I feel like I owe her more than I’m able to give her. I feel like I’m living the life she should have had—the life she deserved so much more than me.
Kai doesn’t realize how lucky he is. He doesn’t realize what he’s giving up.
“No, not really,” Kai says. “Like I said, it’s only four years. I’ll have money fo’ go school, and my dad will stop breathing down my neck. It’s not like I have some big dream.”
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand willingly throwing away four entire years of your life just because you don’t want to fight with your dad about it. Or because you can’t think of anything better to do.
I don’t know how to make decisions because I’m terrified of making the wrong choice, but to make a choice I don’t even want? Or to make a choice that requires years of commitment I can’t take back? It’s ridiculous. Kai is walking into a prison sentence and he isn’t even flinching.
How can someone be so unafraid of a life they don’t even want, when I’m petrified of starting the one where so many doors are still open?
And I don’t know why I’m suddenly so angry, but I am. Angry that Kai is going to waste his life. Angry that I don’t have anything to waste mine on. Angry that Lea didn’t get a chance to waste hers at all.
It’s not fair.
“Why does it bother you so much?” he asks.
“Because you only have one life, and you’re throwing it away like it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not throwing it away. I’m trading four years fo’ a lifetime of peace.”
“But what if you don’t get a lifetime?” My voice sounds sharp and jagged. “What if you spend four years in the navy and then die in some freak accident? What if those four years were literally all you had left?”
“Well, then, that would suck.” He stops, studies the edge of the counter for a moment, and then looks at me. “You talk about her a lot.”
“She’s my sister. She’s dead. I talk about her. What do you expect me to do?”
“No.” He shifts, leaning forward so I can smell a rush of mint. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry she’s gone. And I’m sorry if that scares you when you think about the future.”
I wait. “Is there a ‘but’?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m just sorry.”
His eyes look brighter under the fluorescent lights. Rich and brown with the signature spark of Kai’s energy. Electricity shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. It’s the kind of warmth that reminds me of home.
The sushi chef places two bowls of miso soup in front of us. I think Kai doesn’t know how to recover from “dead sister,” so we start talking about the food and the chairs and the shape of the teapot instead.
The sushi arrives in a wide box tray. Kai points out the California roll, the rainbow roll, and the spicy tuna tempura roll.
I try the California roll first. As soon as I start chewing, something sharp and cold slices up my nostrils and my eyes flood with tears. I set my chopsticks down and squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to fight the pain.
“Oh my God, what is happening?” I manage to say.
Kai is laughing next to me. “The wasabi.”
“It burns,” I say, breathing out.
“Too much? Here, try scrape some off. It’s the green stuff.”
I paw at my tears and sniff. “You realize that’s like eating spreadable tear gas, right?”
“You get used to it.”
“I won’t. I will always regret the wasabi.”
I try one of the pieces of the rainbow roll next, and it’s so hard to chew through the raw salmon without gagging that I end up swallowing the entire thing and shuddering at the end.
Kai is eating beside me like someone watching a painfully awkward comedy sketch. “You regret the sashimi too?”
“I’m still processing the sashimi.” I look at the spicy tuna tempura roll and sigh.
The piece is so big I can only bite into half of it. It’s crunchy and . . . really, really good.
“Whatchu think?” Kai asks.
“I like this one a lot,” I say.
I put the rest of it in my mouth, chewing and chewing until suddenly the heat kicks in. It’s not just hot—it’s like acid against my tongue. My eyes start watering, and my mouth is open and I’m taking big breaths of air in to cool my tongue, and then I’m trying to drink green tea to wash it away but it’s way too hot, and I put the cup back down and flail my arms around like a fish who just leaped out of its aquarium and landed on the floor.
“That is so spicy,” I say.
Kai is leaning backward and laughing hysterically, the back of his hand covering his mouth, which is still full of food. “Seriously, what’s wrong witchu? You act like you’ve never tasted food before,” he manages to say through his fingers and chopsticks.
“No. I’ve never eaten raw fish and the spices they use for chemical warfare before.”
When his mouth is clear, he plucks all the sashimi off the top of the rainbow roll. “Here,” he says. “It’s just the crab and avocado left inside.”
“Thanks,” I say. I finish the roll, get used to the California roll and the wasabi—with heavy gulps of tea in between—and let Kai finish the rest of the spicy tuna tempura roll from my plate.
When we’re finished eating, Kai asks for the bill. I try to pay for half of it, but Kai shakes his head.
“I ate most of your food. You can get the ice cream, if you really like pay fo’ something,” he says.
“Ice cream?”
“Yeah, we’re going fo’ ice cream. Because there’s no way I’m taking you home after the most disastrous date in history.”
“I didn’t think it was a disaster.”
Kai looks at me with a wrinkled forehead.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, the food part maybe, because I have baby taste buds. But, like, the date part wasn’t a disaster.” He’s silent for at least three seconds before I start twitching impatiently. “Was it really that bad?”
He pulls his lips in and smiles mostly on the left side of his face. “That depends. Do you feel like you want to kiss me?”
“What? No—what?” I pull my face back in total confusion.
He pulls his shoulders up innocently. “If you wanted to kiss me, then that means the date isn’t going too bad. But if you like kiss me as much as you like eat more wasabi—well, you get the idea.”
“A kiss doesn’t mean anything,” I say, mostly because I just feel like arguing with him.
“Rumi,” he says seriously, “a kiss means everything.”
I roll my eyes and snort. “Come on. I want ice cream.”
Kai laughs like I’m the funniest person he knows. Even though it doesn’t make any sense, and even though I feel guilty about having fun when I still haven’t kept my promise to Lea, it feels good.
It feels like I’m human again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
We walk to a Baskin-Robbins and I buy each of us two scoops of ice cream. I pick pralines and cream, and Kai gets vanilla.
We follow the sidewalk parallel to a row of bushes covered in big white flowers. Before I can stop myself, I measure the distance between us while we walk.
Four inches. Maybe five. Just a hand apart.
I clear my throat. “I can’t believe you picked vanilla. Who picks vanilla?”
Kai’s nostrils flare like he’s half snarling. “It’s universally loved. And I don’t like ruining my ice cream with a bunch of weird flavors that shouldn’t go together. Pecans and caramel, are you kidding me? You’re eating squirrel food.”
“Even the squirrels know it’s superior. Vanilla is the most boring flavor in existence. It’s like getting a cheese pizza.”
Kai doesn’t say anything.
My eyes go big. “Oh my God, you like cheese pizza.”
His laugh is like two short bursts. “I’m not answering that.”
Now I’m laughing. “Do you eat plain oatmeal too? Or spaghetti without the red sauce?”
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous. Nobody eats spaghetti like that,” he says, and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re giving me a hard time about food when you almost passed out trying sushi fo’ the first time.”
“That is . . . fair,” I say, and Kai smiles with his whole entire face like it’s the most effortless thing in the world.
Our ice creams are gone by the time we find a bench, but we sit anyway because I guess neither of us is ready to go home yet. I can hear drums beating in the distance—probably one of those dinner shows with the fire and dancing that all the hotels seem to put on. It makes the darkness feel alive, even though the breeze has stilled and the warm, sticky air is making me want to take a really long nap.
I feel like I’ve been tired for months. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being tired and if feeling awake is somehow tied to Lea. Maybe this is the best it will ever get—smiling with the last bit of energy you have because the rest of you feels depleted.
“You should sing your song at one of the open-mic nights at the Coconut Shack. I think you’d really like it,” Kai says. He doesn’t smell like mint anymore—he smells like himself. Like the ocean and the sand has been rubbed permanently under his skin.
“It’s not finished,” I say. “I’m not really sure if I know how to write anymore. It used to be easier with Lea. I didn’t have writer’s block with her.”
He waits like he wants me to keep talking, and I think maybe it’s good that I do.
Because it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to talk about Lea and not feel the world dissolve all around me, or talk about music without feeling the rage that wants to erupt from my soul. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to be myself, without being controlled entirely by my own grief.
It feels like a step forward, so I keep talking.
“We had this game,” I continue. “We used to say a random word and then say the next two things we thought of as fast as we could. And then we’d write a song about it.” I laugh softly to myself. “They didn’t have to be good or anything. Some of them didn’t even make sense. But it kept the creativity alive. It helped us think faster. And sometimes we came up with really good lines. Sometimes we found a really good song.”
“You like me play the game witchu?” he asks, and I know he’s trying to be kind.
“No,” I say. It wasn’t a game for anyone else. It was just for Lea and me. “I already have the last three words Lea and I picked. Now I just need the right lyrics.”
He nods. “Well, if you ever like play it fo’ someone—you know, fo’ a fresh set of ears or something—I’m here. I mean, we don’t even have to leave our houses. You could open your window and I can listen from across the yard.”
I don’t thank him. I watch the way his eyes soften—the way his mouth dimples in the corner and his bottom lip juts out ever so slightly. It’s a gentle smile. Hopeful. And something else, too. His head is tilted, and his shoulders are slightly raised. I think he’s actually a little nervous. Maybe it’s because we’re sitting so close.
His knee bounces up and down like he’s cold, even though he can’t possibly be. And then he swallows, and I notice the way his throat moves and the delicate space below his jaw and above his Adam’s apple. It’s soft and brown and curved, like I could settle my head below his chin and fit perfectly into him.
Lea used to tell me that’s what love felt like—like two puzzle pieces fitting together. She thought she was in love a lot. Every few months, really, and sometimes it was with fictional characters from her favorite TV shows.
I don’t know much about love, but I do know what it’s like to feel like you fit perfectly with someone else. I felt it with Lea and Mom. And I don’t know if love can ever be more real than that.
“I like your hair,” Kai says suddenly, his fingers flicking a loose strand like he’s brushing dust off me.
“Why?” I ask stiffly. He’s so close. Less than a hand away, definitely. We’re practically touching.
“I don’t know. Because it’s attached to your head,” he says.
I laugh. “You’re so weird.”
“So are you,” he says, grinning.
I open my mouth to say something back, something probably rude but hopefully sort of clever, but I don’t get the chance because Kai pushes his mouth against mine and I forget all my words.
His lips are really soft—way softer than Caleb’s—and when he kisses he breathes in instead of out, like he’s trying to breathe in the moment. And I kiss him back because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
Right?
A memory
“It was awful,” I say, rubbing my hand against my nose. It’s wet, but I’m not sure how much of it is snot and how much is tears. “It was so embarrassing.”
Lea settles in the space next to me on the bed. “I don’t understand. I thought you liked him.”
“I—I don’t know. I thought I did too. I mean, I do. I think. I don’t know.” My sob erupts out of my throat like a cough. “How am I supposed to show up to school tomorrow? It’s humiliating.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad. I mean, it was just a kiss, right?” Lea asks.
I smear my tears away with my palms and see the mascara on my hands. “Oh, great.”
Lea laughs softly and passes me a tissue.
I wipe the space under my eyes and try to tell her the whole story. About being at Alice’s sixteenth birthday party. How Caleb and I went up to the roof on our own. How we had been talking for months at school, and Caleb said he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing me. And how I let him, because I thought I wanted him to. I thought I was supposed to want him to. And as soon as our mouths touched I felt like my stomach was spinning and turning and coiling like it was meat loaf being squeezed. And then he held my neck with one hand and my thigh with the other, and my heart started to pound, but not in a good way—in a squeamish, racing, painful kind of way. And then he pushed his tongue into my mouth and I couldn’t take it anymore, so I shoved him away and ran back inside.
Except I didn’t stop inside. I ran all the way home.
“What if he tells everyone there’s something wrong with me?” I ask, the tissue crumpled in my fist.
Lea’s brown eyes don’t leave me. She’s too good. She’s too kind, thoughtful, and gentle. I don’t deserve it.
“There is nothing wrong with you, Rumi.” She shrugs. “You don’t have to like kissing Caleb. You don’t have to like kissing boys. And you know what? Maybe you don’t even have to like kissing, period. It doesn’t matter—you’re still just as normal as everyone else.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re my sister.”
“I’m saying it because it’s what I believe.” She settles her head against mine. The perfect fit.
I bite my lip. “But what if he tells everyone anyway? What if he tells everyone that I led him on for months and then ditched him on the roof? What if he tells everyone I’m an awful kisser, too?” I don’t care what people at school think about me as a person, but I do care about the fact that they might have an opinion on my sexuality before I do. It feels . . . invasive. It feels like I’m being rushed.
“You didn’t lead him on—you thought you liked him. Sometimes people change their minds.” I can tell she’s rolling her eyes—I can feel it in the way her head moves against mine. “Maybe Caleb is the bad kisser.”
“I don’t think I changed my mind,” I say. “I think I never really wanted to kiss him. I don’t think I want to kiss anyone.” I try to find my words and dust them off so that they mean what I want them to. “I know what asexuality is. But there’s also demisexual and gray asexual and then romantic orientation, too—and I don’t know where I fit in. I’m not comfortable with the labels, because labels feel so final. Like I have to make up my mind right this second. Like I have to be as sure of myself as everyone else seems to b
e. And honestly, I don’t really know what I like or don’t like. I didn’t like kissing Caleb, but does that mean I’ll never like kissing anyone? I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t know whether I’ll ever meet someone and want to kiss them, or date them, or have sex with them. I just know that I’m not attracted to people the way you are.”
“The way I am?” she asks.
“You know—like when you look at guys and think they’re ‘hot’ or whatever. That word makes me so uncomfortable. It feels so . . . sexual, I guess.” Lea snort-laughs. I blink back at her.
“Sorry,” she says with a grin. “Keep going.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t really know how to explain it. I don’t have the vocabulary for it, which is why labels scare me. But I know I don’t look at people that way. And labels make me feel so much pressure to know things about me that I just haven’t figured out yet.”
“Your sexuality—and how you identify—is nobody else’s business. You can change your mind, or not change your mind. Those labels exist for you, and not so that everyone else can try to force you into a box. Especially if that box is their close-minded idea of fucking normal.”
I groan. “Please don’t let Mom hear you swearing. She’s going to blame me for that.”
Lea giggles. “Mom already does blame you. She says you swear like a sailor.”
I think that’s code for “You swear like Dad,” but I don’t really care. Sometimes swearing feels good.
I sigh. “You’re lucky. You’re never confused about anything—you just know yourself, and other people know you. I wish it were that simple for me.” I wish I were more like you, I want to add, but I don’t. Some things are better left as secrets in the dark.
“I think you’re less confused than you think you are. You just need to learn how to trust yourself,” she replies.
“Maybe,” I say, and I try to believe it.
Summer Bird Blue Page 18
