Unbreak My Heart(22)

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Do you want to go with me?”

“Sure.”

I feel like a kid in high school asking a girl out, since I don’t have a clue what her response of sure means.

Then I remind myself—she’s been crystal clear. She laid it out at my house over toast. We aren’t a thing. We’re not here as a couple. We’re here as . . . sidekicks.

Explorers.

Adventurers.

We’re Indiana Jones. Harry Potter. Star-Lord.

We’re on a quest to understand my family.

It doesn’t matter if we’re awkward, if we rehash the past, if we tease, or if we don’t.

We are only this, and no more.



*

I’m not tired when I file off the plane, pass through customs, and purchase two tickets for the train from the airport into the center of Tokyo. I’m not tired, either, when I sit on a red upholstered seat for the quick ride to the city center.

Holland is a different story. Her eyes start to flutter.

“You can rest your head on my shoulder,” I tell her.

“I’m okay,” she says on another huge yawn.

“Really, I won’t bite.”

“Maybe for just a minute.” She lays her head on my shoulder, and I check my messages.

For a sliver of a second, I imagine Ian’s written to me, like he did the weekend in April when I flew to Miami with some of my classmates for some pro bono work required for a course.



Ian: Don’t forget sunscreen. And be sure to enjoy the view on South Beach. It’s the land of beautiful people.





Andrew: I’ll be trotting out my best pickup lines between helping the indigent with their legal needs.





Ian: No one ever suggested you had good pickup lines. ?





Andrew: You’re right. They all suck. Because I learned them from you.





Ian: As if I’d share my best material. BTW, love ya. Glad you made it safely.





Andrew: Back atcha. The love thing.





Ian: You can say it. C’mon. Serve it up to me.





Andrew: Fine. Love ya. Bye.





We’d made a promise when our parents died that we wouldn’t forget to tell each other we gave a shit. I don’t think we ever forgot to say we loved each other—in our way—when one of us traveled.

As the train rattles, a sharp sensation cuts through me, like a slice down my chest. This trip is the first time I’ve flown since he passed.

There are no messages from him waiting. There will never be another one, and the cut deepens as I read through some of our old texts. Sometimes, it’s the little habits that are hardest to say goodbye to. Harder to break. Harder to mourn.

I close the thread before the cut smarts any more.

There’s a message from someone else, and I need to tend to it. Holland’s sound asleep on my shoulder as I open a text from my cousin.



Kate: Hope you landed safely! Keep me posted. Also, just a thought—maybe you want to move the date for your Bar exam? Happy to do that for you if I can!





I curse and run my hand through my hair. I fucking forgot. How did I forget to move it? I spent so much time in the spring studying for it, and then I stopped. There’s no way I can take the Bar next month.

I start a reply, then stop mid-word when I remember the day I hit the car in front of my house on purpose. How dismissive I was to Kate when she tried to help. How numb I felt. How empty I was.

Even here, with Holland snoozing on my shoulder and my brother’s favorite city mere miles away, I’m still closer to that version of me than I am to some brand-spanking-new iteration.

But I also have enough distance to know I don’t have to be a douche to Kate.

I was definitely a douche to her that day, and probably on others too. Taking a breath, I reply.



Andrew: That would be awesome if you can reschedule the Bar. I completely forgot to do that, and I would be so grateful if you could work your supreme wizardry magic. Also, in case I haven’t said this enough—I appreciate you for all you’ve done. Thanks. Love ya.





Kate: Thank you for saying that, and for letting me help. I love you too! More soon! xoxo





I close my phone and gaze out the window at the lush green fields we’re passing in the suburbs, which soon turn into squat apartment buildings at the edge of the city, which then become skyscrapers and sleek, steel structures in the middle of Tokyo. The train arrives gently in Shibuya Station, and I rustle Holland, who stirs, sighs, and blinks.

“Hey. We’re here.”

She takes another deep breath but can’t seem to shake off the sleepiness. I grab her suitcase from the rack and toss my lone backpack on my shoulder. I packed lightly, not wanting to bother with checked baggage. I stuffed everything I might need—laptop, shorts, T-shirts, some books, and a pair of flip-flops—into an oversized camping backpack. My sneakers are on my feet.

I roll her giant suitcase behind me as she ambles along by my side. It’s strange to be helping her, since she knows this city so much better than I do.