Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(2)

My bestie taps her fingers against her stomach, a clear sign of boredom. She sits up, and her smile is catlike—secretive, smug. Another reason I’m a dog person. Never trust a cat, they’ll eat your face if you die. (I have no proof of this. Only a strong gut feeling.) “Forget the Emporium, then. I’m feeling pale and unattractive.”

Now I’m grinning. We’ve been down this road before. I am happy to follow. “Maybe we should just freshen up and try again?” I ever so helpfully suggest. Tamagotchi’s ears perk up.

Noora nods sagely. “Great minds think alike.” She flashes me another smile and dashes out the door toward Mom’s master bathroom, otherwise known as the Rodeo Drive of cosmetics. It’s hard to think about what’s on the chipped vinyl counter and not salivate—shiny lacquered cases of Chanel eye shadow palettes, a La Prairie caviar sleep mask, Yves Saint Laurent Couture eyeliner. Oh, and Korean skincare products, anyone? Yes, please. Each decadent little indulgence holds a promise of better tomorrows. Like, things are super bad right now, but I really think this bronzer in Golden Goddess is going to turn it all around.

Irony is, the pricey makeup is the diametric opposite of mom’s no-fuss practicality. She drives a Prius, next-level recycles (sometimes I think she had a child just to help her turn the compost pile), and reuses her pantyhose. Got leftover soap slivers? Shove them in the toe of an old stocking and get every last bit of suds out of them. When I point out this hypocrisy to Mom, she is flat-out dismissive. “Whatever,” she says. “It’s all part of my feminine mystique.” I don’t disagree. We ladies contain multitudes. What it comes down to is, the glosses and highlighters are Mom’s guilty pleasure. And it’s purely Noora’s and my pleasure to paint our faces while Mom is teaching at the local community college.

I find Noora applying a Dior gloss and peeking through the blinds. “Jones is in your backyard again.”

I cross the carpet and join Noora to peer out the window. Yep, that’s him. Our next-door neighbor wears a floppy pink sun hat, white T-shirt, yellow Crocs, and a sarong so colorful it’s offensive—I mean, who created such an unholy thing?

He carries two jars of dark liquid and places them on our back porch. Probably kombucha. The bearded wonder is sweet on my mom, brews his own tea, keeps bees, and his favorite T-shirt says Love Sees No Color. This, of course, is a lie. Love definitely sees color. Example: when I mustered up the courage to tell my seventh grade crush I liked him, he replied, “Sorry, I just don’t find Asian chicks attractive.” Since then, my love life has followed the same cursed path. My last relationship ended in a dumpster fire. His name was Forest and he cheated on me during homecoming. We consciously uncoupled. I rub my side where there is a sudden sharp pain—probably gas, definitely not the memory.

“It’s a little creepy that he brings your mom stuff all the time. Kind of like a feral cat that leaves dead mice on your porch.” Noora re-caps the gloss and smooths her lips together. The deep red color matches her personality. Subtle is not in her vocabulary.

I cross my arms. “Two weeks ago, he brought her a book of pressed flowers.” Mom may be a bio professor, but botany is her real jam. What Jones lacks in fashion, he makes up for in game. I’ll give that to him.

Noora moves from the window and pitches the gloss onto Mom’s flea market quilt. Mom’s a fan of old things. “Is this the book he made her? Rare Orchids of North America?” She’s at Mom’s nightstand now, rifling through her stuff. Such a snoop.

“No,” I say. “That’s different.” I’ve never paid much attention to the book. Because, rare orchids and all.

Noora flips open the cover. “Ruh-roh, Scooby Doo. What’s this?” She taps a finger against the title page and begins reading. “My dearest Hanako—”

It takes a moment for me to catch up. Dearest? Hanako? I lunge, snatching the book from her hands.

“Grabby,” she mumbles, resting a chin on my shoulder.

The handwriting is neat but slanted, the pencil nearly faded.

My dearest Hanako,

Please let these words say what I cannot speak:

I wish I were close

To you as the wet skirt of

A salt girl to her body.

I think of you always.

—Yamabe no Akahito

Yours,

Makoto “Mak”

2003



Noora whistles low. “Guess Jones isn’t your mom’s only not-so-secret admirer.”

I sit down on the bed. “Mom never mentioned a Makoto.” I don’t know how to feel about that fact. It’s strange to think about your parent’s life before you. Call me narcissistic, but it’s a teen’s prerogative to believe everything started the moment you were born. Like: Izzy’s here now. Earth, you may begin spinning. I don’t know, maybe it’s an only child thing. Or maybe my mom loved me so much she made it seem that way.

I’m still processing this when Noora carefully says, “So, hey. You were born in 2003.”

“Yeah.” I swallow, staring at the page. Our thoughts have turned in the same improbable, yet intuitively correct direction. Mom said she got pregnant with me in her final year of college. My parents were in the same senior class. Harvard, 2003. My father was another student, visiting from Japan. A one-night stand. But not a mistake, she always insisted. Never a mistake.