by Sarah Kuhn
“That’s not fair,” I snarl—oh, there she is. One kaiju-temper, coming up. “You know I’m not like that. I barely even knew who you were before we . . . we—”
“Rika!” He whirls around and marches the last few steps to the car. “Just . . . stop. Stop being so difficult.”
Difficult.
That’s what everyone always calls me, whether I’m popping balloons or refusing to wear a scarf or letting my temper explode all over Craig Shimizu and ruining the mochi demonstration.
But Henry never called me that. Henry acted like he saw something else. Sweet Rika, the girl with the potentially mushy heart.
I guess the key word here is “acted.” He’s an actor. He knows what to say, what to do . . . how to look at a girl right before he kisses her in a moonlit alley, so she totally falls for it.
And Sweet Rika doesn’t even fucking exist anyway.
“Fine. Let me remove this difficulty from your life,” I growl at him, turning on my heel and stomping in the other direction. “I can walk back to Little Tokyo.”
I will not look behind me to see how he reacts. I just keep stomping.
He doesn’t call after me, doesn’t start running like he’s chasing me through the airport at the end of a goddamn Grace Kimura movie.
A moment later, I hear his car engine start.
And hot tears gather in my eyes.
What the hell?
Did I actually want him to chase me?
No. No way. That’s exactly the kind of so-called happy ending I don’t believe in. And this just proves that it doesn’t exist.
I keep up my stomping even as tears stream down my cheeks—from anger, I tell myself. That’s the remnants of my temper getting out. Nothing more. I don’t know exactly how I’m getting back to Little Tokyo, which is most definitely not within walking distance. I wish I could call an Uber or something, but Auntie Suzy is always lecturing us about how we can’t afford such luxuries, so I don’t even have an account.
I’m still rage-stomping when I hear my name being shouted through the night.
My head snaps up, and I see Henry Chen’s dented Subaru pulling up next to me.
“Rika,” he says, slowing the car to a crawl so he can keep pace with me. “Please. You can’t walk all the way back to Little Tokyo—”
“Yes, I can,” I insist, my head held high—even though I was just thinking the same thing.
“Get in the car,” he says. “Come on, I—”
“No,” I snap. “I don’t want to sully your night by being difficult.”
Of course my voice cracks on that last word, completely undermining the badass aura I’m trying to project. Why can’t I just turn into the nure-onna, dammit? She wouldn’t care about any of . . . whatever this is.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “Just . . . please. Get in the car. I . . . I have curry!” He takes one hand off the wheel and brandishes the brown paper bag, waving it around desperately, like he’s trying to tempt me. That delectably spicy smell wafts my way, tickling my nose, reminding me of those little sparks of hot peppers . . .
Goddammit.
I feel like a cartoon fox, lured by a pie left out on a windowsill.
“Fine,” I concede. “But only for the curry.”
One side of his mouth lifts, his eyes softening—and now he looks like the real Henry again. I firmly order my heart not to skip a beat over that. But it doesn’t listen.
“Only for the curry,” he agrees.
* * *
Once I’m in the car, Henry pilots us back to the same tiny side-street spot and maneuvers the Subaru into it. I do not swoon this time.
I peek inside the brown paper bag and can’t help but laugh—momentarily forgetting that I’m still mad at him. “How did she do that?” I murmur to myself.
“What?” Henry says.
“Somehow Diya packed not just the curry—but also utensils, napkins, and rice,” I say, marveling at how everything’s expertly wrapped and fitted together. “Max Auntie skills.”
“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly.
I cock an eyebrow at him as I pull out the curry and rice.
“I shouldn’t have exploded on you like that,” he continues, his words falling out of his mouth like he can’t say them fast enough. “I shouldn’t have . . . said what I said. You’re right, I got uncomfortable back there”—he jerks his head in Jitlada’s direction—“and then I tried to act like everything was okay because . . . well. Because that’s usually what people want from me. A big smile, no complaints, nothing more complicated than that. Just happy to be here.” He affects the cheesy, jovial grin I was so confused by.
I pop open the rice and spoon a little curry on top. “When you say ‘people’—”
“I mean literally everyone,” he says. “My agent, who thinks I should be grateful for every stereotypical two-line gig that comes my way. My white actor roommates, who like to tell me I should be stoked that diversity is so ‘trendy’ right now. Everyone I’ve ever tried to date, who only wants the Prince Charming cheeseball they see onscreen. My parents—”
His voice catches, and he swallows hard. “They straight-up refuse to even talk about my panic attacks. They just want me to act like it’s not a thing.”
“I know a lot of old-school Asian families aren’t super up on how to best handle mental health,” I say, stirring my food so the curry mixes with the rice. The all-encompassing spicy smell makes both my mouth and my eyes water. “But do they really not know how common anxiety disorders and panic attacks are? Have you talked to them about any of the ways Grace has been helping you, how that’s made you feel like you can . . . I don’t know, start to handle what you’ve been going through?”
“No,” he says flatly. “Because I know what the response would be.” He hesitates, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. I offer him a bite of my curry/rice combo, which he gratefully accepts. “Neither side of the family ever accepted my parents’ marriage,” he says slowly. “So they’ve always tried to hold me up as some kind of proof that it’s actually perfect. Because I’m so perfect.” He flashes that fake smile again. “And whenever part of me doesn’t fit with their idea of ‘perfect’ . . . ” He shrugs, his smile turning bitter. “I love them so much. But sometimes I feel like they only want a certain version of me—not who I really am.”
“You want to be a whole you,” I say, remembering his words from our Grand Central Market meal.
“Yeah,” he says, giving me a rueful smile. “But I’m sorry I shut down and blew up like that. I took all that out on you, and you’re the last person I should be angry with.”
“I don’t want the Prince Charming cheeseball,” I say. “I was totally repulsed by the Prince Charming cheeseball, remember?”
He laughs, surprised. “That’s one of the things I liked about you. Immediately.”
I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blush. I pop another spoonful of curry into my mouth and luxuriate in the explosion of flavor—and the intense amalgam of spices, which do indeed turn my tongue numb.
“I shouldn’t have blown up on you, either,” I say, mixing together a perfect bite. “I just, um. I’m never this . . . open. With anyone. It makes me feel so, like . . . exposed? And I don’t usually . . .” My blush deepens. “I’m having a lot of new experiences tonight.”
Spilling my guts to a near stranger.
Going to an Asian Hollywood meetup.
Kissing Henry Chen in an epic alley.
“Tell me about this audition,” I say, shoveling more tongue-numbing curry into my mouth.
“Ah.” He laughs a little. “You are relentless.”
“Difficult,” I say, sounding out each syllable.
“I think more like . . . tenacious.”
“Passionate?” I say.
“Whatever you are . . . I like
it.”
We let that sit between us for a moment, my blush raging. I wonder if his is, too.
“Those people in there—the Asian Hollywood gang,” I say slowly. “They seem to really love the whole you. When you said you wished you had something like the community in Little Tokyo . . .” I jerk my head toward the restaurant. “I think you do. I think you found it.”
“Maybe I have,” he says softly.
“And they seem very invested in this audition. So yeah, I want to know more.”
There’s a long pause. I just keep eating my curry. I want him to feel like he can word vomit on me as freely as I’ve been doing with him.
“This audition,” he finally says. “I actually really want it. I want the part.”
“Hot Guy Hank Chen, Action Star,” I say, giving him a small smile. “I can see it.”
“Yeah, it’s just . . .” He shakes his head. “I think if it was just that, I’d be fine. I’d go in and read and listen to people tell me why my ‘look’ isn’t right, or ask me to put on an accent, or show off my abs and do splits like I’m some kind of trained monkey. But with this one, they’ve said they’re going to tailor the part to who gets it. I could actually play a specifically Chinese-Filipinx character for the first time ever. And it’s the lead. I could show people . . .” He trails off, his gaze going unfocused as he stares out the windshield.
“You could show people who you really are,” I finish. “That whole you.”
Beyond Hank Chen, Prince Charming Who Can Do the Splits. Hank Chen, Vapid Pile of Muscles and Nothing More. Hank Chen, Perfect Pan-Asian Son and Living Proof of His Parents’ Perfect Marriage.
He turns to look at me, his mouth quirking into a half smile.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It’s a huge opportunity. But the stakes are so high. I’m scared of not getting it and letting everyone down—or even worse, actually getting it and letting everyone down by not being good enough. Or not being Chinese enough. Or Filipino enough. Or . . . anything.”
He turns back to the windshield and grips the steering wheel, idly running his palms over the cracked vinyl.
“And as for my parents—all things considered, they’ve been really supportive of my acting,” he continues. “And I’ve been able to help them so much, send them money—I don’t want them to have to worry. About anything. I . . . I’m happy I’ve been able to basically support them the past few years.”
I nod, studying him and his ancient car console. I wonder if this is why he drives this old Subaru instead of splashing out on something nice for himself.
“But that’s extra pressure,” he continues. “I don’t want to let them down, and I don’t want to suddenly not be able to support them. And yeah, I can’t help it, I don’t want to give them anything less than their perfect son. So what if I get this gig—a bigger spotlight than anything I’ve ever done before—and suddenly become a disgrace to my community? Or embarrass my parents? Or just . . . am so terrible, I get blackballed by every casting director ever?”
“That won’t happen,” I say with conviction. “Forget all this—what do you want?”
“I . . . want this part,” he says. “But all of this triggers my anxiety in a big way. I can’t seem to get past it. Whenever I even think of the audition, I freeze. I can’t remember any of the lines, nothing. Grace was helping me, but now that she’s gone?” He shrugs, then rests his elbows on the steering wheel and leans forward. “I don’t know if I can do this. I think I’m gonna tell my agent to cancel.”
“No,” I blurt out.
He swivels to look at me. “What?”
“You can’t cancel,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Henry. This sounds incredible. Of course it’s making you nervous, that’s a shit-ton of pressure. It’s like you can’t even bear to hope for this incredible, potentially life-changing thing because not getting it would be way too devastating. But then actually getting it could also be devastating, in different ways. You don’t want to feel that way, so you’re trying to avoid it by feeling . . . nothing.”
My voice is getting louder, and my face is getting hot, and he’s still looking at me, a slight smile playing over his lips.
Oh . . . oh.
Probably because I’m also somehow talking about myself and all the things I’m afraid to want. And he can tell. Of course he can.
“My mom says that hope is like opening your heart,” he says, his eyes searching my face. “But that means you’re opening it up to everything. To so much hurting.”
I set my now-empty curry container aside, trying to picture my own heart: a closed-tight door, shrouded in darkness. No hope let out. Definitely nothing coming in.
Only that’s not the image that comes up. Instead I see a door cracked open the tiniest little bit, a barely perceptible smudge of light spilling out.
“Henry,” I say slowly. “When we were at the zoo today. When—”
When we kissed for the first time.
“When I wanted to leave,” I say hastily. “I was so ready to give up, but you made me hope. You made me feel like I could hope for something that still seems so . . . ridiculous. So fantastical.” I reach over and tug one of his hands from the steering wheel, twining my fingers through his. “You’re not giving up on this,” I say firmly. “I’ll help you however I can. I’ll hope enough for both of us.”
“Rika,” he murmurs—and I shiver a little, just hearing him say my name like that. “I . . . that’s so . . .” He can’t seem to find the right words, so he squeezes my hand. “Thank you,” he says fervently. “But there’s another problem—I’m supposed to show off some martial arts moves. Literally any martial art since they don’t know exactly what this character is yet. And I absolutely do not have those skills. Maybe they expect me to, because—”
“Because Asian,” I say, grinning a little. “Yeah, yeah, I know—Asians who can do martial arts are so stereotypical.”
“I didn’t mean you,” he says. “Or, you know, any actual real Asians who can do any kind of martial arts. But usually when you hear about a part like that, it is super stereotypical. The fact that they want to make this character a full-fledged human being, with all kinds of other traits and passions and everything—that’s part of why I want it so bad.”
“I can help with this,” I say, perking up. “Martial-arts-loving Asian right here, at your service.”
I meet his eyes and give him what I hope is an encouraging smile.
“I can show you a few basic judo moves, stuff that isn’t hard at all. I’m sure you’ll be able to pick it up right away, you’re so . . .”
Graceful.
My face flames again. There is something about that word that is suddenly way too intimate, too specific, like it really gives away how intensely I stare at him whenever he decides to do one of his impromptu dance recitals.
“Um, so athletic,” I amend. “When’s the audition?”
“The day after tomorrow,” he says.
“Then tomorrow we should go to the dojo,” I say—but I realize the problem with that as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Or . . . well, actually it’s probably gonna be full up with classes, but I’m sure we can find a spot . . . somewhere . . .”
“I’m really touched by the offer,” he says. “But I’ve noticed that whenever you talk about judo—or anything related to judo, like your friend Eliza—you seem like you’re avoiding something. Or avoiding her, maybe.”
I look down at our intertwined fingers, gnawing on my lower lip. How does he always see so much? I’m not used to anyone seeing me that much—the me that exists beyond the bright hair, the explosive temper, the face that never fits in right. I don’t even see that person most of the time.
My nure-onna self wants to hiss, to shove him away. To deflect and say he’s imagining things and change the subject.
But I can’t do that to him. Not
after he was so open with me about something he clearly doesn’t want to talk about.
I imagine the door to my heart cracking open just a little bit more.
“I think you’re right,” I say, my eyes still trained firmly on our clasped hands. “The dojo was supposed to do this demo at the Nikkei Week parade. Sensei Mary called in a bunch of favors to get a UCLA scout to come, and Eliza and I put in all these extra hours practicing so we’d be at our absolute best. It was going to be the pinnacle of everything we’ve worked for, ever since we were kids. And then I . . . I ruined it.”
“Rika,” Henry murmurs again—but this time, I tell myself not to shiver. I can’t allow the magic that is my name on his lips to wash over me.
“Sensei Mary has always been kind to me,” I press on, dismayed to feel the beginnings of tears pricking my eyes. “She stood up for me. She’s the reason I never got kicked out of the dojo, even after I bit Craig and all the parents complained. She never looked at me like I was some kind of wayward orphan freak. And Eliza was the only kid who would spar with me after the biting incident. She’s sort of my only friend I’m not related to. She’s so kind. She never sees anything bad in anyone—not even me. And I know there’s a lot of bad there.”
“I disagree,” Henry says. But once again, I block it out. Act like I can’t hear him.
“They’ve both been there for me,” I say, blinking hard so my tears won’t fall. “Even when they had no reason to be, even when it was actually bad for them to back me up at all. And I totally let them down. So now I feel like . . . I can’t talk to them. I don’t even know what to say. Maybe it’s better if I don’t, if I just—”
“What, never talk to them again?” Henry says. He reaches over and cups my face, gently tilting my chin up so I’m looking at him. All I see in his eyes is warmth, caring so potent, all I want to do is look away and maybe never talk to him again either. “How did you let them down? You didn’t stop the demonstration from happening, you didn’t disrupt the parade—”
“But I’m the reason for the disruption,” I insist. “Grace was trying to get to me—”
