Unbreak My Heart(38)

Holland: Surprise me.





I find another band and hit play. Holland makes an ick face.

I switch to another one, and she gives a thumbs-down. I try one more, and she pretends to gag.



Andrew: You’re tough to please.





Holland: Not in the least. You always know how to please me.





I cast my gaze to her and mouth, Such a flirt.

She mouths back, Same to you.

I scroll through my playlists. It hits me—like a flash of lightning across a darkened sky. Feeling a little bit like a movie-star hero who uncovered a secret weapon, I head to Spotify and find what I’m looking for.

I hit play, and a few seconds later, Matt Nathanson croons in our ears.

The smile that lights up Holland’s face is magical. She turns to me and mouths, I love him.

I imagine she said I love you, and it feels like the most right thing that could happen not just to me, but in the universe. I close my eyes, listen to the refrain, and take a chance. I reach for her hand and take it in mine. Our fingers slide together, and it’s electric and comforting at the same damn time.

When her fingers curl around mine, I breathe out, a wonderful exhale. I smile like a fool too. My eyes are closed, my music playing, and my girl’s hand is in mine.

It doesn’t matter that she’s not mine yet. It doesn’t matter that we’re in-between. Right now, we’re on the same page. I can feel the connection in the same way I can feel this music humming in my body.

I imagine everyone on this train has disappeared and it’s just Holland and me. We ride the train as far as it goes, into the night, an endless night together. It could spill into the next morning, then the next one, then the next.

This connection is more than chemistry and stronger than history. It’s fueled by the present and stoked by a raw sort of knowingness—she knows me inside and out, no games, and no pretending.

I know her in the same way.

I know something else that’s starkly true. I can’t let go of the piece of my wasted, ragged, worn-out heart she irretrievably owns.

It’s a permanent piece of my real estate that she has all the property rights to, for perpetuity.

The train slows at our destination a few hours later, letting us out at Kyoto Station, a sleek, metal, modern spaceship. Soon we’re escaping the crowds and the streets jam-packed with tourists who snap photos.

Holland tells me where to go, kisses my cheek, and says she’ll see me when I’m done with Laini. She bounces on the toes of her pink Converse sneakers. “I’m going to have lunch with my parents.”

“Tell them I said hi.”

“I will.”

I watch her go, and it’s weird she’s doing something as normal as having lunch with her parents, who live three hours away from her here in Kyoto. But it doesn’t hurt thinking of her plans, and it doesn’t hurt watching her head to see them.

It’s just her normal, and this is mine: meeting my sister.

I find my way through the quieter alleys, the small shops, and the narrow lanes that lead in and out of gardens and temples, and that bring me to a walking path that runs along a stream. A narrow set of steps looms in front of me. After five minutes of going vertical, the steps end at a stone bench that looks out over the gurgling water below.

Laini sits on the bench. She stands, and for a second, I think she’s going to simply wave, but instead, she closes the distance and hugs me hard.

“It’s so good to see you.”

When we let go, she’s crying.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my sister shed a tear.





23





Andrew



Since Laini is fifteen years older than I am, it’d be easy to think I’m the “oops” baby. But there’s the pesky case of the middle child, eleven years younger than her.

Since our parents had Laini when they were in their early twenties, Ian and I decided she was the “oops” baby. But by the time we got around to knowing what an “oops” baby was, and teasing her about it, she was long gone.

That’s the thing about a big age difference—Laini is more like an aunt than a sister. She wasn’t a big part of my life growing up. I don’t remember when she lived with Mom, Dad, Ian, and me since she left home when I was three and Ian was seven.

She wasn’t a part of our lives. We weren’t a part of hers.

When our parents died seven years ago, Laini was already married, with one child and another on the way. She returned for Ian’s memorial service in May and was gone just as quickly, back home to India.

I hardly know her, and I hardly know why she’s in tears. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. Only sobs harder.

Fear runs through me. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” she says, all wobbly. “It’s just so good to see you.”

I furrow my brow. What the hell is going on with my sister? She’s never been affectionate, but as she leaks tears, she tightens her hold on me.

“It’s okay,” I say gently, patting her hair, since I think that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never been the one to comfort, and the only female I’ve been close enough to help—Holland—was always the strong one.