others down. ‘The tour is over but we don’t have to go home, right?’ He faces his seat to me and pulls himself forward to be closer to the whole group, and it means I’m sitting with my legs together, between his knees, and his hands rest on the outside of my thighs, and he looks towards his friends and they have a quick discussion in Japanese.

  I like his hands on my thighs, and I lean forward, mesmerised by his mouth as he speaks in his native tongue. Mid-sentence he glances over, catching me watching him and simply says, ‘Oh my God, you,’ and then continues talking, and I nearly pass out.

  Among the plans being made, I hear the word karaoke, I’m sure of it, and sure enough, Riku then says to me, ‘Have you been to a karaoke bar in Japan yet, Charlotte?’

  ‘No, Riku, I have not, I am not very good at karaoke.’

  ‘That’s never stopped any of us. Would you like to go? No pressure.’

  I look over at Moko. ‘Will you come to karaoke?’

  She nods an enthusiastic yes. ‘I know the best karaoke in Hiroshima.’

  ‘All right then,’ I clunk my beer bottle with Riku. ‘Kanpai.’

  ‘Kanpai!’ Everyone cries, all joining in and clunking their bottles against mine.

  ‘Come on.’ He jumps up and holds his hand out for me. Riku tells me it’s a bit of a walk, so we stroll the wet streets of Hiroshima’s Nagarekawa ‘party district’, walking under neon signs that curve over the top of the streets and past nightclubs, bars and eateries. Familiar and unfamiliar music pours out into the road, merging together and filling my ears.

  We walk hand in hand, this handsome stranger and me, and a part of my hazy mind tries to think of Matt, and walking hand in hand with him. But the tipsy parts of me, which is about 80 per cent of me, pushes that thought away. And I push it away quite easily when I hear Jason Derulo pumping out of one bar and I lead Riku into a twenty-second dance party as we go past.

  We’re behind the rest of the group now, dropping back, too focused on each other to keep up. On our left beside the bar is a small alley off the main street and Riku pulls me into it by my hand and spins me so my back is against the wall, which is cold and wet but I don’t care. I can feel the music still, the bass pulsating through the stones.

  Riku stands in front of me with his hands against the wall, boxing me in, his hair dropping down over his forehead, the olive skin of his upper chest glistening and level with my face.

  I meet his eyes and I think this is it, all the heat from the night is between us, and he moves one of his hands down so it’s on my side, just above my hip.

  We’re an inch apart, our mouths closer than that, and though I could freeze this and stay in this position forever, the anticipation is also killing me.

  ‘Riku?’ we hear on the breeze. ‘Riiiiiikuuuuu?’

  ‘Sounds like we’d better get back to your friends,’ I say.

  ‘No, I don’t know them, let’s stay here.’

  ‘RIKUUU?’

  ‘Come on,’ I press my body against him as I push past and take his hand, pulling his arm around my shoulder and we exit the alleyway and catch up with his friends.

  We both know this is mainly a fun, physical attraction. I don’t know a lot about him, beyond him being kind, inclusive, intelligent and ambitious. But I like all of those things. And maybe he thinks I’m brave, open minded, easy-going and adventurous. I like to think of him feeling that way about me. Mostly, right now, I’m just enjoying how we seem to be making each other glow.

  A little further on and we hit the karaoke bar that Moko has been leading us to, and when we enter I see we aren’t in your typical British pub with a SingStar hooked up in the corner. Instead we’re led to a small private room for the seven of us with microphones, a screen and an electronic menu where one of Riku’s friends is already ordering more beer for everyone. The room is intimate and warm, the lighting low and blue-toned, giving the feel of being in a private booth at a nightclub.

  Moko starts us off singing, and she has the voice of an angel. I don’t know the song but I’m guessing it’s by a Japanese pop group, and she sings it like she’s part of the band. One of Riku’s friends, the one who ordered the drinks, is frozen with his bottle halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Your friend is in love,’ I whisper to Riku.

  ‘I have an idea,’ says Riku, and when Moko is done, he steps up to the microphone, pulling his friend with him and they launch into the Japanese version of ‘Mic Drop’ by BTS, and we’re all screaming because they’re so hot.

  That might not be why their friends are screaming, I guess, that might be because they’re good rather than hot, but I am all about the way Riku is fanning himself with his shirt and spitting verses into the microphone without even needing to look at the prompter.

  After that Riku returns to his seat, next to yours truly, and the clocks tip past midnight and into the early hours, music and laughter rolling the time away with us.

  We’re huddled together on one of the long sofas, our legs tangled together, ignoring the rest of the world.

  ‘You know,’ I say into his ear. ‘I don’t usually follow strange men to karaoke bars.’

  ‘And I don’t usually ask strange women to come with me. I guess there’s something about you.’

  I’m dying to touch his hair. His hand is burning a hole through my jeans by resting just above my bottom, so it’s only fair.

  I shuffle closer and steady myself with one hand on his chest, my skin touching that triangle of his skin that’s been teasing me all night. With my other hand I reach up and take a caramel lock between my fingers. It’s soft and a little damp from sweat and using just my fingertips I brush it back into the rest of his hair until my nails graze
the back of his head and he shivers a little, making us both laugh.

  Riku moves his hand up my back, tilting me towards him and now we’re as close as we were in the alleyway, closer even. I hook my hand into his shirt, pulling it a little lower and we both know what we want.

  And that’s when I feel a microphone being prodded into my back.

  ‘Ariana!’ says one of Riku’s friends, and holds the microphone to my face.

  ‘He told me earlier he thinks you look like Ariana Grande, and now he wants you to sing,’ Riku explains.

  That is 100 per cent not true, and he is clearly plastered, as the only thing Ariana and I have in common is that we’re both brunettes, and I don’t even have my hair in a ponytail but hell, if he’s dishing out this compliment, I will eat it up.

  Just like that, Riku and I are back to the dance, but you know what, I don’t mind at all, I will play along. I take the microphone and flip through the touch screen until the opening bars of ‘No Tears Left to Cry’ come on and I begin singing in my very not-Ariana voice.

  As the melody and beat pump through the room and I sing my little broken heart out, I’m having the time of my life. Who knew karaoke could be so fun? I always thought I hated karaoke, but being here with this crowd of excited, non-judgemental, near-strangers in a little room in a Japanese backstreet has changed my mind.

  The sake has given me confidence. We’re all up and dancing, and I’m strutting my stuff like I really am the princess of pop. I sing to Riku without embarrassment, and I have his full attention. Near the end of the song in a rush of, I assume, booze-endorphins, and much to the whooping of the others, I slide super-close up against him, our bodies pressed together to sing the closing lines. Since I can’t keep away I reach back in and sweep a fistful of that sexy caramel hair to the side. He leaves it there, looking exhausted, while I step away and bow.

  ‘Yessss, more Ariana!’ someone screams, so they must be drunk too. But within seconds one of the other boys has grabbed the microphone again and has launched into a very skilled version of Nicki Minaj, which has us all up and dancing.