Honey Girl(79)

“I’m afraid of a lot of things. I’m afraid of failing. The thought of it makes me feel sick. I’m afraid of not being perfect, which my therapist would say is ridiculous. Nobody is perfect. Not me or you or my parents or our friends. Not the people that rejected me, and not the people that will see that I have claimed the stars as mine. The first class I ever took, I knew astronomy was mine. The same way I saw you that night in Vegas in that overpriced, overcrowded bar and claimed you as mine. My wife, my siren, my lonely, monstrous creature.”

She hopes Yuki will listen.

“I talked to my advisor. I told her I wanted to look at some faculty positions, some teaching opportunities, in New York. Maybe it’s presumptuous of me. You might not even want to see me again, but I—” Her nails dig into her palms. “I’ve spent a long time trying to be the best. The best daughter, the best protégé, the best astronomer. Anything less meant I was doing something wrong. Any deviation from my perfectly crafted plan was wrong, and fuck, how I almost stuck that landing. But then I stormed out of the interview for the job I was groomed to get. For a job I was never going to actually get. And then I married you. How could the great Grace Porter recover from that?

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I wanted to say to you. I don’t want to give you excuses or rationalizations or good intentions.” Mom’s words echo in her head. “I was terrified. I was scared. I wanted to be the best, even if it meant working myself into the ground. Even if it meant breaking my back to prove I deserved a seat at a table I had no desire to sit at. Even if it meant leaving you behind. If I could say anything, it would be that I’m sorry. You asked me before I left what best meant for me, and I’m still learning what that looks like. But I know it means I take care of myself. It means I’m kind to myself. It means I support my friends and my family, and I don’t let the guilt take over when they support me back.”

Please be listening, she thinks. “I know it includes your midnight radio show and all the lonely creatures and monsters and stories that come with it. It includes your weird-ass roommates, our friends. It includes you, Yuki Yamamoto, because best for me means being happy and—God—being in love with you.”

Grace feels out of breath by the time her mind catches up with her tongue. She feels like she has run an entire marathon, and the finish line is right there, if only she can keep going for a little bit longer. “Are you there, Yuki? Are you listening? Because there is so much I want to say to you, and I made a promise in a chapel in the desert that I don’t plan on breaking. Till death do us part, we said. That bejeweled priest asked if I, Grace Porter, took you, Yuki Yamamoto, to be my lawfully wedded wife, and by every power I have within me, by the endless and thunderous universe, I do, okay? I do.”

Grace ends the recording and sends it before she can doubt herself. Like how people send their wishes up to the moon and wait for an answer, Grace sends hers to join them. Please be listening, she thinks. I am here. I am here. I am here.



Twenty


The day of the wedding finally comes.

Grace’s arms and legs are sore from helping set up the outdoor wedding tent and wobbling on ladders to string up extravagant fabrics and lights and little flowers.

She’s in her room making sure her suit is immaculate. It’s a deep purple, the color of nightfall. She went to the African braiding shop like Heather suggested, and they put her hair in thick, jumbo box braids. The woman put purple and silver threads in them that twinkle and glimmer when they catch the sun. The braids hang down Grace’s back, and she glows when she looks in the mirror.

Thankful for a mild temperature day, the suit makes her feel put together and settled. “What do you think?” she asks.

Meera leans in, her face too close to the screen. “Come closer to the phone, and do a turn,” she commands. “Move back a little. It’s tailored so well.”

Grace sighs. “My father is military. You think I’m not a stickler about my suits?”

Meera rolls her eyes, smiling quickly when she realizes Grace can see her. “You’ll look so good when you’re dancing at the reception,” she says dreamily. “Some beautiful woman will twirl you, and your suit jacket will flare so perfectly.”

Grace frowns. “Where did this beautiful woman come from?” She straightens her bejeweled choker in the mirror. “There is no beautiful woman dancing with me. Just Kelly, and like, Mr. Cooley, who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

“Did you tell him you’re a lesbian?”

“I told everyone I’m a lesbian,” she says. “Maybe he thinks it’s a phase.”

“Well, tell them to back off,” Meera says loyally. “You look amazing, by the way.”

Grace smiles. She sits at the vanity, so she can actually talk to Meera for a second instead of yelling at her from across the room. “Thank you,” she says. “You know I wish you were here, right?” Ximena and Agnes arrived yesterday afternoon. They’re only staying for the weekend, and Graces wishes they could stay longer, or that she was going back with them to Portland.

Meera shrugs, ducking her head. She’s taken over Baba Vihaan’s office to talk to Grace, and she looks unbearably small in the middle of all his things.

“Meera,” she says, her voice gentle. “You know that, right?”