Honey Girl(47)

She stares, and she waits for Grace to tear her down. Terrible, scary Yuki. Soft, trembling Yuki. Yuki sprouting thorns and velvet petals.

“Okay,” Grace says. “Can you sit down?”

“Absolutely not,” Yuki says, covering her face. “Just send me a text message about it like a normal maladjusted person in this millennium.”

Grace smiles. “I’m not going to text you when you’re right in front of me,” she says. “But, Yuki, I don’t—” She shakes her head, as if that will help the words fall into place. “Being here with you is a good thing.” She takes a deep breath to steel herself. “You’re a good thing.”

“Okay.” Yuki blinks. “You’re. You know. Good, too, or whatever.” She grits her teeth and stares at her ceiling. No stars. Nothing to count and keep yourself grounded with. “It’s just that we’re married, and I’m selfish. I’ve had enough therapy that I can admit to that.” She looks down and gives Grace a small smile. “I want to take care of you, Grace Porter.”

“You do,” Grace says. Her fingers curl into the covers. “My friends know that. Everyone knows that.”

“And I want you to take care of me, too,” Yuki adds, like a challenge. “Isn’t that what married people do? I mean, you have people that fly across the country just to make sure you’re okay, and maybe I feel—”

“You feel what?”

“Lonely right in front of you.” Yuki’s laugh is dry. “I went to Las Vegas and got married in the middle of the desert to you. And I know this is—coming here is a break, a breather for you. I get that. But I want to—I don’t know, feel like a home for you, too. One day. Maybe.”

She’s breathing heavy by the end of it, chest heaving with the weight of what she’s just said.

“Yuki,” Grace says. That’s all that comes. Yuki, she thinks. I’m right here.

“Please don’t,” she says quietly. “I feel stupid, and you know as an Aquarius I can’t deal with that like a regular human being.”

“Stop joking,” Grace says. I’m right here, she says, in the silence. Don’t you see me? Don’t you hear me? Didn’t you say lonely creatures recognize other lonely creatures? “I didn’t just come here for myself. I came here because I wanted to meet you and know you and—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m listening to you. I see you.”

“I don’t want you to,” Yuki argues, “because this is ridiculous, and I don’t even know why I said it.” She flops on the bed. She is not a hazy champagne-bubble dream. She is real person, a girl, a mess just like Grace. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize.” Grace’s hand hovers over her warm body. The creases and curves and bends.

Yuki lets out a breath. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting changed? This is New York, but I still think people will judge you for going to a bar in your pajamas.”

She looks down at her flannel pants and her NASA tank. “Be honest, would this be the craziest outfit I’d see tonight?”

Yuki’s mouth widens with a smile she tries to force back. “Probably not,” she admits. “You could say you’re making a political statement.”

“I could.” Her hand makes contact with Yuki’s. “Come with me. I want you to meet Raj.”

Yuki shakes her head. “I have plans to lie in the dark and try to disappear from earth,” she says. “Very busy, very booked.” She moves slowly, very slowly toward Grace and holds her pinky out. “You won’t disappear on me now that I’ve revealed this terrible side of me, will you? Pinky promise.”

“Yuki—”

“It was in our vows,” she says somberly. “I wrote it in. I have the right to invoke the pinky promise at any time.”

“I promise,” Grace says, wondering how she can find a way to keep it. She hooks their pinkies together and wonders if the universe will allow her to keep both: the galaxies and this girl born of their glittering dust. “Pinky promise.”

Grace finds a bar with cheap drinks and low music and a table for two. They order shots and stare each other down.

“Are you going to explain yourself now?” she asks. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York? Plus, another tea room opening on the East Coast? I mean, what gives? How did you get Meera to keep this from me? Usually she can’t hold water.”

Raj runs his hands over his face, peeking through his fingers. “You’re asking me so many things right now, and I’m way too sober.”

“Well, answer one,” she presses. “Answer half of one. Why do you need to be drunk to answer my questions?”

“Because,” he says, “I’m jet-lagged as fuck, and I haven’t texted Meera or any of our friends yet to tell them I made it here. I need to be drunk for that, too. Where are our shots?”

“Relax,” she says. “So, was this, like, meant to be a surprise? You coming here? God, Meera must be pissed. You know she’s wanted to come to New York for forever.”

Raj shrugs. The bar’s poor lighting emphasizes the circles under his eyes, the lines in his face, etched in deep. “She’s giving me the silent treatment,” he admits. “Like it’s my fault she’s taking that summer class. What’s it in again?”