“What?”
“Don’t play innocent with me,” she demanded. “You went in bareback- without my consent! Is that what you asked me in Japanese, and I thought you were asking me to be yours! You fucker!”
“Whoa,” he said, holding up his hands. “I did ask you to be mine.”
“In your language does that mean, hey bitch, I’m not wearing a condom?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he replied, putting on his underwear and pants. “My apologies. I just wanted...”
“Wanted what...to take a risk...a stupid risk for what?”
“A risk to record in my memory of what it truly felt like to be inside of you and connect us as one,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah, that sounds all romantic and shit until I call you and say, ‘Hey, how ya doing? Guess what? You’re going to be a father,” she grimaced, getting up off the bed and heading to the bathroom. “I’ll get a morning after pill when I get home. Not cool, Koji. Not cool at all.”
“Trista...,” he started to say, then instead just mumbled, “never mind. I’ll make us some food.”
SHE CAME DOWN THE STAIRS moments later, dressed, hair neatly pulled high on her head, and an eat shit look on her face. Trista didn’t want to sit in the kitchen angry at him. Instead, she walked around the flat, looking at the few objects he had sitting about when his phone buzzed.
“Play message,” he said aloud.
There was no way for her not to hear Eldredge’s clear voice, asking, if not encouraging, his Boss to attempt to seal the deal on the software. This only made her angrier. All she wanted was a nice weekend, some uncomplicated sex, and to see some shit in Paris. Now she had a snatch full of tiny Koji’s, and she knew at least one of them little bastards was trying to find an egg to fertilize.
Trista wasn’t going to play into the angry black woman, although now she wanted to spit fire and cunt shoot him with his own spunk. Her mind went into overdrive at the image and she thought of her former college roommate who ran an online gossip column called the Lunchtime Dish on a social media app. This whole scenario would give that meddling menace a week’s worth of fodder.
“Talk to me, Trista,” Koji said, adding eggs to a wok and stirring the sizzling protein.
“Koji, are your parents alive?” she asked, coming to the kitchen counter and taking a seat while he worked.
“Yes, they are,” he said.
“And your grandmother? What do you call her in Japanese?”
“Obaasan or Ba-baa,” he replied.
“Would you like for your parents to be notified via a text when Ba-Baa went into the crematorium, the optimal firing temperature, and the cooling time of her ashes?”
“Goodness no,” he said, thinking of his Obaasan.
“Then you know what I’m trying to convey to you,” she said. “Yes, Americans are hot-headed, impatient, and impetuous. However, we don’t need or want an app that notifies us of the steps of death. It’s unseemly and not the proper respect one gives to loved ones.”
“I understand. I wasn’t planning to ask you about it again,” he said as his phone began to ring. Then the landline rang and his tablet chimed, and he took the wok from the stove. “Answer call.”
The voice of a crying woman could be heard through the line, speaking in Japanese. The voice of a man came through the line as well.
“Domo. Domo Haha,” he said, disconnecting the call. He made three calls in succession, his eyes barely going to Trista. “I’m sorry. I must leave and head home to Japan.”
“Koji, is everything alright?”
“No,” he said. “Ba-Baa has taken a tumble, and it doesn’t look good. I must get in the air right away. It will take me all day to get there.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Patience will come this afternoon,” he said, “and she will book you a flight back to Macon and take you to the airport. I’m sorry, but I must go.”
“I understand,” she said, looking at him. He was indeed a fine specimen of a man. Sleek in all the right places, muscles stacked just enough to exude power but not to exhibit fanaticism over his body.
He provided her with a brief kiss before collecting his phone and tablet and heading out the door. Patience was waiting outside for him. Trista went through the cabinets and found a serving bowl to plate the breakfast he’d made for her. She also spotted a wrapped gift on the counter.
The card read “Dr. T. Hathaway.”
Curiosity propelled her forward, and she untied the bright red ribbon and peeled down the wrapping paper to reveal a square, black lacquered box. She pulled the top off the box and gasped. A note on the top in a strong male hand script read “My gift to you for a wonderful weekend filled with treasured memories.”
The bento box he’d given her as a gift didn’t hold noodles, sticky rice, wasabi, or a piece of meat. It held a strand of pearls, the buckle from his belt, a refrigerator magnet of The Lady with the Green Parasol, a mini croissant in hardened clay, and an obsidian bead from the bracelet she’d given him. Their entire weekend together he’d collected inside one little box that she would treasure for the rest of her life.
She didn’t need to wait for Patience to return. Trista gathered her things and called a called a cab ride to Heathrow Airport. There was no need to complain about any of it. Koji had given her what she wanted in the weekend escape.
Thankful, possibly on the way to being pregnant, she slung her overnight bag over her shoulder and went out the front door as her cab pulled up. The weekend hadn’t changed the way she viewed the world, but made her want to see more of it. Change was good and long overdue.
“Thank you, Koji,” she said, sliding into the backseat of the cab, ready to go home.
Chapter Nine – Satisfied
NEARLY SEVEN DAYS HAD passed since she’d heard from Koji. Pride wouldn’t allow her to call him, although she had his number. She also had his address in Paris, London, and even the home in Salisbury. What she didn’t have was an update on his Ba-baa. Had she desired to search the obituary columns for his grandmother’s passing or anything else, she didn’t speak or read Japanese.
Her phone buzzed and she hoped it was him, but instead it was Samuel, her assistant, looking for a record or a file again, for the umpteenth time. That’s when the idea took hold. Maybe Koji’s app wasn’t right for individual use, but it could be applied to the office use on a desktop or on a tablet for coroners, funeral directors, and even restorative artisans. The automation of process flows would make it easier to monitor time between intake and final production, for payment management and to check the work hours of employees.
“Damn, I’m brilliant,” she said, thinking of a reason to call the man to give him the good news.
Her plan went out the window when Samuel came around the corner.
“We got a body,” he said, echoing one of his favorite police procedural shows. The man even had the nerve to pull out a pair of shades and slide them across his beakish nose. “It’s a homicide.”
“You take it, Samuel. I’m beat and heading home,” she said. “Keep me updated.”
“Will do, Dr. Hathaway,” he said as she collected her things to leave for home.
Swinging through the drive-thru, she picked up two soul food dinners, one for tonight and one for lunch tomorrow, with two different selections. This was also her secret way of not looking pathetic at the soul food joint, ordering just a meal for herself. The round-bellied cook, who liked to come to the window each time she rolled through, leaned his mass out of the tiny window to “holla at a sistah.”
“Boy, bye,” she said, getting her food and holding out her hand for the change.
“Oh, what? You ain’t got time for a strong brother like me?” he asked, his beard mottled and his hair tied down with dirty handkerchief. “You know I own this place, right?”
“Baby, do you know what I do for a living?” she asked the man who shook his head no. “I cut up dead people. My father owns Hathaway’s Funeral Home. When I hav
e free time, I go over and put makeup on the bodies for him before the funerals.”
He drew back like a turtle into his shell through the small window. She held her hand out for change that he nearly threw at her. His reaction wasn’t new to her. Over the years, she’d become accustomed to it, and on occasion, she relied on it to shoo away unwanted suitors.
A few miles later she pulled her black Caddy into the driveway to spot her father’s bigger black Cadillac waiting for her. She didn’t care for the vehicle, but he got a fleet discount from the dealer. The last thing she wanted was a conversation with her father today, but he was here, and she had to deal with him.
Stepping from the car, she offered a smile. “Hey Daddy,” she said.
“You eating takeout again, Sweetie?”
“The life of a woman on the go,” she said, disarming the security system and entering her living room. “Have you eaten or would you like one of these?”
“I see you have two, expecting company?”
Trista knew the routine. He’d heard something or someone had mentioned a bit of gossip about her and the lack of love life she tried to have. She didn’t feel like the drill sergeant and fresh private routine today.
“Okay Daddy, what did you hear?”
He laughed, the burly laugh of a man who always wanted to be a minister, but had to take up the family business instead. He was a good-looking man who never remarried, but devoted his life to raising his children and taking care of his community. Andrew Hathaway was proud of his little girl. He’d be prouder if she were married and raising a family of her own, but the modern woman was all about her career. The home she owned was lovely, but devoid of life. Even her plants were over-watered.
“No, one of the ladies at the church, Mabel Wintmyere, said that gal you share a dorm with in college, Amanda, Mandy, had this gossip column on the Bookface,” Andrew started. “She mentioned you and some dude in Paris.”
“It’s Facebook, Daddy, and yes, I was in Paris last weekend with some dude,” she said, setting down the food and looking up.
That stupid picture frame window that she loved when she bought the house, she was really starting to hate. In the middle of it was the spitting image of Koji Okada. Trista blinked twice, and the image didn’t move. Her heart rate increased, and she needed to play it cool, not only with the man, but also her father.
“She said he was a Chinese man,” Andrew said.
“He’s Japanese, Daddy,” she said.
“What? Why? Ain’t there enough single black men out here for you to...,” Andrew started to say as his daughter walked by him to the front door where an Asian man waited to be let inside.
“Actually, Daddy, there are, but I really like this man, and this man really likes me,” she said. “Koji Okada, may I present to you, my father, Dr. Andrew Hathaway. He’s a doctor of letters, philosophy.”
To his credit, her father gave a kowtow to Koji, before taking the software engineer’s hand into his massive paws for a shake.
“My pleasure to meet you, Sir,” Koji said.
“What in the Lucifer’s beard? An Asian dude with a British accent! I hear it, but it’s like my brain and ears are at war with each other,” Andrew said.
“I get that a lot,” Koji replied.
“Where in the heck did you...that’s a dumb question...wait, no it isn’t,” Andrew said. “Help my ears and brains reconcile this matter.”
Koji’s eyes were on the coffee table where Trista had sat the bento box he’d given her. He smiled briefly, asking if it was okay to take a seat.
“I have dinner if you’re hungry,” she said to Koji. “Grab some plates while I freshen up and get out of these work clothes.”
Koji set his phone down and went straight into the kitchen, pulling down plates and grabbing forks from the drawers and glasses for something to drink. “Trista, do you have anything to drink besides that old fruit juice in the back of your fridge?”
“Yeah, I went to the store when I got back from your place in London,” she called out.
Much of what they were doing and saying was a marker for her father to understand there was more to them than just what Mabel Wintmyere had shared with him. Koji also took the moment to bring her father up to date on himself.
“Sir, I was born in Sapporo, the capital of the northern Japanese island of Hokkaido. Our country is famous for its beer, skiing, and annual Sapporo Snow Festival featuring giant ice sculptures. My home country also hosted the 1972 Olympics,” Koji said. “I grew up there, but was educated at Oxford. When I completed my studies at the University, I took a job as a software engineer for the British Ministry for ten years before developing my own apps.”
“You don’t say,” Andrew said, taking a seat at the table.
“I’m the owner of OkadaCorp,” he said, “and we create apps to make life easier.”
“I could use one of those for my business,” Andrew said as Trista came back into the room.
“Daddy, I was thinking along the same lines,” she said, looking at Koji. “While the app you developed, Koji, is not right for consumer use, it would be perfect for funeral service offices. It can track processes from the arrival of the customer, the start of embalming or restorative services, to the cremation process. I think if it is converted to a desk top application, you can also use it to track inventory and supplies and manage the time Jester spent putting makeup on the customers versus the hours he spends on reconstruction.”
“Shit, Mr. Okada, you have something like that? If so, I would love to try it,” Andrew said, but Koji’s attention was on Trista.
“Making a few adjustments for office use would be a simple thing since the desktop application is what fuels the app,” Koji said, watching her open the dinner containers. The last time they tried to have dinner, he ended up blindfolded and forgetting how to speak English.
“Now, how much would something like that cost? I mean, we do alright, but we can’t afford to spend a hundred thousand dollars on a software automation system,” Andrew said.
“The beauty of this beta testing process, if you’re interested, is that your business will get to use the software for free and help us work out the bugs,” Koji said.
“Wait one second there,” Andrew said. “We get it for free?”
His eyes squinted and he looked at his daughter. She was plating a meal for the funny-talking Asian man, and he didn’t like the optics of it one bit. Trista read her father’s body language and the shift in his demeanor. She quickly jumped to change the subject.
“Koji, how is your Obaasan?” Trista asked, “I’ve been so worried about her and your family.”
“She is doing much better than expected,” he said turning to Andrew, “Obaasan is the Japanese word for Grandmother. She had a bit of a tumble while working in her garden. She fell hard and had the wind knocked out of her, cracked a rib, and dislocated her knee, but my mother is so dramatic. Any excuse to get me to come home more often.”
“I know that feeling,” she said, looking at her father.
“Glad to hear your Grandmother is doing well, but let’s get back to this software,” Andrew said. “You’re not giving me this free because of whatever this is between you and my daughter, are you? That would be unethical and also unseemly.”
“No Sir, I’m not. When I initially approached your daughter about the software earlier in the year, she turned me down flat,” Koji said.
“And this weekend in Paris stuff...wait, Trista, you said London...I’m confused,” Andrew said, scratching his head.
“Daddy, Koji has a flat in Paris where we had dinner. We also spent the day at the museum shopping and hanging out,” Trista said. “Then we flew to London and had breakfast there, well, lunch...I guess.”
She giggled a bit and Koji blushed a bit. He’d come to lay out a plan for them, but he had to pass the audition with her father first. If she kept talking, he was going to lose out. He had to get in front of her.
“Speaking of P
aris,” Koji started, “I went back to that little shop where you bought this bracelet.”
He held up his arm, pulling back the sleeve on his suit jacket. The bracelet sparkled brightly in the light as her eyes went to the gift she’d given him. Trista’s eyes also followed his hand when he reached inside his pocket and removed a small box.
“The sales lady got me, that wanker,” Koji said, then handed the box to Trista. Inside the box was the most gorgeous ring she’d ever seen in her life. It was made with the same obsidian stones with jade inlays that matched his bracelet. “The ring has been sized to fit your left hand.”
“Wait, you proposing to my baby? Don’t you need to get down on one knee?” Andrew said, excited and nervously watching the scene play out.
“Daddy, let the man handle this,” Trista said, holding the box.
Koji lifted the ring from the velvet bed, walked around the table, and got down on one knee. Her eyes misted, and her right hand pressed to her chest. His mind raced as he tried to find the words he’d practiced for eight hours to get to the woman who brought new energy to his life.
“Anata wa watashi no monodesu, Trista,” he said softly.
“What does that mean?” Andrew asked. “I don’t understand. Can you speak English, boy?”
“Daddy, you’re ruining the moment!”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“Go ahead, Kojison,” she said, biting her bottom lip.
“Trista, you bring energy to my life and meaning to my existence and created moments that we will both treasure for the rest of our lives,” Koji stated. “Let’s make it permanent. Create moments for the rest of our lives. One weekend is never enough. Be mine, Trista. Be my wife. Will you marry me?”
“Hell, yeah!” she said, and he slipped the ring on her finger. She kissed him fully on the mouth, squeezing him around the neck.
Andrew found the moment sweet, but he had questions. Lots and lots of questions. Mainly where they were going to live.
“Wayaminnit. Wait a minute,” Andrew interjected. “You live in Paris and London, and you’re from Japan. Where the heck ya’ll planning on living? Trista has a job here.”
The Bento Box Page 6
