Chapter 2
Jo
When Hiroki returns, he’s changed out of his coveralls and tied back his hair. I clock the work-worn leather boots, the faded black T-shirt and the old black Levis, worn just so. Annoyingly, he is very handsome.
He carries the food to the table while Rowena brings out fresh Modelos for Hiroki and me. My nieces sit on either side of me, filling the warm night air with happy chatter about their adventures at summer camp and roller-skating, their new obsession.
“Mom rented the entire roller rink for our party tomorrow.” Lily is more of a chatterbox than her sister. “It is so cool and groovy. You’re going to love it, Auntie Jo. There are all these colored lights and a disco ball—”
“Two disco balls!” Rose pipes in.
“And they play all these oldies from the nineties and two-thousands.”
“Oldies,” Rowena says, pointing at Hiroki and me. “You hear that? We’re the new oldies.”
“I miss the old oldies,” I say. “Bubblegum music. Lollipop, lollipop. Stuff like that.”
“I like Motown,” Hiroki adds. “Marvin Gaye.”
Rowena changes the playlist. “What’s Going On?” pipes in through hidden speakers in the garden.
Hiroki offers me a slice of watermelon before taking one for himself. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him take a bite. A tiny, clear drop of pink runs down his chin before he swipes it away with his thumb. He smiles a little bit. To himself? Does he know I’m watching him?
I clear my throat. My voice sounds strange and hoarse when I ask, “Where did you grow up?”
“Japan,” he says. “My family moved here when I started high school. I was around your nieces’ age.”
“Thirteen. That must have been difficult.”
He gives his head a slight shake. “Not really. My father taught us English. He studied at universities in the UK and the United States, so we were bilingual when we arrived. And there’s a big Japanese community in Torrance, which helped with the adjustment.
” He takes another bite. “How about you? Where did you and your sister grow up?”
I pause, as I always do when I have to talk about my past. Hiroki waits without saying anything, allowing me to gather my thoughts. I take a bite of watermelon and swallow it down.
“We moved a lot,” I say at last. “Our father was in the navy. I was born in Virginia, and my sister was born in San Diego. Our parents divorced when we were quite young. After that we lived with our mom.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. My mom didn’t like to stay in one place.”
I don’t want to scare Hiroki, so I leave out some key details.
After the divorce, my mother moved in with one rich man after another.
She convinced us that the only way to find stability in life was to find our own rich men.
When she was flush, she sent us to charm school, ballet and elocution tutors so we would sound like rich white Americans.
She paid for laser hair removal and braces and even sent Rowena to South Korea for eyelid surgery.
She sent us to college to improve our chances of meeting a rich man—Rowena studied art history, I studied fashion design.
In the end, we did it. We found rich men. Rowena married hers, but I did not.
Rowena brings out a tray of s’mores ingredients, and Hiroki lights the firepit.
We lounge around the fire while the girls toast marshmallows.
Marvin Gaye serenades us as the sun slips down behind the mountains.
The air cools slightly and the sky goes two-toned, slate blue up top and pale orange along the horizon.
The thinnest shaving of a crescent moon hangs in the east.
Hiroki toasts a marshmallow to golden brown perfection and squishes it gently between two graham crackers.
He hands it to me. “For you.”
“How about you?” I ask.
“Later.”
When he leans back on the outdoor couch next to me, he stretches out his legs and our thighs touch slightly. I haven’t had physical contact with a man in so long, my skin tingles through the layers of our clothing.
I want to ask him all kinds of questions.
How old are you? How did you become an artist?
What’s it like being a hot, employed, single man in Los Angeles?
But I’m hesitant. I can’t seem to remember how to have friendly after-dinner conversation, much less flirt.
To stall, I take a bite of the s’more he’s given me.
I smile, pretending that I didn’t just drip hot marshmallow onto my muumuu. I clear my throat. “So—”
A booming voice startles all of us.
“Hey, where’s my warm welcome? Where is everyone?”
“Dad!” The girls hop up and rush to hug my brother-in-law as he steps out of the back door.
I stifle a groan.
Rowena walks to Thomas. She doesn’t embrace him like the girls do, but she takes the overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He kisses her cheek, and she looks past him, toward the barbecue grill.
“We were expecting you tomorrow morning,” she says. “Let me fix you a plate.”
“Sure.”
Thomas has been away for a week, so their lukewarm reunion strikes me as weird. They barely make eye contact as Lily and Rose drag him over to the fireplace to show him their double- and triple-decker s’mores.
“We have company!” Thomas says as he sits down. “Hideki-san. Konbanwa.”
Hiroki shakes his hand but doesn’t correct the pronunciation of his name. I wince, wondering why almost everything about my brother-in-law makes me cringe. Even his use of Japanese feels like an awkward flex.
Thomas turns to me. “Jocelyn.” His mouth is smiling but his eyes aren’t. I can feel him scanning me, reading me for weaknesses. “I’m surprised you’re able to take time off for the party. Who’s running the shop?”
When Rowena asked me the same question, she was curious. When Thomas asks me this question, it’s an opening salvo.
“My two helpers,” I say. “They’ve got it covered.”
“Oh, so you’ve hired two now. That’s good. I’m glad you’re finally able to do that.”
I put down my s’more on a nearby napkin. My fingertips fuss with the marshmallow drip on my knee. I try to peel it off. It’s sticky.
“You know, I can always take a quick look at your numbers and give you some tips to fine-tune things,” Thomas says, grinning. “I know I’ve asked you before, but the offer still stands.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m set, thanks.”
“It wouldn’t take me long. I am a numbers guy at heart, after all.
” He leans forward, tipping his head toward me.
“You know what? I can even get one of my accounting staff to do it if you’d prefer.
If that would make you more comfortable.
It’s hard to share that information, especially when you’re so sensitive about it.
Maybe I can help you hire a third helper. ”
I bite my tongue. Thomas inherited his family’s real estate empire, invested in failing companies and shredded them to pieces for profit.
Now he gets his rocks off backing indie movies and getting his photo taken at Sundance and Telluride.
Rowena says his next ambition is to be a Hollywood producer.
Just what Hollywood needs. Another asshole.
My nieces are building little houses out of graham crackers and shooting marshmallows at each other.
Their laughter echoes in the canyon, pure joy.
I don’t want to upset them or my sister, so I imagine myself turning to granite.
Head to toe, solid stone. I won’t give Thomas the pleasure of a reaction.
“Thank you, I’ll think about it,” I say, as flatly as I can.
Thomas enjoys needling me so much. Why? “Family helps family, Jocelyn,” he says. “That’s what we do. Let me help you.”
Next to me, Hiroki is silent. With the slightest pressure, he presses his leg into mine, a secret acknowledgment that he’s here. He’s a stranger, but now he’s also a witness. He sees what’s happening here.
I look my brother-in-law in the eye. “I’m grateful, Thomas. Thank you.”
Rowena returns from the grill with a dinner plate for her husband. She makes eye contact with me and frowns as if she can feel the annoyance flowing from me in hot, invisible waves.
She turns to Lily and Rose. “Girls, why don’t you show Auntie Jo and Hiroki your roller skates? All the lights are on at the tennis court.”
The girls screech with excitement and barrel into the house to get their skates.
“Your helmets and pads too!” Rowena calls after them.
Hiroki and I stand up at the same time. Cool air hits my skin as soon as we’re separated.
“Do me a favor,” Rowena says. “Just check the tennis court for coyotes before the girls go in, okay?”
“Coyotes?” I say.
“There are a lot of them roaming the hills this year,” Thomas says, smirking and toeing off his loafers. “Don’t let them get you.”