Jamie suddenly shoots up from his seat. “Actually,” he says a little too loudly, “I’ll drive you over there if that’s cool. I could use a coffee.”
He’s out of the house so fast I barely have time to process what just happened. When I ask him about it in the car, he shrugs and tells me it was nothing. I want to believe him, because it’s Jamie, and because I don’t think he would lie to me, but it’s obvious he’s hiding something.
But he doesn’t talk. Neither of us does.
Hiroshi notices I have something on my mind. Something different than normal.
“I hope this is the emotion you’ve brought with you to paint today,” he remarks.
It’s taking me forever to blend the right amount of white and yellow paint because I can’t stop thinking about Jamie’s shifting jawline and my mother telling me how she doesn’t trust me, even though I never talk about her. At least not in the way she means. I talk about me, and that’s different. It feels necessary.
It’s my story, after all. Maybe I need to make sense of things. Maybe I need to talk about it. And telling my story isn’t the same thing as breaking her trust.
I don’t want to talk about Mom to anyone, if I can help it. I’d prefer if she just didn’t affect me anymore. I’d prefer if I hardly had to think about her at all. Not because I hate her or anything, because I don’t. But thinking about her hurts me; talking about how she makes me feel hurts me.
What I want is for the hurt to stop. I want a mother who thinks more of me than she does. Who recognizes that I’m a better person than the version of me she has in her head. I just want her to know me, and be interested in me, and care about me without it being because she thinks she’s supposed to.
And maybe—just maybe—I want her to think I’m pretty, too, even if it’s just a little bit and even if it’s just in my own way. I know I don’t have her blond hair and blue eyes. I don’t have her long legs and her delicate nose. And I want her to tell me that it’s okay. That being pretty in a different way to her is okay. Because pretty is important to Mom. I want to be important to her too.
And then I don’t think—I paint.
? ? ?
I paint my mother shimmering like a pearl, her arms allowing—no, expecting—the world to worship her.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Hiroshi invites me and Jamie to dinner. I’m worried Jamie won’t want to go because he doesn’t act the same around me lately. He’s . . . grouchy. And irritable. And he snaps at me when I ask him if he’s okay.
I feel like I’ve hurt him somehow, and I’m not sure how to make it better.
But not only does Jamie agree to go; he actually seems excited about it. He even wears a white shirt with a suit vest over it like he’s catching the tail end of a wedding. When I ask him why he’s so dressed up, he laughs and asks, “Why not?”
I’m underdressed next to him, with my hair in a ponytail and my jeans flecked with gold paint. I’m living out of a suitcase—packing a nice dress wasn’t a priority.
Akane greets us at the door. “Come in. Come in. Make yourselves at home.” She’s wearing a red tank top and a white skirt. “Leave your shoes by the door, please.”
Their house smells like oranges and nutmeg. The floors are dark wood, and all of the fixtures seem to be the same brushed metal. To my surprise, none of the artwork around the house is Hiroshi’s. They are all abstract and blend perfectly with the color theme of each room.
Hiroshi looks happy to see us. He introduces us to his wife, Mayumi, who is a decade older than him, which I think is all kinds of awesome, and his oldest daughter, Rei, who is so pretty up close that I can’t believe she isn’t a professional model.
They’re all so nice and happy, and they treat Jamie and me like they’ve known us for years. Mayumi makes the mistake of referring to us as boyfriend and girlfriend three times. Neither of us corrects her, which definitely hasn’t gone unnoticed.
We eat vegetable ramen for dinner, which Hiroshi made specifically because of me. Afterward Mayumi brings out mochi ice cream, which is so good I make an actual noise when I eat it.
“I can’t believe you never have mochi before,” Mayumi says. Unlike Hiroshi, she speaks with an accent. “Rei and Akane love since they were children.”
I shrug. “I’ve never had ramen like that either. We’ve only ever eaten the stuff from the foam cup.”
She makes a noise like she’s about to faint. Everyone at the table giggles, even me.
When we’re finished, I offer to help clean up, but Mayumi shoos me out of the kitchen.
“Spend time talking. You our guest,” she insists.
On my way back to the living room, I feel a rush of fresh air envelop my skin. The wide, sliding door to my left is open, exposing the square deck overlooking the hills.
I step into the evening warmth. Hiroshi’s house is so close to the water I can practically taste the salt in the air. I feel it on my skin—my face feels tighter, as if all the salt has found its way to every crevasse and pore. It makes me feel calm, but I don’t know why.
My fingers rest against the edge of the balcony. The ocean sends another wave toward the sand before pulling it back again. Over and over again it does this. It’s hypnotic. It’s beautiful.
All my life I’ve felt lonely, and it has always left an ache inside me, like there’s a supernatural presence crushing my heart within its fist. Looking out at the ocean, I don’t know how anyone could be anything but lonely. There’s nothing out there to see—just water and space. But it feels good. If lonely can ever be something good, this is it. This is Kiko at peace with the world. This is Kiko not in the middle of a raging war with her mother. This is Kiko just being Kiko.
I decide I am in love with the ocean. I’m totally counting it as a legitimate relationship, because if I ever felt this way about another aspect of nature, it would absolutely feel like cheating.
Jamie’s voice breaks my thoughts from the wide, open-planned space behind me. When I turn around, I see him talking to Rei. They’re both smiling, moving their hands around enthusiastically and talking to each other like they’ve known each other for months. It looks so easy. Social interactions make sense to Jamie. He understands the rules.
“Do you surf?” Hiroshi steps onto the decking with his bare feet and gray, loose-fitting clothes.
“No. I don’t know how to swim.”
“Don’t they teach you to swim in school?”
I shake my head again. “They teach us softball and stuff, but not swimming.” And thank God for that. I’d die if I had to wear a bathing suit in front of anyone.
Hiroshi frowns and his eyes completely disappear. “That’s terrible. Everyone should learn how to swim.” He moves next to me and drums his fingers at the banister. “Akane is a very good swimmer. She can teach you.”
I glance back at his youngest daughter standing near Rei and Jamie. She’s slim and cute and has sleek black hair that looks like it’s been soaked in conditioner. If I went swimming with her I’d look like a beluga whale next to a mermaid.