Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(36)

“Everything is fine,” says Mariko. Clearly, it is not.

I direct my stare at Akio. “Is something wrong with your mother?”

His posture is rigid. “It’s really nothing, Your Highness. My mother needs medication and my father can’t leave her right now to go to the pharmacy. He is asking I pick it up. I have informed him I cannot leave work.”

“Oh.” I slump back in my seat, thinking. It’s obvious what needs to be done. “Where’s the pharmacy?”

“Pardon?” Akio says.

“The pharmacy. What is the address?” I overenunciate.

He bristles, shaking his head.

“Name and address, please,” I insist.

He says it quietly, but I hear. Before I can forget it, I roll down the partition separating the seat from the chauffeur. “There’s been a change of plans,” I say loudly. “We’re going to…” I give him the pharmacy address. “Then we’re going to…” I turn to Akio. “What’s your home address?”

“I don’t think—”

Mariko chimes in, “He lives in Kichijōji, near the temple.” At Akio’s WTF look, Mariko says, “If that’s where the princess wants to go, that’s where we’ll go.”

Akio chews on the situation, and after several moments, he spits out, “Ten minutes at the pharmacy and ten minutes at my parents’ house. Then we’ll go to the imperial kennels.”

I shrug. “Whatever you say.” I remember our conversation on the porch back at the palace. Technically, I am the boss of you. “You’re the boss, after all.”



* * *



Soon enough, we’re outside the pharmacy. Akio makes me promise twice I won’t budge an inch before darting out.

“This is a kind thing you’re doing,” Mariko says, a bit begrudgingly. “Our parents know one another. My mother worked as a lady-in-waiting while his father was an imperial guard. What’s happening to his mother…” She trails off. “It’s so unfair.”

I swallow. It’s the first kind word Mariko has ever said to me, and it’s making me emotional. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Mariko harrumphs, remembering she doesn’t like me. “Yeah, well. Anything to avoid the kennels, I guess.”

The car door swings open and Akio is back inside the car, plastic bag in hand.

Half an hour later, we’re pulling up alongside a curb to a little house situated between two concrete towers. Beyond the gate, a tall man with sparse gray hair peeks through the curtains. Akio’s father. They share the same flat-lined mouth and hooded eyes. Good to know broody eyebrows run in the family.

The screen on Akio’s phone lights up. “My father sees the imperial vehicle and knows you’re inside. He offers his hospitality. Don’t worry. I’ll make excuses.” Akio starts to climb from the car. I follow after waiting a beat for Mariko, who shakes her head. Fine, she can stay in the vehicle.

Akio doesn’t notice me. I’ll be damned. He really does believe when he gives an order that it’s blindly obeyed. He goes through the gate and I catch it. His steps echo on the mossy flagstones, and mine do, too. He whips around. “You’re not in the car.”

“Yes, Akio, I would love to meet your parents and see your childhood home. Thank you so much for asking.” I smile at his face, blinking back.

“My mother is ill.”

“I gathered as much. Is she contagious? Is there a concern for my health and safety? Or hers?”

His head shakes. “No. But—”

“Then please…” I stick out a hand, my grin stretching. “Lead the way.”

He sighs through his nose very loudly before resuming course. His father greets us at the door, bowing low, then hops off to brew tea after making me comfortable in the living room. Once I’m settled, Akio disappears down the hall, white bag in hand.

Of course, I don’t stay where I’m put. The room is simply furnished—a navy couch and wooden chair with clean lines. Shelves of books line a wall and are crammed with various texts, the brightly colored spines adding splashes of color.

There are framed photos pinned up in the hall, and I walk over to them. It’s a timeline of Akio’s life. Akio as a newborn, toddler, preschooler, and it’s true: his cheeks are those of a squirrel hiding nuts. What counteracts the adorableness is Akio’s tiny frown. So he’s been that way since birth. Next, I come to a large photograph of his elementary school entrance ceremony. His mom wears a kimono, his dad a suit, and Akio sports a brand new randoseru, a hard-sided backpack. I keep going, and note he’s an only child. Ha! I knew it. We can smell our own. It’s probably why we butt heads so much. We’re used to getting our own way. I’m probably better at sharing, though. Noora would totally corroborate. The last photo is recent, one of him looking dashing in an imperial guard uniform. His parents stand by his side, beaming with pride.

At the end of the hall, there are two doors. Both are cracked open. In one, I see Akio’s back. He’s folded his big body into a chair and sits next to a bed. Holding his mother’s hand, he speaks softly to her. He turns and I dart into the other room.

There is a futon, television, and desk. Posters are tacked up. Model planes litter every available surface. I touch the nose of one, sending the propeller whirring.