by Sarah Kuhn
“And don’t even get me started on the anti-Blackness in the Korean side of my family,” Mason says, slouching back in his seat. “Fuck that, we’re all Asian—and here, we celebrate that.” He flashes me a charming grin. “Consider yourself celebrated, eh, Rika Rakuyama?”
I smile back, something soft and warm lighting my heart. My nure-onna hisses, urging me to shove that softness down as hard as possible. But the thing is . . . I don’t want to. I want to bask in this warmth. This joy. This celebration.
“Speaking of celebrating,” Henry says, releasing my hand and resting his elbows on the table, “you said Diya might know if Grace is stopping by?”
Oh, right, Grace! Ever since we left the old zoo . . . ever since we kissed . . . and then kissed again . . . I seem to keep getting distracted from my primary mission.
“Girl hasn’t been on the text thread at all,” Diya says, her gaze darkening a bit. “Truth be told, I’m worried about her.”
“She said she’d send up a flare if she needed our help,” Mason says. “But she also said she needs space right now.” He shakes his head. “Trying not to be like my parents, all up in the land of boundary violations.”
“Pfft, stop insulting your ancestors—I have no boundaries,” Diya says, whipping out her phone. “I’m texting her right now to make sure she knows we’re here.”
“God, I haven’t even gotten to meet her yet,” Joanna says, toying with the end of her ponytail. “Though maybe that’s for the best, since I’ll probably melt into a pile of incoherent goo when I do.”
“Really, you’re a fan?” I say, tilting my head at her curiously.
“Of course!” she says, her smile widening. “Look, I’m an easy cry—if I start telling her what Meet Me Again meant to me the first time I watched it, seeing an Asian American woman as a legit rom-com lead . . .” Her eyes flutter dreamily as she brings a hand to her chest. “Forget it. I will lose my shit.”
“Sweet Rika, are you saying you’re not a fan?” Diya says, drumming her red fingernails on the tabletop—and somehow I just know that “Sweet Rika” is my nickname in this circle now, just like Henry is Baby Hank. Obviously an incorrect nickname—Diya doesn’t know me very well. “Do you not swoon every time our Grace gets her man?”
“Dude, even I swoon,” Mason says. “And I’m the most unsentimental bastard you’ll ever meet.”
“Oh, I just . . . her movies aren’t really my thing,” I say, trying to brush it off. “I don’t believe in happy endings like that.”
“Excuse. Me?!” Diya levels me with a shrewd look, sizing me up through her long lashes. “Baby Hank, have we not raised you right? How are you treating your girl? Why is she so anti-romance?”
“Oh no—no!” I say hastily. “It’s not because of Henry. It’s just . . . the way I am.” I give them a valiant smile, hoping maybe that can be the end of it.
“No,” Diya says, shaking her head vehemently. “Big fat nope, I refuse to accept this, Sweet Rika. I saw that light in your eyes when you took in our little celebration. There is a soft heart in there, just waiting to be beaten to mush by the last ten minutes of Meet Me Again.”
She turns to Joanna, looking for support.
“Yes, agree,” Joanna says, her eyes sparkling as she gets into it. “That ending . . .” She puts a hand over her heart again.
I stifle a groan. Meet Me Again is one of Belle’s favorite Grace Kimura classics, the movie that really cemented Grace as Asian America’s sweetheart. She plays a sweet, hapless photographer who has a meet-cute with some jerky guy who runs his dad’s old camera shop—but inexplicably hates photography and knows barely anything about it. He accidentally knocks her camera into the lake they’re both hanging out next to, replaces it with an even better model from his shop . . . and you can guess the rest. In the climactic moment, after they’ve seemingly broken up, Grace’s character asks to meet at “their” spot—the lake—not knowing if the guy’s going to show.
But of course he does. It wouldn’t be a Grace Kimura movie if he didn’t.
I’ve never understood why she wanted to smooch on some asshole who destroyed her most prized possession, but I am clearly not the audience for these kinds of happily ever afters.
“It’s beautiful,” Diya declares. “She puts it all on the line—her heart! There’s that achy moment, when she’s looking out on the lake . . .”
“Probably thinking about her destroyed camera,” I mutter.
“. . . and you think maybe—just maybe—he’s not gonna show,” Diya continues.
“But then he does!” Joanna squeals. “She’s walking away, she thinks he’s not coming, her heart is broken. And then suddenly he’s running after her . . .”
“Which would be really alarming in real life,” I can’t help but say.
“It’s romantic,” Joanna swoons.
“It’s not what would actually happen,” I retort.
“It could,” Henry says, grinning slightly at me. “Are you telling me you never get swept up in that moment?”
I shrug. “I don’t like the idea that she needs him to ‘save’ her. She’s successful, creative! What exactly is he saving her from—because it’s sure not the idea that women need to drop everything for the first loser who shows any interest in them.”
“I don’t see it as saving,” he says, leaning forward. “I see it as showing up—they’re both there for each other, no matter what. They’ll both show up at that lake, every time.”
“I don’t believe that!” I say, throwing up my hands. “Even if she did want that, I never believe the moment when he shows up. I just feel like he wouldn’t—the real ending of that movie is, like, her sitting there all alone. Waiting and being annoyed that she doesn’t have her original camera. No happy ending.”
Henry cocks his head to the side, his gaze turning strangely serious. “I think he’d show up for her. Always.”
“Aww, Baby Hank.” Diya smiles at him affectionately. “You’re the biggest mushy heart of all.”
Henry blushes a little and shrugs, casting a surreptitious look my way.
“Anyway,” he says, “we actually really need to find Grace. Are there any sightings, rumors? Stuff that wouldn’t be out there on social media?”
“Mmm, let’s ask everyone’s favorite gossip factory,” Diya says with a wink. She whips her head around and barks in the general direction of one of the chattering clusters of people. “Clara Mae! C’mere, we need your wisdom!”
A twentysomething woman sporting a platinum crewcut and blinged-out sneakers peels off from the cluster and scampers over.
“Gawd, what is it, DD?” she says, narrowing her eyes at Diya. “You’re in a very yell-y mood tonight.”
“I’m always in a yell-y mood,” Diya corrects. “Have you heard anything about the whereabouts of our illustrious Ms. Kimura? Baby Hank needs to find her.”
“Ahhh, so stealthy,” Clara Mae says, whipping her phone out. “I dunno if our Gracie is secretly a world-class superspy or what, but she’s been very adept at avoiding any kind of exposure.” She studies the screen for a moment, her brow furrowing. “That said, I have heard something. According to my pal who works on the Pinnacle lot, they’re finally doing those last bits of shooting for We Belong—the sets and the crew are all ready to go, and it’s just a matter of our Gracie actually showing up.” She stuffs her phone back in her pocket and gives us an elegant shrug. “Supposed to be happening this week. That’s all I know.”
“Always there with the hot goss, Clara Mae—thank you!” Diya yells after her as she bounds back to her friend cluster.
“There ya go,” Mason says, making finger guns at Henry. “A tip.”
“A tip we can’t exactly follow,” Henry says, leaning back in his seat and frowning. “Security around that set was tight as hell.”
“But you’re in the movie,” I pipe u
p, trying to work it out. “Maybe you could get us onto set that way?”
“I don’t think so,” he says, his face screwing up with frustration. “My part’s done, and they locked that shit down. I can’t see it working.”
“Mmm,” Mason says. “There’s another way you can get on the Pinnacle lot, though, Baby Hank.”
“Nope,” Henry says, slicing a hand through the air. “Not gonna happen. Already decided.”
“Ooh, yes!” Diya says, her eyes widening. “How could I forget!”
“Forget what?” I say, looking from Diya to Henry and back again.
“It’s nothing,” Henry says, waving a hand.
“Not nothing,” Joanna says, leaning forward. “More like a possibly life-changing opportunity.”
Now they’re all staring at Henry. Three sets of eyes, locked on his every move, willing him to say something.
I turn and study him, too. He looks . . . hmm. I’m not sure how he looks. His eyes have gone to the floor, what I can see of his face is blank, his shoulders are stiff, and he’s lightly drumming his fingers against the tabletop—almost like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
It’s interesting to observe these different shades of him, these slight nuances in mood that color him in. When we first met—god, was that really just four days ago?—I only saw the one face, the one extreme. Then I saw a few more. But this sort of deflection . . . he looks so uncomfortable. I wonder what’s going on.
“Baby Hank, you have got to tell your girl about this,” Diya says, rolling her eyes affectionately. “Maybe she’s having a hard time believing in romance because you’re keeping such important things from her.” She clucks her tongue disapprovingly.
“It’s an audition,” Mason volunteers.
“Hey,” Henry barks, looking genuinely irritated. Wow, irritated is definitely a color I haven’t seen on him before.
“No, she needs to know about this—maybe she’ll talk some sense into you,” Joanna says, downing the last of her wine. She sets the glass down on the table and leans forward, her gaze lasering in on me. “Henry landed a huge audition. It’s the lead!”
“A Hot Guy starring role in a big action movie,” Diya chimes in. “Perfect for our sweet Baby Hank. His star will absolutely explode if he gets it.”
“And that’ll be good for all of us,” Mason says, nodding vigorously. “Oh, man, the rep. Henry, you’ll be a credit to us all.”
“Maybe I don’t want that,” Henry says, still looking at the ground.
“What are you talking about, of course you do!” Mason says, slapping his palm against the table. “I would kill for a part like that. Hell, I’d kill just to get the audition.”
Henry doesn’t respond, and his face is still blank. His fingers, I notice, have stopped drumming against the tabletop and are now curled into loose fists. And while I don’t know him super well, I am sure of one thing: he is really freaking uncomfortable right now.
“Um, we should probably get going,” I say, making my tone light even though what I’m saying is totally awkward.
“Noooo, you can’t!” Diya insists. “Look, our food just came!” She gestures to the server, who is carefully setting down a silver tureen of bright yellow curry. Steam curls upward, and I can see little sparks of hot peppers swirling through the curry’s depths, beckoning me.
It smells so good, I might cry.
“I have to be at a, um, place later,” I say, forcing my eyes away from the curry. “I mean, just home. That’s the place. My Aunties will murder me if I’m late.”
“Ahh, can’t risk the Auntie rage,” Diya chirps, grinning at me. “I know it all too well. But hold on, take some of this to go, you have to try it!”
Somehow, a to-go container has already materialized next to Diya, and before I know what’s happening, she’s spooning curry into it and wrapping it up tight in a brown paper bag that she presses on me.
I reach over, slip my thumb into the curl of Henry’s fingers, and tug gently.
“Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s go.”
He seems to snap out of whatever trance he’s gone into, his head jerking up, his eyes meeting mine. As we stand, our hands loosely clasped, he never stops looking at me.
Right as we’re about to make this hasty exit, I realize that I really, really have to pee. I will not make it back to Little Tokyo on LA’s crowded snarl of freeways in time.
“Um, I have to pee,” I murmur. “Meet you outside?”
“Okay,” he says robotically, looking like he’s about a million miles away. He absently takes the curry from me so I don’t have to cart it to the bathroom—even zoned-out Henry is somehow still considerate.
“Lovely meeting you all,” I say, smiling at Diya, Joanna, and Mason.
As I book it to the bathroom, I realize that I truly mean that. Despite the sudden weirdness with Henry, I’m having an amazing time. I feel light. Free. Celebrated, even.
A giddy smile overtakes my face as I push through the heavy wooden door to the teeny bathroom.
When I emerge, Joanna’s leaning against the wall, looking like she’s thinking about something very hard.
“Oh, hey!” she says, flashing me a smile. “Sorry, you said you had to pee and then I realized that I really had to pee, and . . .” She trails off and shrugs, her smile widening. “Did I just make this awkward? Do we have to say a second, extended good-bye now?”
“Really, no worries,” I say, returning her smile. “Usually I’m the one making things awkward, so I appreciate it when someone else steps up to the plate.”
“Ahh, I gotcha,” Joanna says, throwing me a wink. “I knew you were a kindred spirit. Keep in touch, okay? I’m on all the socials.”
“Will do,” I say, giving her a little wave.
Joanna nods and puts a hand on the door—then stops and turns to face me, her brow crinkling.
“Hey. Sweet Rika. When you said you don’t believe in happy endings . . . I think I know why.”
“You do?” I say, taken aback. I’m so surprised, I can’t even protest, can’t point out that we just met and she barely knows me at all. She has no idea about my tragic backstory.
She lets her hand fall from the door and takes a step closer to me, her eyes searching my face in an uncomfortable way. Like she can see right through me. Like she absolutely does know my tragic backstory.
She rests a hand on my arm. Gives me the gentlest smile I’ve ever seen on anyone. And leans in close, like she really wants me to get it.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s because you think you don’t deserve one.”
THIRTEEN
Henry’s waiting for me when I emerge from Jitlada. He flashes me a big smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You should take all this curry home!” he says jovially—but his voice is too bright, too loud. His smile gets that smug quality I was so irritated by when we first met. “Bet your family will love it.”
“Okaaay,” I say, looking at him curiously. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not!” he says, his smile straining so hard, it looks like his face is about to break in half. “Come on!” He turns and starts marching toward the car, his steps defiantly jaunty.
What the hell is happening here? It’s like the real Henry—the one who went rigid with tension when his friends started teasing him—has been replaced by a smirking alien.
“Henry.” I plant my feet and cross my arms over my chest. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing—why would anything be wrong?” he says—so loudly that the valet turns and shoots us a quizzical look. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I counter, still refusing to move. “Whatever you are, it started back in there”—I jerk my head at Jitlada—“when that big audition came up. You got all tense.”
He shrugs, his bizarre smil
e faltering. “I’m fine,” he repeats, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. He throws me a smarmy wink. “You don’t need to worry about me, Sweet Rika.”
Ew. What was that?
“Stop saying you’re fine!” I shoot back, frustration curling in my gut. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”
A million and one emotions play over his face, and he’s trying with all his might to keep that big, weird smile in place. But eventually he loses, his shoulders slumping, his face falling.
“Because I don’t want to,” he snaps.
I reel back like I’ve been slapped. “But . . . but I . . .”
He starts walking toward the car again. “Come on, let’s go.”
Somehow I manage to get it together and follow him, jogging a little to catch up. In my haze of confusion, I realize my kaiju-temper isn’t slamming against my breastbone, demanding release. Instead I just feel . . . hurt. Even though he told me to come with him, it’s like he’s walking away from me, his back stiff and straight.
“I . . . I’ve told you everything,” I say, the words pushing themselves from my throat. “Like, stuff I never tell anyone. Stuff I don’t talk about . . . hell, stuff I try not to think about. And then we . . . in the alley . . .” I trail off, that frustration rising in my chest again. The words are getting all mixed up in my brain, and I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
“And that means I owe you something?” he fires back, stopping in his tracks and frowning at me.
“N-no,” I say. “That’s not what I meant, I just . . . you got all weird and—”
“And what? That ruins your perfect fantasy of whatever it is you think I am? Whatever you . . .” He shakes his head, like he can’t find the words either. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this isn’t the photo op you wanted, and I’m sorry it’s not going to bring more excited customers to your Aunties’ restaurant, and I’m sorry I can’t be so fucking perfect all the time—”
