by Lia London
She frowned at a vision of Charles at her mother’s table. He clearly wanted a wife who would serve him efficiently and wordlessly, too, but why did it not bother her to help Barth this way? Maybe because he didn’t ask for it. He made no demands. She helped him because she wanted to, and because he was doing something that helped them both.
Maybe that’s what partnerships—good marriages—were about. Helping each other willingly towards a mutually shared goal. Not one controlling the other.
“You’re awfully quiet over there. Do you need to sleep a little longer?” asked Barth.
She couldn’t tell him she’d been thinking about marriage! “Oh, I prefer living this dream awake.” Instantly, her cheeks warmed. How had she been so bold?
“Aw, now that’s how you sweet talk. I’m gonna take notes and learn from you.”
“No, Barth. I need to be more like you. You don’t want to be a sloppy, emotional mess like me.”
He held up a finger, making eye contact. “If one of those emotions is really, really, really liking me, we can work with all the rest of ’em. That’s what love means.”
Chieko smiled, warmed to her core. “Thanks.”
Then his words sank deeper.
Love?
When Chieko dozed off, he turned on the sports talk radio show with low volume and listened to a couple of hours of game analyses. Just as the programming moved to college teams, Chieko stirred. Barth watched her closely. He really wanted to hear what the experts said about the Duck’s team this year, but she might be bored. Fortunately, she merely shifted positions.
He dared to turn up the volume slightly, then gripped the wheel tighter in an effort to concentrate. Familiar names of younger teammates came up, and he nodded or frowned depending on what the commentators said.
“And what about the Jefferson twins? With those two graduated, how is the line holding up?”
Barth’s eyes widened. They were talking about him.
“They had to do some serious juggling and retraining, but I think in a couple of weeks, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”
“What?” Barth thumped the wheel with indignation. “Can’t tell the difference?”
“That’s surprising given Barth Jefferson’s versatility in particular. I still think he’ll be sorely missed. It’s crazy the NFL draft didn’t pick him up.”
“Last season had a glut of openings for everything but the line. He would’ve been a super late pick, undervalued for his skills.”
“So much talent, just not the right year, huh?”
The banter moved on to the new hotshot quarterback for the Beavers, and Barth sighed.
To his surprise, Chieko sat up and turned the volume down. “That must be hard on you.”
“Huh?” Had she listened to the broadcast?
“They make you sound so replaceable.”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“I know how you feel. Weekend anchors and roving reporters are a dime a dozen. Only a handful ever make it big in some way.”
“Does it bother you—not being as famous?”
Chieko shrugged. “It probably bothers my parents more. I never set out to be a journalist. It happened by accident, remember?”
“Oh yeah, that whole soap star reality show thing. It’s what got Amaya her position at the dance company.” He let out an ironic laugh. “Maybe I ought to try out for that show and see what breaks come my way.”
“No, you don’t want to be part of that mess, Barth. You’re too good for them.”
Her words soothed a tightness in his neck and shoulders. “Aw, that’s nice of you to say, but I’m nothing special.”
“Don’t say that.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Those sports gurus might think you’re replaceable, but there’s only one Bartholomew Jefferson in my world, and I wouldn’t trade him or toss him aside for anything.”
He shimmied as if wagging a puppy dog tail, careful not to let the wheel wobble him out of the lane. “You don’t think I’m a washed up old has-been?”
“Not unless washed up refers to your washboard abs.” Chieko squeaked and pinched her lips shut.
Barth caught her cheeks coloring and grinned. “Oh, you saw those, huh? You likey?”
Chieko folded her arms across her chest. “Oh shut up. You are the worst flirt.”
“Aw, I’ve seen guys flirt more than I do.”
“Maybe more, but not worse. Stick to running lines, not speaking them.”
Barth jutted his chin. “Now you have me torn because that was a sweet take down, but you taking me down isn’t so sweet. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”
Chieko chuckled and leaned closer. “Boo hoo,” she said, drawing the track of an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye down his cheek.
“Oh, I see how it is,” he teased, but inside, his stomach did happy victory flips to feel her pressing near.
“If you’d made it to the NFL, would you have gotten all kinds of endorsement deals? Commercials and stuff?”
“I don’t know. That’s kind of for the pretty boys.”
“You’re pretty,” she said coyly. Her finger found his dimple, and her lips followed.
With his heartrate rising, Barth forced his eyes forward. “Now Miss Chieko, I like where you’re going, but we can’t be going there right now because I’m going 68 miles an hour on the freeway.”
“Going, going, going. There you are with simple words again.” She knuckled his shoulder and slid back to her side of the bench. “All right. But you are pretty. I mean, if we’re talking bods, Crawford Andrews hasn’t got a thing on you.”
“Wait, who? Is that your other boyfriend?” He meant it as a joke, but when she hesitated, his heart sank. “Who’s Crawford Andrews?”
“Crawford’s the guy I did a feature story on recently. He did Who Wants to Be a Soap Star with me and Amaya. Surfer dude turned super model.”
“Oh, that guy.”
“Man, he sure scored in the career department. Zero to two-hundred practically overnight.”
The wistfulness of her voice punched a hole in his gut. So, her old friend—maybe even a boyfriend—made it big, and here he was a total nobody doing odd filming jobs for a regional cable show, filming snowy sand dunes out in the middle of freaking nowhere.
Barth thrust his finger onto the controls and changed the radio station to classic rock. He didn’t need the murmuring pundits or Chieko’s casual remarks reminding him of his lost status. Bartholomew Jefferson had nothing meaningful to offer anymore, and a woman like Chieko, who rubbed shoulders with major celebrities, would never stick around with him. Not if someone shinier came along.
“Charles is living the Japanese-American Dream, I guess.” Chieko frowned. It wasn’t her dream.
“Is that different from the American Dream in general?” asked Barth.
“Kind of. More specific.” She fidgeted with the stitching on her sleeve. “I mean, everyone wants to make it big and have a family with 2.5 kids and a nice house and all, but a lot of Japanese Americans add the stipulation that you fit into a certain mold: very rich with a trophy bride who obediently keeps a traditional home.”
“Traditional as in sushi and kimonos?”
She let out a strained laugh. “Yeah, that’s the stereotype. My parents really buy into it.”
Barth glanced at her, his strong features softened with concern. “But not you?”
Chieko didn’t like the whine filtering into her voice but had no power to stop the self-pity. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of my heritage. Japan is amazing. It’s got a rich history with all kinds of really cool things. I am grateful to come from a culture that values hard work and respect and honor and all, but …” Seriously, what was she complaining about? “But I don’t want to have to conform to the patterns of the past in everything. I want to take what I like from the old and blend it with the new.”
Barth’s cheek dimpled. “That’s a real nice way of saying it. So, what do you want to do with your life
that doesn’t fit in with the patterns of the past?”
Chieko willed her eyes not to water. He’d found the source of conflict in her family and in her own heart. “I don’t know. That’s exactly it. I don’t have plans. I don’t have clear goals. I’ve been doing what everyone else wants me to do for so long I feel like I don’t even know who I am or what I want to be.”
Too late, she wiped away the stream of tears falling like hot lava down her cheeks. “Great. Now I’m a blubbering baby.”
“No, we already determined you’re not a baby. You’re a woman having a bit of an identity crisis.”
“A blubbering woman having an identity crisis.”
“It’s okay, Chieko.” Barth reached for her, wrapping her in a warm side hug. “Sometimes we all have to do that. Don’t think I’m too much of a stallion that I don’t cry once a year.”
Chieko sighed a weary laugh. “Once a year? I’m more like once a week or more.”
As much as she wanted the feel of his arm around her, she pushed back up to a sitting position, breaking the contact. Rummaging in her purse for Kleenex, she slid herself a few inches further away.
She needed not to need him. Guys hated clingy dependence. They hated moodiness. They hated indecision. A long string of failed relationships had taught her that. Guys hated everything about her.
Barth would be no different once he’d seen her fall apart too many times. It was just a question of his tolerance level.
Barth contemplated how to comfort Chieko without risking his own insecurities exploding all over the cab. “Not everyone knows what they want to be when they grow up, Chieko.” He said it with a light tone, hoping to coax a smile from her. “Before I wanted to be an NFL player, I used to want to be an astronaut and a firefighter.”
Chieko smirked. “When you were five?”
“Yeah.”
“So, photojournalism. When did that come in?”
He shifted, growing uncomfortable with the interview. “Aw, you know how it is. I figured I’d be a pro athlete for ten years, and then move on to ESPN as a commentator.”
“But you’re behind the camera.”
“Yeah, that’s because my professors made it clear I didn’t have enough smart stuff to say to be behind the desk.”
Chieko gaped at him. “They did not!”
“They did. Dr. Lowan said there were enough inarticulate sportscasters out there, and I should find another way to stay in the game.”
“Oh my gosh, Barth, that’s horrible.”
“Yeah.” Crap. He didn’t want her pity. Now he felt two feet tall again, like the day Dr. Lowan cut him down. “Three years into my degree, too. Left me kind of stranded for a semester while I figured out how to change my tactics.”
“Why did you even listen to him, Barth? You are articulate. You always know what to say!”
Her hand brushed his arm, but he felt the heat in his cheeks.
“I guess the Japanese-American culture tells you what to do, but in the African-American world, we’re always being told what we can’t do, at least by the rest of society. Sure, we can go to college on a sports scholarship, but once our running days are over, we’re pretty much useless in the eyes of many. We’re not supposed to be doctors, or lawyers, or scientists, or fancy businessmen, or tech gurus.”
Chieko’s gaze took on a weight he could feel despite his focus on the road ahead. Had he gone too far? Shown too much bitterness?
“Grammy MarLee would tell me to be grateful and get busy.”
“That’s probably good advice under most circumstances,” agreed Chieko. “But I get what you’re saying. I’m so sorry. I’m racking my brain here trying to remember the last time I saw an African-American in any of those jobs, and except for the guy drawing blood at our HMO, you’re right. When I think of blacks in careers it’s always sports or entertainment, and I know the odds of breaking into that world are so crazy. There’s talent, but then there’s also luck and connections.”
“Yeah.” His voice sounded like a frog croaking.
“Do you hate being African-American?”
“What?” Barth squinted. What a strange question. “No, of course not. I don’t hate being who I am. I hate that others hate my being African-American, but I also feel sorry for their stupid selves. They’re missing out on me and so many good people just because their eyes are too dim to see goodness past darkness.”
“Wow, that’s an awesome way to say something horribly sad.” Her voice was a mixture of respect and surprise.
“I don’t have to fall into stereotypes any more than you do, Miss Chieko. I don’t have to turn to gangs or crime and leave some girl knocked up while I go off to prison.” When she sucked in a breath, he added, “We African-American men don’t have such pretty stereotypes, do we?” He gripped the wheel, smoothing a scowl from his brow with effort. “We’ve got just as many good people as any other race, and if we stick to the family traditions that pulled us through the hard times of the past—through slavery and segregation and all—we can be some of the happiest people on earth. Look at my Pappy and Grammy. Do you know finer human beings filled with more love anywhere?”
Chieko smiled. “You and Amaya give them a run for their money.”
“Aw, that’s sweet. You’re right about Amaya.”
“I’m right about you.” Her cheeks flushed pink and she turned away. “So, what do you mean family traditions? Sounds like traditions are a good thing to you.”
“You bet they are. Sunday dinners after church. Respecting your elders even when you tease them. Sticking up for each other in a fight. We got so much love.”
“Your parents, too?”
Barth twisted his lips. “My dad’s a good man.”
They rode in silence for a moment, and then Chieko swiveled to face him, leaning her back against the passenger door. “Do the traditions in your family, your culture, allow for dating outside your race?”
Suppressing a grin, he glanced at her sideways. “How black am I?”
“Huh?”
“How black?” He puffed out his cheeks and pointed to his skin.
“You mean like deepest, darkest Africa black?”
“Okay. Really?”
“Well, no. I mean, you’re lighter. More like milk chocolate.”
“Sweet mocha, baby!”
Chieko snickered. “I don’t get it. Why are you even asking?”
“My momma was white.”
“What?!” Chieko’s voice pitched higher. “Get out of town. No one would ever guess.”
“Isn’t that interesting? I’m whiter than you are—by blood—but people only see the color of the skin.”
Chieko’s brow furrowed. “So, your mom’s white. Why have I never met her? I’ve seen your dad.”
“Because her parents weren’t comfortable with the mix. Two years after Garold and me were born, her parents started pressuring her to leave the marriage. They didn’t like their brown grandbabies. They weren’t too good at hiding their feelings about us. It took them ten years to wear her down, but she finally filed for divorce and gave Dad full custody. Never looked back.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She’s somewhere in North Carolina now, I think.”
Chieko stared. “You’ve got a white mom and white grandparents.”
“And white cousins and aunts and uncles, but none of them know or care about us. We’re the literal black sheep of their family, after all.” He licked his lips, suddenly nervous about how Chieko would respond. “Anyway, answering your question, yeah, we date—even marry outside of our race, but it’s got to be okay with the other person, you know? Amaya’s got Frank, and he’s cool for a pasty white boy.”
“Oh my gosh, I can’t even imagine dealing with racism in my own family directed towards me. Did your mom feel that way, too?”
“Not when she married my dad, but in the end her family won out.” He sighed. “I guess sometimes it’d be tempting to resent all white people for their raci
sm and all, but then I remember I’m half white. It’s not about blood or color. It’s about breeding, how you’re raised. My dad and Pappy and MarLee raised me on Love Your Neighbor as Yourself, so there I am.”
Chieko scooted closer and smoothed her palm over his shaved head. “I honestly don’t know how anyone could hold your skin against you. I think it’s gorgeous.”
Barth blushed so hot he was sure she could feel it through his scalp. “Aw, you’re just saying that, pretty porcelain doll that you are.”
Her hand slid down and caressed the back of his neck gently. “We’re an odd pair, aren’t we?” she asked thoughtfully.
Tingles from her touch raced across his shoulders and through his chest. If he didn’t say something, his lungs might explode. “We’re a great team.”
What a stupid thing to say! But there he was acting like a football player, talking about teams when he wanted to express so much more.
A shuddering sigh escaped Chieko’s lips, and she retreated to her side of the bench. “Yeah, a great team.”
Barth ground his teeth. It was probably better if she backed off. Experience told him family came first, and Chieko’s family would never want an African-American boy scrambling to find a job when they could have an Asian Fortune 500 super star.
Chapter 11 ~ Chicken
“This is Christmas Valley?” Chieko’s brows shifted with her increasing skepticism. “What’s Christmassy about it?”
“It’s desert,” said Barth. “Were you expecting Christmas trees?”
Chieko stared out at miles and miles of rolling sand dunes dusted with a layer of white that didn’t quite mask the brownish-gray tint of the landscape. “Not a tree in sight, unless you count those scrubby little things over there.” She frowned. “You’re going to have to bring you’re A Game to make this look good.”
Barth moved to open the canopy on his truck. “We’re not trying to make the dunes look good. We’re here to make them look good.” He pointed to a cluster of people standing by a row of 2-man ATVs. “Go on. I’ll catch up. The contact guy is Jonathan, I think.”
“I know.” Chieko zipped up her jacket and hunched her shoulders against the chill as she trudged heavily over to the group. She immediately regretted not wearing better shoes, but then again, what kind of shoes did one wear to play in deep sand in the winter?
