Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(73)

After we’ve devoured our biscuits, fluffy pancakes, and greasy sausages, my father wipes his mouth. “This is where you come with your friends?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I toy with the newspaper print menu.

A chamberlain stands, bowing to my father. “Excuse me, just one moment,” he says, leaving the table.

Mom’s foot slams down on mine. “Ow.”

“You’re acting weird,” Mom accuses.

“No, I’m not,” I say back. “You’re the one acting weird. I mean, hearts are literally floating from your head.”

Mom carefully places her balled-up napkin on the table. She cradles her head in her hands. “You’re right. What am I thinking?”

Wow. The AGG and I follow this Twitter account called Am I the Asshole? People write in the scenarios and ask public opinion. You know, am I the asshole for asking my bridesmaid to lose twenty pounds before my wedding? Am I the asshole for asking my wife for a paternity test? I wouldn’t need it now. I am totally the asshole. “I’m sorry. You’re not acting like a lovesick fool.” She frowns at me, disbelieving. “Well, you are, kind of, but so is he. It’s disgusting. I hate it,” I say, but there’s no heat.

“After all these years … I never thought there would be a chance for us. But if you don’t want…”

I reach over to pat her hand. Sometimes my mom is too much. “It’s okay. You have my blessing. Just, you know, try to lock doors, or maybe hang a sock on the door handle.”

“Izumi,” she says, back in full Mom mode. My father is finishing up his conversation.

I stick my hands up. “I just don’t want to see anything that might scar me for life.”

She purses her lips. “I think we should discuss why you won’t go back with him.” On the hike, my father asked me to come back to Japan again. I dodged the question, pointing out a super interesting juniper tree.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I suddenly find a water spot on the wall fascinating.

“Sweetheart.” She waits until I look at her. “You’ve got to let him in.”

“Can we just enjoy lunch and our time together while he’s here?”

She scowls. “Is it because you think he won’t like what he hears? Because your job isn’t to be likable.”

My father returns. “What did I miss?” he asks, smile falling at the tension at the table.

Mom crosses her arms. She turns her ire on my father. “Centuries of pressuring women to be agreeable and conform to unrealistic emotional expectations.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.” My father frowns.

“You’re telling me,” Mom huffs. Her jaw sets. I’m sure she’s daydreaming about mutiny. Burning down the patriarchy. You know, little things.

I motion to the waitress. Check, please.



* * *



Day Three.

In the afternoon, Glory, Hansani, and Noora come over to officially meet my father. All said and done, introductions go well, even though Hansani curtsies. He seems impressed when he finds out Noora will be attending Columbia next year. I stay mute. The state college I got into is looking less and less glamorous. After, Mom shows my father the compost bin. Note to self: give Mom tips on romance.

“Do you think if we said we need some wood chopped, he’d do that?” Noora asks, fingers on the window ledge. We’re totally spying now, all four of us crammed together, peeking through the blinds. My parents have brushed up against each other no less than three times already. She points something out and he nods.

“He’d probably need to take his shirt off. It’s awfully warm out today,” Glory remarks.

“Stop objectifying my father,” I say to them. As usual, Hansani is quiet, but she’s guilty by association. My mom and father have come to the compost pile. Flies buzz around it. “Don’t stick your hand in it. Don’t stick your hand it. Please don’t stick your hand in it,” I say.

“Gross,” says Glory.

“She totally stuck her hand in it,” Hansani says.

Yep. Mom has a fistful of compost and is showing my father. To his credit, my father actually looks interested. He’s dressed more casually today, in slacks and a polo shirt. Mom throws the dirt back into the pile, wiping her palms on her jeans. “She’s going to show him the worm bin next. I can’t watch.” I cover my eyes and push away from the window.

Noora and Hansani fall away. Glory remains. “She’s at the worm bin. You don’t want to know what she’s doing now.”

Noora says to me, “We still on for movie night?”

“Yeah.” My father has asked Mom to dinner. Mom thought Indian food would be a great idea, but I steered her away. Curry is something you pay for later, if you know what I mean. I booked them a table for two at the local Italian eatery.

“Hansani wanted to watch The Bodyguard, but I told her it was way too soon,” Noora says.

Hansani is offended. “I did not.”

Noora smirks.

I fall back on my bed. “No romance, please. Nothing with princesses either,” I say.

“What about binge-watching a show? Schitt’s Creek?”

“Too happy,” I say.

Glory turns from the window. “Horror it is.”