Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(5)
“Ugh, get to the point,” Glory grinds out.
As for me, I can’t stop staring at him. At Makoto. My father. At all our similarities. We have the same eyebrows, though I’ve plucked mine into submission. I brush my fingers against the screen, then withdraw them. No need to get emotionally attached.
Noora goes on. “Anyway, she couldn’t tell me very much. Something about confidentiality. So that was kind of a dead end.”
“Oh my God,” Glory says.
Noora frowns at Glory. “So then I did a Google search of the words: Makoto, Mak, Harvard 2003. And there he was. Easy peasy Japanese-y.” Noora waves a hand in front of my face. “All right?”
Words form and die in my throat. “Yes. No. Maybe?”
“I’m going to take that as a yes, because there’s more.”
More? How could there be more?
“Stay with me.”
Noora is quiet for a moment. She clears her throat. Ahem. I’m drawn from the screen.
“He’s royalty.” Pause. Her smile grows brighter. “A prince.” Another pause. Smile brighter still. “The Crown Prince of Japan, to be exact. His real name is Makotonomiya Toshihito.”
Seconds tick by on the clock above our heads. Noora’s grin brittles. I snort. I have the distinct feeling of standing at the end of a very long and dark tunnel.
“I don’t think she’s okay,” Hansani whispers, concerned. “Maybe we should call the nurse.”
“We don’t have a nurse anymore. Budget cuts,” Glory states.
Hysteria swells in my throat. It’s got nowhere to go but up and out. I laugh sharply, uncontrollably. Yeah, I’m losing it.
Noora says, “Seriously, Zoom Zoom, this isn’t funny. You’re a prince’s love child. The fruit of his loins.”
“The words fruit and loins should never be said together,” Glory remarks, mouth full of egg salad.
Noora’s grin flattens into one unhappy line. “You don’t believe me. None of you believe me. Fine. Proof, meet pudding.” She minimizes the photo and brings up an article from a newspaper.
THE TOKYO TATTLER
Oldest unmarried heir in the history of the Chrysanthemum throne has no plans to marry
May 23, 2018
At thirty-nine years old, His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Toshihito remains a confirmed bachelor and has no plans to marry, a palace insider reports. Despite plenty of eligible candidates, the Crown Prince refuses to settle down. The Imperial Household Agency is extremely distressed, though they won’t come out and say it …
The article goes on to speculate on the Crown Prince’s eligible brides: a distant royal relative, the niece of an official at the Ise Grand Shrine, the granddaughter of the former prime minister of Japan, or the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Pictures accompany the article of the women. They appear on my father’s arm, beautiful show ponies basking in the limelight and his attention. He is opposite in demeanor—stoic, stance rigid, frown firmly in place. Nothing like his Harvard photo. There are criticisms of the women in the article, too. Not the right hat for a garden party; not the right gloves for a state dinner; not enough family money—or worse, too much new family money.
The girls have gathered behind me. We stare at the laptop screen.
Hansani says, “He’s like the Asian George Clooney.”
“Pre–Amal and twins,” Glory amends.
I close out of the article and spend the next five minutes clicking through more photos. There he is sharing the Covent Garden Royal Box with Prince Charles and Camilla for a performance of La Traviata. In another, brunching with the Grand Duke of Luxembourg at Betzdorf Castle. In another, sailing the Mediterranean with the King of Spain. On it goes: skiing in Liechtenstein with Prince Hans, attending a state dinner with President Sheikh bin Zayed al-Nahyan in the UAE … To top it all off, there’s an actual photo of him with George Clooney! I slam the laptop closed and push away from the table, needing space.
Noora, Glory, and Hansani smile hesitantly. They radiate anxiety. “My father is the Crown Prince of Japan.” Perhaps speaking it out loud will make it more real.
Nope.
It’s hard to believe, but the pictures don’t lie. I’m his spitting image. The fruit of his loins. Yeah, still don’t like that term.
“Holy childhood-dreams-come-true! You’re a princess,” says Noora.
Princess. Most little girls dream about this. I didn’t. My mom bought me building blocks with Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Hilary Clinton on them. I just dreamed of having a father, knowing where I come from, and being able to speak proudly about who I am.
“If you’re royalty, then I’ve got to be something, too,” Noora barrels on. “I’m going to pay for that genealogy thing when I get home. Fingers crossed it shows I’m fifty percent Targaryen, thirty percent British royals, and one hundred percent Oprah’s long-lost sister.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” says Hansani. At Noora’s stink eye, she holds up both hands. “Just saying.”
Noora dismisses her and turns to me. “This is the greatest thing ever to happen to me. My best friend is royalty!” She squeezes her clenched fists under her chin and bats her eyes at me. “I’m going to ride your coattails so hard.”