Unbreak My Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  He inched closer to me, and I stared at his arms—I was such a sucker for strong arms, for his arms. “Those were the best lattes I’d ever had,” he said, his voice a little husky.

  I moved closer too, going quieter. “What about the time I found a possum in the house?”

  He’d stared at me. “Tonight?”

  My heart skated circles in my chest. “Yes, tonight.”

  Every breath was magic in the night air because I knew every breath would bring me closer to him.

  “Did you plant a possum under your couch, Holland?”

  “No. But I’m glad it was here.”

  He lifted his hand, fingering a strand of my hair. This was going to happen. This was real. “Are you glad I’m here?”

  “Yes.” My arms were around his neck, and my lips were on his, and all those years of attraction combusted.

  His lips were soft, his jaw was stubbled, and his body was hard. Kissing him on my couch was better than I’d ever imagined. Worlds, moons, suns, and stars better, and there were so many times I’d imagined it.

  With his perfect body pressed against mine, my mind was soaring and my whole body was humming.

  It was the best summer of my life.

  Leaving him was the hardest thing I’d ever done, but my parents made it clear—I’d earned a scholarship for nursing school in Tokyo on account of us having lived there and me speaking the language. Anyplace else I went wouldn’t be covered. Plus, they’d relocated back to Japan, choosing to retire in Kyoto. They loved the expat community and the culture, and I wanted to be near them.

  I also wanted to be a nurse more than anything, so I moved around the globe, and I said goodbye to the first guy I’d ever loved.

  The only guy I’ve ever loved.

  We’re finally in the same county, and if I’m only here for a little while, I don’t want to waste any time. He might have turned down my lasagna invite, but I’m determined to see him again. He’s the person I’ve always liked spending my days with, and even though I don’t know where I’m going—if I’ll land a job in Los Angeles or San Francisco, Seattle or Japan again—I don’t want to miss a chance to see him.

  I don’t have a grand plan for us to get back together—I’d just rather be with him than without him right now. When I’m at the Promenade to pick up the new Kristin Hannah book, I contemplate inviting him to see a movie or grab a bite to eat, when I spot a pair of robots arguing.

  Well, a guy painted in silver who does robot moves is arguing with a guy covered in gold.

  “This is my turf,” the silvery one spits out.

  With avid eyes, I watch, then I grab my phone and hit the record button.

  “Yeah? Where’s the sign that says it belongs to you?”

  “Everyone knows you don’t infringe on another robot’s territory.”

  The gold guy parks his hands on his hips. “Make. Me. Move.”

  Whoa.

  Maybe it’s time for me to hightail it back into the bookstore. But before I turn around, a cop breaks up the almost fight.

  Cop. Possum. Robots.

  I’m not saying they’re connected. But Andrew would seriously get a kick out of a turf war on the Santa Monica Promenade.

  I call him.

  He answers immediately with a hey.

  “Did you ever study property rights or squatter’s rights or whatever you call that in law school?”

  He laughs. “Yes, I did.”

  “I think your services might be needed, then, at the Promenade. That is, if you can handle robots for clients. The silver robot dude was really pissed at the gold one.”

  “Was the gold one pushing all his buttons?”

  I laugh, and so does he.

  “I have video. Seriously, the police were called, but no street performers were harmed.” I pause, not wanting this conversation to end. No time like the present. “Hey, since you turned down my lasagna invitation, I won’t take no for an answer to having lunch with me. That awesome sandwich shop that slathers everything in sriracha is calling our names.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, can’t you hear it?” I turn my voice echo-y. “Andrew, come have a sriracha-covered turkey panini with Holland.”

  More laughter comes my way. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

  As I head to the sandwich shop, I say a silent thank you to the robots, like I did to the possum years ago.

  7

  Andrew

  I find Holland at an outdoor table, big brown sunglasses pushed up on her head. The sun is bright, but she’s not shielding her eyes. She wears a green skirt I swear she wore when we went to the movies three years ago and barely watched a scene on the screen.

  My hands have been up that skirt. My fingers know the fabric and how it feels against her skin. They itch to get reacquainted.

  I can smell lemon-sugar lotion on her too. Her scent will be my downfall. My blood heats as I sit next to her.

  “Don’t mind me. I’m baking,” she says, and tilts her face to the sun. She closes her eyes and soaks in the rays, and I have free rein to look at her—at her neck, her throat, her shoulders, since she’s only wearing a tank top. I want to watch her, lick her, kiss her.

  She opens her eyes, sees me staring. But she doesn’t look away, and neither do I.

  “Have you reached the fully-cooked stage yet?”

  She shakes her head. “A few more rays of sunshine are necessary for me to achieve that state of nirvana.”

  “It’s either sunshine or sriracha that’ll get you there,” I say, since those are two of her favorite things.

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “You know it.” She dips her hand into her purse. “May I present exhibit A?”

  She clicks on a video, and I catch the tail end of the robot fisticuffs. “That is excellent. And for the record, the gold one already contacted me. I’m considering taking his case.”

  She pumps a fist. “I knew I could find clients for you by wandering around here and observing local altercations.”

  The waiter arrives. She orders a sandwich, and I do the same. Same orders, same choices, same food we used to pick when we came here before.

  So much is the same, and so much never will be.

  Except this.

  The way we talk.

  The easy slide back into banter, about robots and sunshine and sandwich toppings.

  When the waiter leaves, Holland makes a ding like a timer.

  “Fully cooked now?”

  She stares at her arms as if assessing them. “It appears that I am. Also, in case you were wondering, I’m still allergic to cold.”

  “And fog,” I add, because I know this riff.

  “And wind chill. The worst. Seriously. Who thought wind chill was a good idea?”

  “The same person who thought icicles made sense.”

  “That’s why I’m soaking up all this sunshine while I’m here.”

  “Did you find a new job yet? Are you going back to Japan?”

  She holds up crossed fingers. “A few things are looking good. One in particular, but it doesn’t start for another month.”

  One month.

  The part of my brain still capable of logic knows it’ll be for the best if I leave for Tokyo stat and figure shit out without her there, without me here. She smells so fucking good that I want to abandon everything and spend the summer bantering and watching her sunbathe.

  But it’s hard to plan with her around.

  It’s hard to think straight when she’s the only thing I’m certain I want. When I’m positive her touch would erase the pain.

  Her bare legs are close enough I could run a hand over her knee, watch her shiver and smile. She’d ask me to do it again. My palms ache to touch her, like her skin is a magic potion, a pill to make me happy again. I’m filled with complete emptiness and complete longing at the same time, only there’s not enough space in me for both.

  Longing wins. Longing always wins with her.

  She’s the last time
I was truly happy, and I want that again so badly I’ll do nearly anything to get it, like spending time with her in this “just friends” state that I don’t understand. But I’m powerless to resist it.

  8

  Holland

  We wander along the Promenade, popping into gift shops and checking out random items like candlestick holders and jewelry racks that are as big as bureaus. We dart into a soap store and sniff spruce- and grapefruit-scented ones, giving them a thumbs-up, then turning up our noses collectively at one that smells like leather. When we reach the end of the Promenade, I gesture to the cinema down the block, grasping for one more chance to spend time with him. One more moment that won’t be too raw, too risky.

  “Do you want to go to the movies?”

  “The movies?”

  “Yeah, that thing where they project famous actors in impossible situations on the screen?”

  In a perfect deadpan, he answers, “I’m familiar with the concept.”

  “The more stuff that blows up, the better,” I add.

  “No Oscar contenders, no quiet dramas, no period romances with English accents.”

  “No way. We want fires, and we want chase scenes, and we want dudes jumping out of tenth-story windows and then running through the streets like it didn’t even hurt.”

  Life is full of enough family drama. We don’t need it on the screen.

  We. We. We.

  Here I am, acting like we’re a we again, going through the same motions, playing our parts.

  It hardly feels like playing.

  “There’s a new Jason Statham flick at the theater down the block, I hear,” I say, flashing back to the last time we were there three years ago.

  We didn’t watch the film at all.

  My cheeks flame.

  We were animals. We were practitioners of PDA. His hands were up my skirt—the same skirt I’m wearing now—and he made me see stars as a building on screen blew up.

  Heat flares through me.

  I wave a hand in front of my face before I go up in flames. Spending time with him is dangerous. I like him too much, I want him too much. The trouble is his grief is too new, too raw. I don’t want to be his crutch, and I can tell I am.

  “I forgot. I have an appointment. Another time.”

  “Another time?” he asks, like those two words are alien.

  I turn away so he can’t see my face. “Yes, I have somewhere to be.”

  He says my name more urgently. “Holland.”

  I turn around, and he’s a snapshot of a man caught taking a step toward a woman.

  I’m a woman wanting to catch him. That’s what the camera captures when it trains on me. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been thinking of what to do this summer.”

  “What do you want to do?” I ask tightly, possibilities winding up in me, wishes and hopes I can’t let myself entertain.

  His phone buzzes. He grabs it from his pocket and swipes the screen. “It’s Jeremy. I told him I’d meet him for a beer. We’ll talk later?”

  I nod. “Of course. Absolutely. You should go.”

  “I should go.”

  I try not to let on how much I don’t want him to leave as I say goodbye and wrap my arms around him in a hug that lasts longer than it should.

  Then it lasts a few more seconds still as his arms tighten around me, and I lean my face into his neck, stealing a quick inhale of his scent. He’s the scent I like best.

  Moments later, I untangle myself from him and watch him walk away, even though I ache seeing him go.

  Sometimes, I think we’re both stuck in the same quicksand of the past and the present. The only way to escape is to stop letting my head get in the way of my heart.

  9

  Andrew

  The next day I check the mail for the first time in days. There are no more sympathy cards. They have all come and gone. The sorrys, the prayers, the my thoughts are with yous are over. Everyone has said what they need to say, and everyone has moved on to their noisy, everyday lives. They’re all back on the merry-go-round of life—a merry-go-round I’m nowhere near ready to climb onto.

  The mail brings only memories. A cooking magazine. A baseball card catalog. Ian’s alumni journal.

  I drop the catalogs and everything else from the mailbox into the green recycling bin at the end of the driveway. As the papers fall, I spot something that doesn’t look like a catalog. It’s a letter, addressed to me, my name written in calligraphy with some sort of felt-tip pen. The postmark is Japanese, and the name in the return address—Kana Miyoshi—startles me.

  Holland’s friend.

  The caretaker for the apartment.

  My brother’s girlfriend.

  I walk back into my eerily quiet house and sit at the kitchen counter. My hand shakes as I slide a thumb under the envelope flap. My heart is beating quickly too, like I expect this letter to unleash secrets.

  I turn to the dog, who’s stretched out on the nearby couch. Her legs poke up in the air, the back ones looking like drumsticks with those meaty thighs she has.

  “What do you think it says, Sandy?”

  She tilts her head toward me and waits for an answer.

  I pull out the letter, and as I unfold it, I’m not in Los Angeles anymore, but thousands of miles away. I can see and smell and hear and taste Tokyo. Even the paper looks Asian.

  Dear Andrew—

  Hey! I tried to email you, but I never heard back. Perhaps it went to spam? I thought I had your phone number, but I might be a digit off since I kept reaching a dry cleaner in Santa Monica. I can tell you there are very many affordable options for suits there!

  In any case, I’m resorting to this most old-fashioned method of communication. As you may know, I’m the caretaker for your apartment on Maruyamacho Street, and I was also a good friend of Ian’s.

  I smile at the euphemism.

  We were cleaning the apartment recently, and we discovered several medication prescriptions on the shelves.

  She lists the medicines and notes whether each bottle had been opened. Most are marked as unopened. Odd.

  Would you like us to make arrangements to ship them to you, leave them here, or dispose of them? I’m sorry to trouble you with this seemingly trivial matter, but we try to be careful with how we handle medication and other related items. Please advise.

  Also, since I am writing to you in a professional capacity, as well as a personal one, it is customary in situations like this for us to inform the family of the personal effects in the apartment.

  She lists things like clothes and photos and other items, but what catches my attention are the next few lines.

  There are also several crossword puzzle books, a stub from a John Legend concert, some cards and your brother’s favorite Dodgers cap. Perhaps you know it? It is the one that says World Series Champions, even though they didn’t win. He had a friend in charge of the printing of the caps so they would be ready for either team—he snagged one before the boxes were sent to a village in Africa. He must have left it here on his last visit in late February. He wore it when we visited his favorite temple. I have a photo from that day, which I can send, along with any other items you might want.

  He was an amazing man, the most joyful at times, and very funny too. He liked to take me to tea with him occasionally at the Tatsuma Teahouse, and he said playfully he was simply following doctor’s orders by going there. While we were together, he told me such wonderful stories of life back home and stories of you. I am sorry we never met, and please accept my deep regrets, once again, that I couldn’t attend the service. Ian expressly asked that I not attend, and I protested many times. But, as he often did, he had the last word. Please know Ian was so proud of you, and of how hard you worked, especially during the last year of school. He talked about you all the time, always with so much happiness in his eyes. He loved you so.

  Best,

  Kana

  There’s a phone number and an email address.

  I
jam the heel of my hand against my eye and swallow roughly, viciously, trying to edge past the aggressive lump in my throat. I stare at the dog until my vision clears again.

  I set down the letter and step away from the counter. Breathing out hard, I pace through the living room to the sliding glass door. I shove it open and inhale the thick June air. I cut a path across the yard, around the pool, vaguely aware the dog is trotting behind me.

  I turn to her.

  “Why didn’t I go with him?” I huff in frustration. “I should have gone with him on one of his trips in the last year.”

  Sandy stares, head tilted, wagging her tail.

  But there was no reason for me to go to Tokyo. He was in remission, and he was busy with Kana there. I was buried in coursework, an internship, and studying for the Bar. The final year of law school leaves no breathing room for any extracurricular activities.

  I want to smack myself for not going with him at least once, for not getting to know the one doctor he briefly saw there.

  He told me to stay behind—to focus on school and the Bar. “That’s all that matters to me. Finish your JD, don’t take care of your big brother.”

  I drag a hand through my hair and curse. “I fucking wanted to take care of you, asshole.”

  But now I wonder what those trips meant to him, and the role the doctor he saw—Takahashi or something—played in his life.

  I scratch my head, trying to make sense of the teahouse and the temple. Ian e-mailed me when he traveled to Tokyo, told me he was doing well, singing karaoke with Kana and eating fish at the market with her too, but he never mentioned a temple. He definitely never said a word about Tatsuma anything, and certainly not whether a good doctor had sent him to a teahouse, of all places.

  I’m not religious, and I’m not spiritual. I don’t know if I believe in anything, yet here is this letter arriving just days after I’ve started thinking about the apartment in Tokyo, and it feels like a message from out there.