Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(31)

The group of salarymen have grown rowdy, their ties loosened. Yoshi winks at the pink-haired girls and they collapse into a fit of giggles. My God, to have such power over the opposite sex.

Gyoza is next. The fried pork dumplings dipped in chili oil burn my mouth but soak up some of the sake, and I sober a little, just in time for the group of salarymen to send us a round of shōchū, starchier than the sake but delicious all the same. We toast to them, to the bar, to the night, to Tokyo. My stomach is near bursting when the chef places agedashi—fried tofu—in front of us. Finally, Taka orders fermented squid guts. I don’t try it, but I laugh as he slurps them up.

Yoshi pays our check. “What do we do now?” I ask. I’m not ready for the night to end. I feel light. Free. My cheeks hurt from laughing. The possibilities are endless. Taka suggests making our way to a local school. A mountain cultist who follows a blend of Buddhism and Shinto will be walking on hot coals. I’m interested.

Yoshi slams back the rest of his drink and Taka rubs his stomach. “No. I’ve got a better idea.” My cousin flashes me a smile that is in no way reassuring.

We follow Yoshi, stumbling next door to a karaoke bar. The group of salarymen join us, along with the pink-haired girls who Yoshi throws an arm around.

One of the salarymen walks next to me. His collar is open. He’s young and cute, with a flop of dark hair that falls into his eyes. He wants to practice English. “Sūpā,” he says, pointing across the street.

“Supermarket,” I reply.

“Soopuhrmahket,” he says back slowly. “Ohime,” he says, pointing at the front of my chest.

“Izumi,” I say.

He shakes his head. “No. Ohime.”

“Princess,” Taka says from behind me.

“Princess,” the salaryman says.

The forbidding from earlier creeps back in, but Yoshi seems to think everything is okay. No one has tried to pull out a camera and snap a photo. I go along with it, allow the alcohol to dull my inhibitions, my misgivings.

The karaoke bar is rowdier than the izakaya. The walls are glass and it’s like we’ve landed in some futuristic vampire movie. We go up a flight of narrow stairs to the private booths and drop into vinyl seats. Drinks arrive—sake with muddled kiwi, martinis with chocolate shavings, and bottles of beer.

Yoshi tells me how he lived off imperial grounds for a while. What a time it was. Then he asks me my favorite color, my sign, where I get my hair cut, my blood type. “B positive,” I say, which is also my life motto. The pink-haired girls are singing. The song is by Hideto Matsumoto, the man from their T-shirts. A rocker turned rebel icon who committed suicide at thirty-three—he is a cult legacy, Yoshi explained. Fifty thousand people attended his funeral.

“We’re not compatible at all. I’m type A.” He pouts. “And you don’t speak any Japanese at all?” he asks, picking at his beer label.

I swallow, tasting chocolate from the martini. “Not really. I’m learning now.” Old insecurities tickle the back of my neck. It’s an odd sensation to blend into this bar but still be an outsider. I recognize myself in their faces—in their dark eyes, hair, skin color—but not in their mannerisms, their customs. I thought Japan would be different. I thought I’d slip into the country like an old coat. While some things are familiar, there are things I’ll never understand. Tonight, I’ve stepped out the door and into Tokyo, but it’s not my home.

I give Yoshi a brief rundown of my family history. How I was lost before I was born. He stares into the neck of his beer bottle. “Heavy stuff. I get it.” His eyes rise to mine. “I think you and I are more alike than not. I can’t imagine trading my family, but I can perfectly picture trading circumstances. I’ve never felt at home being a prince.”

Same, I think. I nod, because there’s nothing more to say. Yoshi understands what it’s like to be a part of something but not fully belong to it. I can’t help but wonder if that will be my fate here, too. Am I chasing a ghost? Am I doomed to wander?

Taka takes the microphone. He starts singing something slow and a little melancholy, like a lullaby. The salarymen shrug out of their suit jackets and slow dance with the Hideto super fans. Confetti falls from the ceiling.

“I miss my apartment in the city,” Yoshi says.

I smile softly at him. I know this feeling well, of wanting something different, a place to call your own. “I would’ve liked to see it.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I came and went as I pleased. No chamberlains hanging about, looking over my shoulder, shuffling me from event to event. What about you?”

“What about me?”

Yoshi says, “I miss my shitty apartment. What do you miss?”

Alcohol always makes you more honest. “Mount Shasta,” I blurt and realize it’s true. I miss my house, my friends, my mom and my stinky dog—the comfort of the familiar. You don’t really know what you have until it’s gone. I describe it all to Yoshi—the quiet life of a small town, how everything moves slowly.

“So go home,” Yoshi says, picking at his beer bottle label. “Sounds like a nice enough place.”

“It’s not that easy.” My throat feels dry, so I take a drink. “I don’t know. Don’t listen to me.” I frown into my lap. I’m killing the mood.