by Sarah Kuhn
He raises his head and looks around, taking in the luminous moon reflected in the ocean, the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore.
“Look at us,” he says, a smile playing over his lips. “It’s just like the end of Meet Me Again.”
“If you throw anything of mine into the ocean, I’ll kill you,” I say.
“We showed up for each other,” he says, refusing to be cowed. “And you came for me—so I guess I’m the princess in this scenario?”
I grin and pull him in for another kiss. “We both are.”
* * *
The Nikkei Week gala is in full swing when the Raku-yamas plus Henry return to Little Tokyo. Belle is still in her sweatsuit but decides to forego her usual finery because “I look like a queen, no matter what.” I feel a surge of joy as she tucks Nak under her arm and runs up to the rest of her court, who greet her with a giant group hug.
In fact, after all the excitement of the day, it appears that no one’s really going for the usual super-fancy gala wear. Rory wraps another one of Auntie Suzy’s dresses around her shoulders like a cape. Eliza and Sensei Mary are in their judogi, showing some of the kids how to do simple tumbles. Uncle Hikaru has just plopped a bow tie on over his T-shirt. Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och don yukata from Auntie Suzy’s collection—paired with Adidas slides, of course.
Craig Shimizu, I notice, is nowhere in sight.
The spirit of the gala feels freer than usual. Like instead of keeping constant watch to see who’s doing something inappropriate or who’s worth gossiping about or who needs to be the target of so many disapproving stares, everyone in the community’s actually enjoying the party.
There is, of course, a heightened buzz crackling through the airy courtyard—will Grace Kimura show?
Despite the community’s best efforts, no one’s heard from her. Henry’s tried texting her, to no avail. I can’t stop the constant nervous skitter through my gut. I’ve already been through an entire decade’s worth of emotions in a single day. If she doesn’t show up . . . will it ruin everything?
“Still nothing?” I say, peering over his shoulder as he glances at his phone screen.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket, giving me a soft smile. “Let’s think about something else.” He extends a hand and gives me a courtly bow. “Time for your dance lesson.”
“Oh no,” I say, holding up a finger. “Little Tokyo’s gone through enough already today. Nobody needs to see that.”
“You promised,” he says, grinning mischievously as he takes my hand and tugs me insistently toward the dance floor. “A judo lesson for a dance lesson.”
“Ugh,” I say—but I’m smiling. “Fine.”
I allow him to take me in his arms, pulling me into a slow dance.
“Just move with me,” Henry says. “Trust me.”
So I do. He leads me around the floor, making it easy for me to follow his moves. He’s so graceful, so light on his feet. And even though I’m stiff and awkward at first, I find myself melting against him, my gaze drifting up to the twinkle lights sparkling above our heads. And beyond that, the starry sky. It really does feel like we’re in some sort of fairyland. I picture our feet floating off the ground, Henry and me spinning into the air. Not caring about anything but this beautiful world we’re existing in—and each other.
As the song draws to a close, I feel a tiny stab of disappointment. Do I actually want to dance more?
“One more song,” Henry murmurs into my hair. “I don’t want to let you go just yet.”
I rest my head against his chest, the biggest, goofiest smile spreading over my face.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something . . . and my happy smile freezes.
It’s just a flutter of something. A dreamy bit of pale blue chiffon, floating away from the party like a scarf caught in the wind. It’s someone’s dress, I realize—and that person is leaving the party, running across the street . . .
A prickle of intuition runs up my spine. There’s something familiar about that figure, even though I don’t remember seeing anyone in a pale blue chiffon dress. I can’t seem to stop staring at it as it gets smaller in the distance, disappearing into the plaza . . .
“Rika?” Henry says.
But I’m too stuck on this chiffon, this tiny fairy floating farther and farther away from me.
And then I realize, with a shock that jolts my whole being, that the thing I’m feeling, that ping of connection . . . is the exact same feeling I got at the Nikkei Week parade. When Grace Kimura and I locked eyes and she crashed right into me.
“I have to go,” I say, raising my head from Henry’s chest.
“What?” He shakes his head and gives me a teasing grin. “Why? What did I do now?”
“Nothing,” I say hastily. “Sorry. I should have said: I’ll be right back. Just . . . excuse me for a minute.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Henry says, sounding thoroughly puzzled as I gather my skirts around me and run.
I dash across the street and through the plaza, searching in vain for that flutter of pale blue. It’s completely out of sight now—vanished into thin air.
Luckily, I know exactly where to go.
I blaze through the plaza in a cloud of sparkles, dart over to the JACCC, and duck into the garden. I’m headed straight for the onryo tree—the one I hid under just a few short hours ago.
I know I’ll find her there, I just know it . . .
Except . . . I don’t.
She’s not under the tree. The tree is just sitting there, existing, its branches reaching out to the night sky.
My shoulders slump. Did I hallucinate that blue-clad figure? Why am I still so intent on chasing something that’s never going to appear, that’s never going to . . . to . . .
Wait.
My eyes are drawn to a spot shrouded in darkness, the grass blending into the tree. And there, sticking out from underneath that green canopy of leaves, is a tiny scrap of blue chiffon.
I kneel down, my heart beating so loudly, I swear I can hear it puncturing the silence of the garden.
When I finally see her, crumpled under that tree in a wilting pile of blue, all the breath leaves my body.
Her head jerks up as I peer under the tree, her eyes widening in shock and recognition. Just like they did at the parade.
“Rika?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
And I can only say, “Mom.”
TWENTY-TWO
I bunch my giant skirt up and crawl under the tree with her. She’s still staring at me as if I’m not quite real.
“Of course,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Of course you knew to find me here. This is where I used to escape to when I was little and I wanted to feel safe.”
“Me too,” I say softly.
I’m trying to take her in, but my senses are overwhelmed, and it feels like my brain’s short-circuiting. Her cheeks are tearstained, and her eye makeup runs down her face in messy rivulets. Her glossy black mane of hair is swirling around her shoulders, unkempt. And it looks like she, too, has torn the hem of her dress.
None of this makes her less beautiful. She looks heartbreakingly real.
“Oh, Rika,” she says, her voice tremulous. “I dreamed of this moment so many times. I . . .” She trails off and lifts her hand, like she wants to touch me. Then seems to think better of it and drops her hand back in her lap. “I saw your message,” she says. “And I knew I had to come—I had to finally face you. But as soon as I got to that courtyard . . .” She shakes her head vigorously. “I couldn’t do it. I’ve gotten so confident being Grace Kimura. Did you know, I haven’t actually set foot in Little Tokyo in . . . well, since I left. When they asked me to be grand marshal, I figured enough time had passed. That I’m a different person now, and no one would recognize Grace Rakuyama. But . . . then
the parade happened. You happened.” She gives me a shaky smile. “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby—I always wondered if I’d recognize you, all these years later. But of course I did. And when I got to the gala, I just knew. As soon as the community saw me, I’d be Grace Rakuyama again. The disgraced teenager who could never find the strength to stand up for herself.”
We let that sit between us, the soft summer breeze rustling through the garden, whispering all of its secrets. I don’t know exactly what I feel. I’ve been picturing this moment all week—maybe not as long as Grace has. I’d thought our reunion would be instantly magical, a connection neither of us could explain.
And it is. There is some kind of bond between us, that same bond that drew us both to the onryo tree. But there’s also an undeniable thread of melancholy weaving through all of that. Like every kind of fairy tale coming together—Belle and Rory’s princess stories, my Japanese folklore, and just plain old real life. I feel so much for my mother, who was so immediately and viciously denied a certain kind of love—by her father, her community, her daughter she was never allowed to know. And I also feel . . . for me. For the girl who’s spent her entire life lunging at everyone in her path with her fangs bared, because she didn’t quite know how to love. Or how to be loved.
We both needed each other so badly, without even knowing it.
I reach out across the space between us—the space that is not just this garden but the span of the seventeen years we’ve been apart.
“Why don’t you just talk to me,” I say. “About anything at all.”
She takes a deep breath and gives me a grateful smile.
“Let me tell you my side of the story from this past week,” she says, her voice halting. “After the parade . . .” She shakes her head, the memories rising up. “I tried to go into hiding. But no matter what, I knew I had to find you. So I tried to get back in touch with my sister—with Suzy. I left a message behind that loose tile in the library. That’s where we used to leave secret messages for each other, after I faked my death and was exiled from Little Tokyo. I thought . . . after everything that happened at the parade, she’d know I needed to talk to her. But then you and Henry found it instead.” She meets my eyes and gives me a hesitant smile. “And I knew you had, because everyone posted those photos of the two of you on social media.”
“Then why didn’t you show up?” I can’t help but ask. “At the old zoo. I . . . I wanted to meet you so badly.”
“I was scared,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I was ready to talk to Suzy, but oh, Rika-chan—I couldn’t face you. Not yet. I couldn’t imagine how you could possibly ever forgive me for being gone all those years. Just thinking about seeing you brought back all those things I felt when I was fifteen—how scared and ashamed I was, how alone.” Her voice catches, her eyes going glossy with tears. “I went deeper into hiding. I didn’t go to the zoo or to the Asian Hollywood meetup. And I pushed off finishing my movie again. I’ve never felt so mixed-up—not since I was that terrified girl. I’ve spent so many years building up my walls, trying to give myself armor so I couldn’t be hurt again.”
I feel that ping of connection soaring through me again. I squeeze her hand back.
“When I saw your message today, I knew I had to come,” she continues. “I had to see you, even if you hated me. And I would not blame you for hating me.”
“I could never,” I whisper.
“But once I got there, I realized I hadn’t actually figured out what I was going to do,” she says. “I had this image of a perfect, happy fairy-tale ending—like one of my movies. And then I just couldn’t imagine it actually happening.”
“I get that,” I say. “You . . . you can’t know how much I get that.” I look down at our clasped hands, so many feelings surging through me. And I try to find the right words. “Wishing for a happy ending is terrifying,” I say slowly. “It means tearing down those walls and putting your heart at risk. It means letting in hope. And hope always has the potential to let us down, to leave us crushed and broken and . . . and hurting.” My voice cracks, and I try to breathe evenly. “You’ve gone through so much to get here. So have I. I used to never hope at all. But this past week . . .” I shake my head, my eyes filling with tears. “I’ve learned that you can make your own happy ending. And it doesn’t have to look like the ones in rom-coms or fairy tales or . . . or . . . sad Japanese folklore stories about fierce monster women. It can look like none of those things—or all of them at once. It can look however you want it to look. It’s yours.”
“Rika-chan,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “You are . . . you’re so incredible. I can’t believe I missed so much . . .”
“You did,” I say, my voice very soft. “And I can’t lie, I’m angry about that. I never knew that you wanted me. And I think I really, really needed to know that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I fought for you so hard—but I should have fought harder. I made so many mistakes, and then I wouldn’t listen to Suzy, even when she knew how bad it would be for you to suddenly be brought into the public eye with me . . .”
“Auntie Suzy made her fair share of mistakes, too. And I’m happy you’re here now,” I say, squeezing her hand again. “I would like to . . . to have something with you. Whatever that ends up being. I’m not sure yet. But I’ve heard so much about you now, from Henry and Auntie Suzy, and you sound pretty amazing.”
“I want that,” she says fervently. “More than anything.”
“Then as a first step—come with me back to the gala.” I meet her gaze and give her a hopeful smile. “There are so many people who want to see you. One in particular.”
Grace hesitates and looks off into the distance. For a moment, she looks just like the lost teenager she was in that photo I found of her sitting under this tree. My heart twists.
After what seems like forever, she turns back to me and gives me that brilliant smile—the one I’ve heard about all my life. The one everyone—from her fans to the Little Tokyo denizens who remember her as a sweet, hopeful girl—loves so much.
“Yes, Rika-chan,” she says, finally pulling me in for an embrace. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I can tell Grace is nervous. Her grip on my hand tightens as we get closer and closer to the courtyard, her palm slick with sweat. When we reach the courtyard entrance, I give her an encouraging nod. And then we enter hand in hand.
Total silence falls over the courtyard. There’s not even so much as a gasp. Just pure shock. All eyes are on us.
“People of Little Tokyo,” I say, my heart ready to pound right out of my chest, “please welcome back Grace Kim—Grace Rakuyama.”
A single cry pierces the air, something that sounds like a cross between a teenager meeting their idol for the first time and a wounded animal. A brightly colored blur streaks through the crowd, barreling straight toward us—Auntie Suzy, her yukata flapping around her.
“Suzy,” Grace whispers, her eyes widening.
But she doesn’t get any further, because Auntie Suzy sweeps her into a bone-crunching hug. Grace collapses against her, both of them sobbing. They’re so fused, I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.
Finally, Auntie Suzy pulls back, taking Grace’s face in her hands. Studying her like she can’t believe she’s real.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For everything. And I’m so happy you’re home.”
And then everyone’s crowding around Grace, shouting things, asking the kind of nosy Auntie questions they all love so much.
Belle and Rory jump up and down, trying to get her attention—asking if they can call her Auntie Grace and if she can show them how to do winged eyeliner and also if she’ll bring them to one of her movie sets.
Somehow this devolves into a messy dance party, the gigantic group hug migrating to the dance floor and grooving with the music. And before I even ha
ve a chance to look for him, I feel Henry’s hand reach through the crowd and take mine.
“Oh no,” I say. “Are you really trying to get me to dance again? Wasn’t I bad enough the first time?”
“Come on,” he says, grinning and pulling me against him.
“Mmm,” I murmur, as we sway in time to the music. “Well, even with the arrival of the long-lost daughter of Little Tokyo, I’m pretty sure my general appearance is about to attract everyone’s attention—for all the wrong reasons. Maybe I should go change?” I gesture to my dirty, torn princess dress. “Or at least fix my hair.” I point to the tangled mass of waves, a snarl that I don’t think even the most determined of tiaras would adhere to.
He draws me closer, one hand going to the small of my back, his mouth brushing my ear and sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “You look beautiful,” he says. “You look like you.”
He pulls back and gives me one of his smiles—hopeful and genuine. So Henry.
“What do you think?” he says, gesturing all around us. “Is this your happily ever after?”
I drink in the scene. Those twinkle lights are still twinkling. Everyone’s dancing and laughing. Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och, gazing deep into each other’s eyes and looking more in love than ever. Eliza and Sensei Mary, showing Joanna a judo move—which she seems to be taking extremely seriously. Grace, twirling around the floor with Belle and Rory, all of them giggling so hard, they’re about to topple over.
Everyone is so themselves.
I turn back to Henry and smile. And I realize I can still feel the nure-onna inside of me—fierce, protective, passionate. And yes, sometimes angry. Because there’s nothing wrong with being angry. You need that anger, to tell you when something’s not right. To tell you when you care. To show you when you need to fight hard for what you want and stand up for the people you love.
That door to my heart is wide open, and I know exactly where I belong.
“It’s not the kind of happily ever after I imagined,” I say. “But it’s mine. And I’m finally ready for it.”
