Swimming to Tokyo

by Brenda St John Brown

  Finn doesn’t answer, and I don’t look to see what he’s doing at first. When I crane my neck up, he’s alternately scribbling in a notebook and biting the end of a pen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I had a thought and want to get it down before I forget.”

  I lay back down. He’s done this before. “Song?” I see his shadow nod. “About what?”

  “Peace.”

  “This is pretty much it, isn’t it?”

  When he speaks again, his voice is soft. “When’s the last time you were really at peace?”

  “When I was fourteen.” I answer without hesitation. Pre-cancer. “You?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “How about when you were fourteen?” I’m pretty sure our easy conversation is over, but I stay where I am, as if my lazy posture will take the edge off.

  “No.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I was fucked up way before that.”

  “Are you still?” Dad’s warning rings in my head.

  “Without a doubt.”

  I sit up and our legs collide. I put my hand on the green hem of his shorts a few inches above his knee. His skin is hot through the thin fabric and I can’t believe how nervous such a simple gesture makes me, but I squeeze a little before taking my hand away.

  “My father used to beat the shit out of me. Started when I was eight. I used to think he was trying to kill me. The last time he was.” He looks me right in the eye, and I flinch. I can’t help it. I’m completely unprepared for that.

  “Wow.” I should be able to think of something else to say, but I can’t. All I can picture is an eight-year-old version of Finn crying, cowering.

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  “Yeah.” He thinks I’m talking about my initial reaction, and his voice is almost as tight as his fist clenched on the bench between us. “You didn’t have the look though. Two points.”

  “I meant I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I put my hand over his. If I thought I was nervous before, that was just a warm-up because the way he tenses up and his eyes flash daggers at me, I’m pretty sure he’s going to slap my hand away. Or worse. For two seconds, I conjure up an image of a cartoon angel with Dad’s head whispering on my shoulder. He said the knife…what?

  Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Every instinct tells me to move away, but I don’t. I can’t. I leave my hand where it is and keep my eyes on my legs until I feel him take a deep breath in. And then another.

  It takes another minute before I breathe again, although we stay frozen until a group of schoolgirls come onto the deck where we’re sitting. Their chatter and laughter fills the air, and they steal furtive glances at us while pretending not to look. I catch a few words. Cute. Boyfriend. Hair.

  Finn understands, too. “They’re talking about us.”

  I move my hand away from his to Mom’s necklace, as much to save the schoolgirls further speculation as to save myself the embarrassment of a future conversation where Finn brings up the word boyfriend. We look like we’re holding hands; it’s a natural conclusion. But I’ll feel like a complete idiot if he ridicules the whole idea. I don’t trust the expression on my face and I duck to reach for my bag on the floor when I feel his fingers feather-light on my neck.

  “I like your necklace,” he says.

  “It was my mom’s. My dad gave it to her after she had me.” I straighten and swallow hard as he traces the circle of diamonds resting in the hollow of my throat. “Thirtysix hours of labor and a C-section.”

  “Ouch. I hope you appreciated it.” His touch is so gentle as his fingers skim my neck. Deliberate. Careful. This is an apology for his reaction. More telling than any words.

  “Of course not.” I reach for my bag then and pull out my phone, thumbing through my bookmarks to Japan Guide’s Tokyo day trips page. I’d bet a lot of money he’s never told anyone about his father before. Not like that, so stark and true. I still remember how I felt the first time I told someone who didn’t know. The hot and cold that flashed through me when I said the words.

  My mom is dead.

  Like that was the end of the story instead of the beginning.

  But it doesn’t mean I understand what happened to him, even if I’m pretty sure I understand how he feels right now.

  “So where to next?” Finn asks.

  I scroll to the section on Kamakura, and he bends his head close to mine as we look at the options. He says something, but this close his aftershave literally fills my senses. All of them. Finally I lean away and say, “You know what? Whatever’s fine.”

  He furrows his brow. “Are you sure?”

  I don’t even try to censor the words that come out. “One time Mindy and I were in the city, and I followed a guy down Sixth Avenue because he was wearing Obsession for Men and I wanted to see what he looked like.” Finn gives me this blank look. “Your aftershave?”

  “Makes you chase guys down the street?”

  “Kind of.” I roll my eyes in a “what are you going to do?” type of way.

  “Good to know.” He moves an arm’s length away. “Better?”

  “No.” I don’t mean it the way it sounds: plaintive and a little dejected. Or maybe I do. But I didn’t mean for it to come out that way and I jump up from the bench. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  My grip loosens on the strap of my bag once I get that he isn’t going to comment. He starts talking about which way we should go, and whether it’s because he didn’t notice my tone or is choosing not to, I’m grateful. The day has a few more lightning moments, but we take turns diffusing them. I even sort of get used to the casual touching—the jostling of shoulders and hips, his hand on my elbow in a crowd.

  By the time we plop into chairs at an izakaya outside the Great Buddha, our knees knocking underneath the table feels, if not normal, then familiar. The Daibutsu looms behind Finn, even though it’s at least the equivalent of three streets over, and it feels a bit like it’s watching over us, with his half-closed eyes and serene expression. It didn’t look that serene up close, although that may be more a byproduct of the crowd surrounding it than the Buddha himself. Finn orders me an Asahi without asking, and the server brings the otoshi to the table in small bowls.

  I pick at it with my chopsticks while he takes a bite. “What is it?”

  He shakes his head. “No idea, but it’s not weird.”

  I take a small bite. Carrots. Something crunchy. Light sauce. “It’s good.”

  “Would I steer you wrong?” He looks at the menu, an array of Japanese characters. “Are you going to order?”

  We’ve shared enough meals together that I know Finn will eat almost anything put in front of him. Which is a good thing, since usually what he thinks he’s getting isn’t what he’s asked for. I, on the other hand, like to know exactly what I’m getting and have invested a lot of time in the food section of Rosetta Stone. As long as the conversation doesn’t stray from the menu, I’m pretty confident. Finn says it’s part of my control-freak tendencies, but I don’t care. Sometimes it’s nice to know what to expect.

  We’re mostly done when I steal a glance at my watch. Nearly six. I can’t believe we’ve been here all day. More than that, I can’t believe we’ve been together all day. It doesn’t seem like long enough. The logical thing to do is to head back to the station after this. We’ve seen everything, walked miles. I’ve mentally started composing my email to Mindy about how things turned out when Finn asks, “Do you want to go to the beach after this? It’s not far. Unless you’re exhausted?”

  “No, I’m good. I forgot about the beach. But it’s getting dark.”

  He grins at me. “Are you afraid of the dark all of a sudden?”

  “Not at all.” I am, however, a little worried about calling Dad and telling him I’m still in Kamakura. He doesn’t expect me home, but I’ve been in the habit of checking in so he doesn’t wo
rry for so long, I know he expects it. Normally, I don’t mind, but if he starts asking questions, I’m going to get caught out by either him or Finn and I can’t decide which is worse.

  But when I do call, Dad’s distracted, thank God. He and Eloise are in line for the movies, trying to decide between some art film and the latest Bruce Willis. He says the usual. Have fun. Be careful. See you later. Like he really thinks I’m here with ten other people.

  I ask Finn when I hang up if he’s going to call or text Eloise, and he just shrugs. Whatever arrangement he and his mother have doesn’t include him updating her on his plans. Amen.

  Five minutes later, we stand at the edge of a wide swath of sand. It’s gray and there’s a strong smell of fish and seaweed, but we head toward the ocean, dropping our bags and shoes by a lifeguard chair away from the tide before we step into the water. It’s cold and then not, and I step in farther until it’s mid-calf. Feeling the water lap around me, I have an overwhelming urge to swim. We used to go to the Jersey Shore, and I love swimming in the ocean.

  Finn walks up a foot away from me, and I’m still looking at my feet through the murky water when I say, “I wish I brought my suit.”

  “You don’t need a suit.”

  I jerk my head up, and whatever I was going to say is forgotten. He’s ditched his shirt and my eyes are drawn again to that tattoo. The spiky tail I saw before trails down his arm. Claws from a leg lash over the top of his shoulder. I take a step closer so I can see the rest curving around his shoulder. A large pointed head with red eyes and a tongue licks toward his spine. The red is the only color. Even the trunk is black, although it looks like there are a few shades of gray.

  “Is it a dragon?” He nods. “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Can I touch it?” I thread my fingers together behind my back so I won’t just do it.

  “Why?”

  “I want to.” I wonder for a second if I should have a better answer than that, but he nods and I reach out to trace my fingertip along a line of raised skin on his arm that looks like the spine of the dragon. It’s a scar. I realize as soon as I feel it. He doesn’t move at all as my finger runs from his bicep across his shoulder, following the tattoo’s path. His skin is hot, but goosebumps dot his back. “How’d you get that?”

  He points to a buoy in the distance with his other arm. “I’ll race you. If you win, I’ll tell you.”

  “And if you win?”

  “You tell me why you really went home last night.”

  Jesus. Those are high stakes. So I stall. “I don’t have anything to swim in.”

  “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

  I look down. It’s not like I’m dressed up, that’s for sure. “I don’t have any other clothes.”

  “I have an extra T-shirt.” He pauses. “Or you could just take those off.”

  I look around. There are still a fair number of people around, even though it’s well past beach hours.

  “I’m not sure either of us speak Japanese well enough to get me out of prison for public nudity.”

  “Good point.” A smile plays around his mouth, but he holds it back. “So?”

  “Why can’t you just tell me?”

  Now he does smile. One of his rare real ones I could fall into and stay for days. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

  I bite the inside of my lip. Point taken. “Fine. First one out to the buoy wins or are we racing there and back?”

  We argue for a minute about the rules and agree the first one out of the water wins. Like last night, I don’t even look for him once we’ve started swimming, but the tide is stronger than I thought it would be and swimming against it is no small feat. I reach the buoy and see Finn on the turnaround. His strokes are strong and steady, and I push myself harder. Whatever weird tension there is between us today, I’m sure I can’t tell him that seeing him kiss another girl made me feel physically sick.

  The way back is easier going with the tide, but I remind myself if it’s easier for me, it’s easier for him as well. I’m almost to the shore when I swallow a mouthful of salt water. My feet shoot to the shifting sand beneath me, and I spit, retching. Finn passes me and I kick my legs up again, but I’ve lost momentum now and I end up putting them back down at calf-level and walking the rest of the way. He’s been on the shore for at least two minutes by the time I step out of the water and rest my hands on my knees.

  He hands me a bottle of water, and I drink and spit and drink some more before handing it back. “What happened? You were going to win,” he says.

  I wipe the water from my eyes and wring my hair out onto the sand. “I got a mouthful of salt water. I was totally going to win.”

  “Sucks for you.” He grins and his teeth look whiter in the fading light. The salt is sticky on my face and I glance down at my clothes. No worse for the wear, except that the lace of my bra is visible through my wet tank top. Finn definitely notices, his glance resting on my chest for a second too long before he looks up and says, “So… about last night.”

  I weigh my options. I don’t even consider lying. Finn would know if I was, so it’s more like deciding between the Band-Aid approach versus slow and steady. My words tumble over each other. “I wasn’t into it. I didn’t have the right clothes or makeup. And then you and that girl…it just…I…it made me feel weird. Bad. So I left.”

  “Why did it make you feel bad?” He’s got a V between his eyebrows like he genuinely doesn’t know.

  I look up above his head because there’s no way I’m looking at him when I say this. “Because…I know we’re friends and it’s not that way, but I just…I didn’t want to see it, that’s all.”

  “So you left because you thought I was hooking up?” His words are slow, like he’s making sure he understands.

  “Weren’t you?” I cross my arms over my stomach and wince a little as my cold wet shirt hits my skin.

  “Maybe. At first.” He hands me a T-shirt from his backpack, and I realize as I slip it over my head that it’s one he’s worn before. It smells like him and I breathe deeply as I wriggle out of my wet tank top underneath. He waits until I’m done before he continues. “But I left a little after you. Alone.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to find you.”

  My heart pounds like it was swimming against the tide. “Why?”

  “At first I was annoyed at you mostly. For leaving without telling me.”

  “I didn’t realize I was supposed to check in with you. Note to self.” Sarcasm isn’t going to do me any favors, but I can’t help it.

  “You weren’t. I mean, you’re right.” Finn crams his hands in his pockets and looks down at the sand. “Amelia said you’d just left, but I couldn’t find you.”

  I grab a handful of the T-shirt and press my arms a little more into my stomach. “It’s not like you don’t know my number.”

  “I figured you left for a reason.”

  “Yeah. Because I didn’t want to watch you stick your tongue down someone else’s throat wishing it was…” I stop just short of “me,” and my hand flies to my mouth, as if I can catch the words. I can’t, of course. Finn’s expression makes that clear.

  “The thing is, that girl last night—Noriko—she wasn’t you. And I wanted her to be. So I left. And I made a deal with myself if you came with me today, I’d ask you out.”

  It’s my turn to gape at him. “Ask me out?”

  “Like on a date. For real.”

  Wow. “Why?”

  “There’s a reason I can never say we’re just friends, Zosia. Unless you’re telling me it’s all one-sided.” Even in the dusk, I can feel the heat of his gaze. It’s nearly enough to light me on fire.

  “No, I’m not.” I stutter. “So is this you, um, asking me on a date?”

  “No.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them back out again, and clears his throat. “Can I take you to dinner tomorrow?”

  He’s nervous? Finn O’Leary is nervous about
asking me out? I’m so taken aback that I blurt out, “You took me to dinner today. Just now.” The look on his face makes me squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “Sorry. Yes. Definitely.”

  “You sure?”

  “Seriously?” I can’t believe he’s even asking, and my tone at least makes that clear to both of us. “I’m just wondering what a date with you entails. How is it different from today?”

  “I don’t know. A date implies the possibility of…” He hesitates.

  So I fill the gap. “Sex.”

  My discovery of Lexy Newton wasn’t that long ago, and Finn was clear about the basis for that relationship.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “If you insist. Although I was going to say a date implies the possibility of something, a beginning.”

  Right. I pick up his shirt from the ground and hand it to him. It’s dark now, and my wet shorts feel clammy on my skin. I grab my shoes and bag and start across the sand ahead of him because I don’t want to see his expression, especially if he’s laughing at me.

  He catches up with me after five steps and stops me with a hand on my arm. When I look up at him, it’s clear he’s not laughing. Never was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease.”

  “I told you before I’m not good at this.” I make myself stop before I spell out for him my whole non-dating history.

  “You’re better at it than you think.” His hand slides down my arm, and he pulls me toward him until there are only two inches separating us.

  This isn’t a touch like back at the temple. His fingers on my wrist are firm. His thumb over the back of my hand tracing my knuckles is soft and then not as he threads his fingers tightly through mine. Heat floods my stomach.

  “Well, good,” is all I manage to croak out.

  We stand there for a good minute before we walk again, hand-in–hand, to the edge of the sand. But we let go to trek single-file back along the highway to get to the station, and we have to race for the train once we arrive. It’s crowded, filled with tourists on their way home or people heading into Tokyo for a night out.