by Sarah Kuhn
“Not trying to hide any piece of herself,” Henry agrees.
“And . . .” My voice catches, and a tear slips down my cheek. But I have to keep going. “Being with you,” I whisper. “I feel safe with you. But not like I have to, I don’t know, be less. I can get angry. I can admit when I’m sad. I can feel all these things I’m usually afraid to let out, because I know you’re there.” The tears are flowing down my cheeks with wild abandon now. I don’t even make an attempt to brush them away. “Maybe it’s okay if I don’t find Grace,” I repeat. “Because there are already places where I belong. People I belong to. I couldn’t see it before because I was so focused on . . . on protecting myself.”
Henry sits up, reaches over, and takes my hand. “Are you saying you finally believe in your own happy ending?”
I laugh, surprised, my voice still thick with tears. “I don’t know about that. But maybe I finally believe I deserve one.”
Comfortable silence falls between us again as the sun continues to put on a show, the colors she’s painted the sky turning wild and dusky. Henry strokes his thumb down my palm.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he finally says. “I wish you could see the way I see . . . well, what you seem to think of as faults. I think all your passion—what you think is just rage—is beautiful. So is the way you love your family, the way you support them no matter what, even if they’re driving you up the wall. You can never give anything less than everything. Even when you shove all those feelings down, you still live so fully. Whether you’re defending Rory from the busybody Aunties at the mochi demonstration or going on a high-speed chase in the library or crashing into me on the streets of Little Tokyo. You do everything fiercely. And that’s beautiful, too.”
I look down at my sad little stick, which is becoming more twisted and wilty as I play with it. How does he see all these things I never have?
“You’ve made me see that I belong places, too,” he continues. “That there are people who will let me be my whole self—all my Asian Hollywood friends, that community we’ve built. The folks making this new movie I’m gonna be in. And . . .” He pauses, looking out at the sunset. “I am going to talk to my parents about how I feel. About how I can’t be their version of perfect all the time, and I love them, but I want them to see every piece of me.” He turns to me and smiles, almost shyly. “I never would have even thought about doing that without you. And you’re the one I can be my whole self with the most.”
I swallow my tears—I can’t quite look at him yet, but my heart suddenly feels too big for my body, impossible to contain.
“I believe in your happy ending,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes my heart skip several beats. “Because I believe in you.”
I turn to him, tears streaming down my face. I love studying all of him. Those dark eyes that can sparkle with sly mischief or intense passion. That grin that I thought was too cute—because it knew it was too cute. Now I realize he was hiding under that facade, trying to project the image he needed to. But he’s so perfectly imperfect, the real Henry can’t help but shine through.
“Henry,” I whisper.
I lean in and kiss him, the sun finally drifting off behind us.
His hands cup my face, always so urgent against my skin. He runs his fingers through my hair, and then his hands stroke lower, smoothing their way down my neck, my shoulders, my waist, leaving little sparks of electricity in their wake.
He presses against the small of my back, urging me closer, and I slide into his lap, straddling him at the waist. He feathers kisses over my cheeks, taking my tears away. Then he moves lower, his mouth brushing against my ear, my jaw, my neck. When he gets to that spot—that particularly sensitive patch right above my collarbone—heat flashes through me and I lean into it. I want more. I want everything. I want to feel his skin against mine.
I slip my hands under his T-shirt, stroking my fingertips over the delicious muscles of his back, wanting to be as close to him as possible—
“Rika.” He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild. “Maybe we should . . .” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “Actually, I have no idea what we should do.”
His hand has found its way under my shirt, and his fingertips are tracing the most irresistible patterns along my spine. He seems to be doing it unconsciously, which makes it even hotter.
I flush—but honestly it just feels like my entire body is flushed at this point.
“I . . . I want to,” I say, pressing myself more firmly against him. His eyes nearly roll back into his head. “I want to, um, be naked with you.”
A cool breeze whips through the air, bringing me back to reality. The sun has fully set now, it’s dark out, and we’re in a very compromising position. If someone took a photo of us right now, it would blow the McMuffin scandal out of the water.
“But it’s a little sandy and a little public out here,” I say. “So we should go be naked somewhere else.”
“I . . .” He shakes his head again, like he still can’t get a handle on what’s happening. “I want that, too. But . . . are you sure? Have you, um, done this before?”
“No,” I say hastily. “I haven’t. Have you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. “A . . . a few times. But this should be . . .” He hesitates, stroking my hair off my face. “It should be special.”
“It will be,” I say. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
“W-we could go back to my apartment,” Henry stutters. “I don’t know if any of my roommates are there, but—”
“No.” I cup his face in my hands and lean forward. “I can’t wait that long. Let’s go to the car.”
I kiss him and his hands slide under my shirt again, and we are very close to making a very public spectacle of ourselves. But then he breaks the kiss, his breathing even more ragged than before.
“Okay,” he manages. “I . . . I have, um, protection. In the car.”
Somehow, we collect ourselves long enough to gather our things and haul them back to the darkened beach parking lot. Only a few cars are left, making it feel extra desolate.
I push him up against the car and kiss him again, my arms winding around his neck, want coursing through me like wildfire.
“Wait . . .” he gasps. “In the car. Not up against it.”
He manages to get the back door open, and we tumble inside. I toss my Cinderella dress into the front seat, and then it’s just . . . us. A tangle of limbs and lips and his hands sliding under my shirt again, tracing those sweet patterns along my spine.
“Rika . . .” he murmurs.
And then he says my name again and again and again. Peppering it between kisses, whispering it against my skin.
He makes it sound so precious—two syllables to be treasured, to be treated carefully. To be kept safe.
He just keeps saying it, and it brings tears to my eyes every time.
Once upon a time . . .
the nure-onna let herself fall.
EIGHTEEN
My eyes drift open to hazy light, scraps of sun filtering in through the window.
The car window.
I open my eyes more fully. I’m curled in the back seat, Henry wrapped around me, various jackets pulled over us in a makeshift blanket. He’s still asleep, snoring softly against my neck. His arm is draped over my waist and his chest is pressed against my back and I feel warm all over. I revel for a moment in the rhythm of his breathing, the way his gentle exhales tickle the curve of my neck.
I can’t get over last night. The way he looked at me. How there were parts that were kind of awkward, but I never felt awkward because he kept asking if I was okay. I trusted him, I let myself fall into the moment with him. He makes me feel like . . . not like my nure-onna or my temper are tamed or quieted. More like they’ve been given space to flouri
sh and be powerful, and I don’t have to repress anything. I can fully be myself with him. My whole self.
Like we belong to each other.
And then I guess we fell asleep. I don’t exactly remember falling asleep. I can only recall him pulling me close afterward, brushing light kisses against my cheekbones. Still murmuring my name. Everything blurring into hazy, dreamlike sweetness where the only thing that mattered was him touching me. I felt so peaceful, cradled against him. I felt . . . safe.
I wonder if this is what Joanna meant about letting yourself feel things, making space for those feelings instead of trying to deny them. Because right now I feel something I’ve never felt before—a glow in my chest, a brilliant burst of vibrant color, just like last night’s sunset.
And I want to relive every moment, every sensation from last night. His lips, soft against my bare skin. His hands, tangling in my hair. And the way he said my name . . .
I close my eyes, let bliss overtake me . . .
And then remember it’s now morning and we’ve apparently fallen asleep in the back seat of his car and . . . crap.
Trying to move slowly so as not to disturb Henry, I fumble around for my phone, still contained in the pocket of my shorts—which are part of a jumble of clothes on the car floor. The screen is lit up like the Fourth of July, a cavalcade of messages from every single person I know. The Aunties, Belle, Rory. All wanting to know where I am. I am definitely going to be in big trouble when I get home. But there are also messages from other people: Eliza, Sensei Mary, even Joanna. I frown, scrolling through, trying to make sense of the mess of words and furious exclamation points.
Respond!!! one of Eliza’s messages reads. And please tell me when you’ve seen this.
“This” is a link that nearly everyone seems to have flung my way. So I click on it. It leads to some kind of celebrity gossip website trumpeting about an all-caps EXCLUSIVE.
GRACE KIMURA SECRET LOVE CHILD SCANDAL!!!
My heart plummets, and it feels like all the blood drains from my body.
With shaking fingers, I scroll down. I can’t process any of the words, can barely wrap my brain around what the article’s saying . . . except I already know exactly what it’s saying.
I shake my head, like that will somehow make all of this go away.
I scroll back up and force myself to sound out every word. The person who wrote this is practically foaming at the mouth, playing up every minute detail for maximum juiciness. But the facts are clear.
1. Years ago, Grace Kimura, Hollywood’s squeaky-clean rom-com queen and perfect princess, had an illicit baby when she was only a teenager.
2. Said illicit baby—the SECRET LOVE CHILD—is none other than Rika Rakuyama, who has been identified as the girl Grace plowed into at the Nikkei Week parade.
3. This “Rika” “Rakuyama” (if that is, in fact, her real name) is the same person who was spotted with heartthrob Hank Chen at the library a few days ago. What is Hank Chen’s connection to this scandal?!
I scroll further to see the reporter’s key pieces of “evidence”: photographs of teenage Grace holding baby me and the photos of young Grace and Auntie Suzy.
The photos I thought I’d lost. The photos I apparently did lose, only to see them turn up . . . here.
My body goes numb. My mind turns blank.
What do I do?
What do I even . . .
Adrenaline kicks in, forcing me to pull myself into a sitting position and scrabble around on the floor for my clothes. I can’t think, and my breath is coming and going in short little gasps.
I have to . . . I have to . . . I can’t . . .
How could I be so foolish? Why did I ever think this would end any other way for me? How did I ever believe anything resembling a happy ending was possible?
All these years, I’ve been trying to make myself small, to hide, to not stick out the way I naturally do . . . and now that’s all been blown apart by a single breathless headline.
This could destroy my family; the brunt of the scandal will land squarely on them. Anyone who’s ever been looking for a reason to toss all of us out of the community has it now, plastered in big block letters across the internet.
So many things are about to be destroyed, all because of me. All that hard work Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och have put into the restaurant for so many years, all the passion Belle’s put into being crowned Nikkei Week queen, the one thing she’s wanted forever . . . and Henry . . . Henry just landed the most important role of his career, may be about to get everything he wants and deserves . . . and that could be destroyed by this scandal, too.
I’m not a princess, about to float on dreamy clouds to her happy ending. I don’t know how I tricked myself into thinking I was anything other than a SECRET LOVE CHILD.
“Mmm?” Henry stirs behind me. His arm is still kind of draped over my waist, even though I’m sitting up, trying to pull my shirt over my head. “Rika?” he murmurs, utterly confused. “What are you doing?”
I shake my head, unable to string two words together. I don’t know where to even begin, so I hand him my phone and continue scrambling to get my shirt onto my body.
“What is this?” Henry says, sounding more awake now. He sits up, and I scootch a little to the left so we’re sitting side by side in the back seat.
“What does it look like?” I manage, my voice cracking on the last word. “I have to go.”
I finally manage to get my shirt on and shimmy into my shorts. Then I throw open the door, preparing to eject myself.
“Wait!” Henry cries, swiveling toward me. “What are you doing?!”
“I just said I had to go,” I snap. “So I’m going.”
“Not like this,” he fires back, shaking his head vehemently. “Try to calm down, breathe—”
“I don’t want to calm down,” I say, a sob cutting through my words. I don’t even feel any tears, just this rising panic in my chest. Like I’m about to explode.
“I know, I get it—” he begins.
“No, you don’t!”
“Okay, maybe I don’t understand exactly,” he says, holding up his hands. Somehow, his tone is perfectly even. How can it be even? How can he be so calm? “But let’s talk about this. Let me take you home and—”
“No.” It comes out in a roar, my temper bursting to the surface. The fire, the rage, is consuming my entire body, and I can’t stop it. It burns through me, obliterating all that’s in its path. If I don’t catapult myself away from him, it will destroy everything. “Just . . . stop,” I say, my voice ragged. “Stop being so calm and stop trying to get me to be calm—”
“I’m just trying to—”
“Didn’t you hear me? Stop trying.” I snatch my phone away from him. “Do you not get how serious this is?”
“Of course I do,” he says, his brows drawing together. “But—”
“Because it’s also serious for you,” I barrel on. “You just landed this incredible part that you wanted so badly, you’re on the verge of finally being taken seriously, and now you’re associated with this big, gossipy, trashy scandal. You’re associated with me. The secret love child.”
I grab my shoes and my giant Cinderella dress. I don’t even know where I’m going. I just know I have to get out.
“Rika.”
I heave myself out of the car, not listening. He follows me, somehow managing to haphazardly yank on his jeans. Then he tries to grab my hand, but I pull away.
“Will you please just . . . stop for a minute,” he says, his voice tight with frustration. “Listen to me, we’re in this together—”
“We’re not together,” I snarl, crumpling all that tulle against my chest. It scratches my skin, aggravating me even further. My kaiju-temper is roaring now, smashing anything that gets in its way with giant fists. “I don’t know why you would even want
that. This could ruin your career. It could ruin everything—”
“I don’t care!” he bellows.
My mouth snaps shut. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Henry Chen yell before.
“I don’t care about that,” he says, taking a step toward me. “How could I care about that more than I care about you?”
“Because you should,” I spit out.
He shakes his head, his face overtaken with disbelief. “Why do you make it so hard for people to love you?”
I clutch my dress tightly, the tulle scratching even more aggressively against my arms. “What?” It comes out as the most pathetic of whispers.
He takes another step toward me. I can’t seem to stop trembling, even though the summer sun is already on full blast. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to run. Somehow I can’t do any of those things.
He meets my gaze, so earnest and open. Just like he always is.
“I love you,” he says, his voice strong and sure in a way that touches something deep inside of me. “And I won’t let you throw yourself away again.”
Those tears I thought I wanted prick my eyes. My head is empty again, everything is just blank. I ache to close the space between us, melt against him. How can this person—the kindest, warmest, most infuriating person I’ve ever met—love me?
He can’t. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t. He’s saying that because we spent the night together and he’s just so noble, so good . . .
And that means I have to shove him away as hard as I can.
The door to my heart slams shut.
“You don’t get a say in that,” I say, sounding as steady as I can even though I want to fall apart. “I know you’re probably used to girls pledging their undying devotion to you after sex, but that’s not me. I just want you to leave me alone.”
I turn and stomp away, still clutching my dress to my chest, tears streaming down my face.
