Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(14)

In layman’s terms: I have to pee.

“Um, Akio,” I say softly.

He either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me. I’m going with the latter. Someone in his position probably has better than average hearing.

“Akio,” I repeat more loudly.

He keeps going. Time for drastic measures. My bladder is about to burst. I can’t meet my father doing a pee-pee dance. Not a good look. I stop. Everyone halts. All eyes are on me.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” I explain. Then I add, “Please,” because manners and everything.

Akio is in front of me. “Sorry?” He pretends to misunderstand, but the look on his face says: I can’t believe you’d possibly ask to use the restroom. What kind of demon are you, really?

“Is there a ladies’ room nearby?” I squint, waiting for flames to shoot out of his ears.

He stares down at me for one more blazing second. I really resent the extra foot of height he has over me. “A restroom. You need a restroom?”

I shrug, palms up. “Too many cappuccinos on the airplane.”

“There is no plan for that.” His voice is a bit strained around the edges.

“Using the restroom?”

A single nod.

“Okay.” I shift from one foot to the other.

He scrutinizes me for a moment. Then he barks something in Japanese. A suit checks his phone and points to a door, then half the suits go through. Pots bang, voices get louder. Based on tone and inflection, I can tell someone is not very happy. Once things calm down, a suit holds the door open.

Akio extends an arm. “Restroom.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a kitchen. The staff, a server, and janitor all stand in a corner. A murmur runs through the group when they see me. The air is heavy, laden with the hot greasy smell of woks and miso. A few feet away, a suit holds a bathroom door open.

I flutter my fingers, sending the staff an apologetic wave. A dozen indulgent smiles answer me.

When I emerge, the chef is having some sort of disagreement with one of the suits. After much discussion, including what appears asking Akio for permission, the chef picks up a knife and then his movements are a whir. He moves closer to me and bows, presenting a radish cut into a chrysanthemum.

“A gift,” Akio explains stiffly.

I take the vegetable with a wide smile. Water drips from my hands. “There weren’t any towels. Sorry.”

Akio clips out something in Japanese, and a flurry of handkerchiefs are waved near my face. Even Akio has withdrawn a white square from his pocket. He’s closest, but I ignore him. Enemy, remember?

The handkerchief the janitor holds is clean and creased as if it’s been lovingly pressed. I take it and dab my hands, still managing to keep hold of the radish. “Thank you,” I say to the chef and janitor. Then, I wave to the staff. “Arigatō.”

Both bow and reply, “Dōitashimashite.”

“I apologize if anyone’s lunch was delayed. Will you translate that for me?” I ask Akio.

Akio huffs. “We should be on our way.” I add mulish to Akio’s list of qualifications. I might let this go, but I’m big on being nice to people. I cross my arms and stare up at him. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve won my fair share of staring contests.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Aaand … I win. Akio clasps his hands behind his back, clears his throat, and speaks Japanese. No way to tell if his translation is verbatim, though Akio strikes me as honest. You know, the I’d-die-for-my-principles type. Side note: this has been the downfall of many great men.

When Akio finishes speaking, the kitchen staff erupt in approving smiles. Forget the palace and my father. I might just live here.

Akio ushers me back into the concrete hall, and this time, I’m happy to follow. His rain isn’t going to ruin my parade—my steps and bladder are light. Daylight peeks through the cracks of a set of double doors, and two suits open them. Fresh air spiced with rain and wet earth floods the hallway.

Lights flash. I am momentarily blinded. A sea of people waits outside for me, chanting my name. Some are press with official badges and long-focus lens cameras. Security guards in blue hold back the royal watchers. It couldn’t be any louder if someone grabbed me by the lapels and yelled in my ears.

I press a hand to my pounding heart.

A sleek, black Rolls-Royce idles at the curb. On the hood, a flag waves—white with a red border and a golden chrysanthemum.

My lips part. I freeze. My father is in that car. Just on the other side of the glass. I turn on my best pageant-winning smile.

Akio’s truffle-colored eyes flicker to me. “The crowds were smaller when we landed.”

I choose to ignore him. The car door opens and another suit alights. My skin tingles, but he’s not my father. This older man wears a black bowler hat and sports a dark blue tie. His jowls remind me of a sad basset hound.

Another suit pops open a black umbrella and holds it over the man. He walks forward and bows, shouting over the hustle and bustle. “Yōkoso, Your Highness. I am Mr. Fuchigami, East Palace Chamberlain. On behalf of your father, His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince, and the Empire of Japan, I welcome you home.” Rain slices a path down the nylon and drips from the umbrella’s ribs.

Cameras click. I blink, trying to peer into the cabin of the Rolls-Royce. “My father isn’t here?” Major letdown.