Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(54)

“What did your mom do?”

I slump down. “She just kind of took it. Eventually I calmed down, and in the car, my mom explained. Her parents died in a terrible car accident the summer before she left for college. She said my name was the only way she could give me a memory of where I was from. I never discussed it with her again. But I did start going by Izzy. I erased part of myself to make it easier for people, but it was also easier for me. Sometimes you just don’t want the headache, you know?”

“Honestly, I don’t. But I’m sorry.” Akio’s voice is deep and earnest. I hang my head and gaze at my lap. He places a hand over mine, curling it around my fingertips. “You shouldn’t be ashamed, though.” He quiets, squeezing my fingers before letting them go. “If I could, I would take your sorrows and bury them deep.”

I gape at him. “Do you just sit around and practice perfect things to say?”

He stares back at me, totally calm. “Yes. It’s really what all imperial guards do. We have a critique group that meets on Wednesdays. My buddy Ichiro works mostly with haiku,” he deadpans.

I smile. How many people get to see this funny side of Akio? His dry sense of humor? I think I am blessed to be one of the few.

“What a gross misuse of time,” I say.

“I’ll report your concerns to my supervisor.”

I find another grin.

“Nice to see you smile again.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Are you tired?”

“Not in the least.”

He looks over his shoulder, through the giant windows and the dark garden beyond. “My mother used to take me on walks when I couldn’t sleep. We’d count the stars. Want to try that?”

I nod and smile, playing with the hoodie’s drawstrings. “Couldn’t hurt.”



* * *



We steal away. A gentle breeze skirts the highest branches of the trees. It’s cool, but not too cold, dark and quiet with the occasional cricket chirp and the sound of our breaths.

A plane flies overhead, white and red lights blinking. I crane my neck. “Whenever I see an airplane, I always wonder where it’s going, who it’s carrying.”

Akio gazes up. His profile in silhouette. “That’s a commercial plane. Probably a twin-engine regional aircraft headed for Tokyo.”

I sigh. “That’s considerably less romantic than I thought.”

We resume course, traveling deeper into the garden. The palace disappears behind the tree line. “So, planes…?” I think of the model aircraft in his bedroom.

He says, “When I graduated two years ago, I decided to enlist in the Air Self-Defense Force.”

My face screws up. “Then how’d you wind up here?”

His steps slow a bit. “There was always an unspoken expectation that I would return one day and follow in my father’s footsteps as an imperial guard. My mother grew ill, forcing my father into early retirement. I did my duty.”

“That seems unfair.”

He huffs out a breath. “It feels unfair. But my parents were older when they had me. You know, the last remnants of a postwar generation, brought up to value sacrifice, discipline, and duty.”

“Whoa. Gimu. Peak Japanese.” Japanese language is subtly nuanced. There is a myriad of words to describe duty, and among them is the gimu—a lifelong obligation to family or country.

“Yes. Gimu,” Akio agrees resignedly. “My father is complicated but a good man. He loves my mother, though he shows it in strange ways. The other day I heard him demand she not die without him. We Kobayashis are anything but autocratic.” He scratches his head. “His dreams are ending while mine should be beginning.”

A bridge arches overhead. I cross my arms. “I used to think the world belonged to me. But I was wrong. I belong to the world. And sometimes … I guess sometimes, our choices have to reflect that.”

“Exactly.” Akio gives a pained sigh.

We’re on the bridge now, our steps echoing on the wide, wooden plank deck. Akio falls behind me and I drift to the edge, to the rail where the end posts are capped with upside-down bell-shaped finials. Below, the water lapses against the pebbled shore. Even in the dark, it’s a breathtaking sight. I turn to Akio and can’t help but smile. I’m still all keyed-up. He stands in the middle of the bridge, watching me. The hard line of his jaw shifts. “Izumi, come here,” he says.

I do as I’m summoned. Once in front of him, I tip my chin up. “Yes.”

“You know of gimu. But have you studied ninjō?”

It’s hard to think the way he’s looking at me. I rack my brain. “Ninjō?”

“Ninjō is human emotion, and often conflicts with gimu. A classic example is a samurai who falls for a shogun’s daughter. Bound by duty, he cannot act on his feelings.”

“Or an imperial guard who wishes to change careers but cannot out of familial obligation?” I say.

He nods and shuffles closer to me. “I have a proposition for you.”

“You do?”

“What would you say if I asked you to be Izumi? I’d be Akio. No titles. No duties.” He pauses. The muscles in his throat work. “What if we gave in to our ninjō?”

“I’d say it’s practically our duty as Japanese citizens.”