Wicked Like a Wildfire (Hibiscus Daughter #1)(15)
He meant the wisteria in the Ashikaga Flower Park in Tochigi, Japan, the one I’d told him about so many times. It was 144 years old, not the oldest in the world, but the book I’d read had called it the most beautiful. The central trunk twisted around itself like a helix, and held pink and purple blossoms that hung like waterfalls from a slim, steel framework around the trunk—half an acre of flowers above your head, like the sky itself was burning with the palest, most delicate fire. I could only imagine what it would look like to me, a riotous supernova of bloom and color.
And it was in Japan, so it came from the same earth that had made half of me.
I had never admitted to Luka how much it rubbed me raw, chafed at me like rope bound around my wrists, that I couldn’t lay any physical claim to a country that was as much mine as Montenegro. A country in which I might have real family—a father, grandparents, cousins, maybe even other siblings. Half sisters or brothers with my eyes or chin or stock-straight hair just like my own.
But even if I wanted to find them, the crumbs Mama had ever let drop were far too few to form any kind of trail. I could never tell whether it was really that she only knew so much herself, after barely a week with our father, or that she couldn’t stand the notion of losing control by letting us know too much. Our father’s name was Naoki; that, she had been willing to cede. He came from Shimoda, one of the smallest port cities, its population only about twice that of Cattaro. I hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry when I scoured the internet for it, only to find that it looked a bit like some much lusher version of Cattaro from a parallel universe, with rolling dunes of mountains steaming with hot springs.
Just like I hadn’t known what to do when Mama told us his favorite food had been uni, sea urchin sushi. Something I couldn’t imagine I would ever have the chance to taste. Since the idea of a Japanese restaurant opening in Cattaro—anywhere in Montenegro, really—was about as likely as actual teleportation to Japan, I talked Lina into hand-making a roll with me once, just to see if we could do it. I’d known we wouldn’t be able to find avocados or nori sheets for rolling, but I hadn’t been prepared for the mess of rice that crumbled pitifully apart instead of sticking, fish that sat rank in the mouth because it wasn’t meant to be eaten raw, the lack of any savory sauce to mimic the umami taste of soy.
The worst of the burn was knowing that even if it had been as delicious as anything Mama made, we still wouldn’t have had any idea how it was really supposed to taste.
“I’m sure the tree will be just fine without me,” I said, shoving the last of the picnic litter into the backpack. “A lot like you in Belgrade, actually. I’ve heard from you, what, three times since you left?”
A tiny muscle in his cheek twitched. “That’s not true, or fair. I had classes and a job and—”
I stood abruptly. “Anyway, it was nice to see you. I need to get back to the café.”
That was a lie, and he knew it. But he was quiet as I left, seething with the silent frustration I knew so well in him. Luka wasn’t one to throw a tantrum, not when he could creep up on you silently with logic. This particular argument gnawed at him especially because he could sense that, on some level, I knew he was right. I’d never know who I could be away from here until I gritted my teeth and left.
What he didn’t know was how deeply it cut every time he brought it up. Because I always wondered: Was what I wanted exactly what my mother had wanted, before Malina and I chained her to this place?
SIX
I PICKED MY WAY BACK DOWN THE MOUNTAINSIDE carefully, wondering what to do with myself. I’d been planning on spending the rest of the day with Luka, lounging on the beach and then walking down the waterfront riva once the sun set, past the lanky rows of palm trees and the vendors who sold crepes, salty roasted corn, and oily cones of French fries drizzled with ketchup. No chance of that now. ?i?a Jovan’s studio, maybe, though he’d sniff out my off-kilter mood as soon as he laid eyes on me.
Back at the Cathedral Square, I went to unchain my bike, only to falter midstep when I realized the café door was closed—not even a flicker of movement inside. The doorknob wouldn’t budge beneath my hand. Stifling a flare of panic, I cupped my hands around my face and peered in against the glare. Two crumb-crusted plates sat on the counter, alongside a slice of Spanish wind cake with frosting melting around the yellow dough and a mound of dried-out macarons.
My stomach knotted. The store was never empty at this time of day. We were open from seven in the morning until whenever we ran out of food at night, which was never earlier than six. I couldn’t remember a single time when at least one of us wasn’t behind the counter, a counter that should have been impeccable. Those abandoned desserts, wilting and far from beautiful, worried me more than anything else.
“Lina!” I called, rapping sharply against the glass. “Jasmina!”
Neither of them answered.
My heart pounding, I swung my leg over the bike and launched myself through the streets. Some of the alleys were so narrow that, had I been walking, I could have brushed both walls with only slightly lifted hands. I’d been navigating this polished stone maze since I was little, and this time of day there was barely anyone around to slow my headlong hurtle.
By the time I skidded to a stop in front of our flowered fence, I was so afraid I was gulping back tears, panic clogging my throat. When I found Malina in the yard on the creaking porch swing, with her legs tucked beneath her and Nikoleta curled against her side, fury burst through me like a flushed-out pipe.