Chapter Four
The boy hates him. He can live with that, truly. There are moments—when he observes her happiness, when he’s holding her in his arms, when he’s tasting her skin—that he remembers it can’t last forever. And he hates himself, too.
CALIFORNIA, UNITED STATES
Jiro springs the question on her mid December, the rain outside thunderous and his voice deceptively casual. “Is your husband going to be here for Christmas?”
Seven months.
It’s been seven months and they still don’t get along.
Anna’s eyes lift from the page of the novel she’d been reading, studying his expression.
He doesn’t return her stare, instead flipping the page of the cookbook he’s been looking over the past few days while they’ve been avoiding the torrential downpour outside their walls.
Jiro has probably looked over that same recipe a dozen times over by now.
Certainly enough that it can’t possibly be holding his attention the way he pretends it is.
He’s more invested in her answer than he wants her to know, but Anna’s not sure why.
She gives him the most honest answer she can. “I’m not sure.”
The holidays were never something they bothered to celebrate.
The meaning and spirit of them was lost to Anna over the centuries.
Occasionally, she would find herself enjoying the festivities when whatever life she had built called for it, but it had always been social rather than spiritual.
She participated, but the holiday held no personal meaning to her.
His lips thin in response, glowering into the open pages.
A thought occurs to her—one she kicks herself for not recognizing sooner. “Jiro, do you celebrate Christmas?”
He shrugs. “We used to. My mom used to take us to church every Sunday. Would decorate the house and convince my father to get a tree.” A frown pulls at his mouth, bitter longing at the edges. “I think a lot of it was just her trying to fit in, but it was fun.”
Anna closes her book, looking around the living room thoughtfully. “I’ve never had a tree of my own,” she confesses, measuring the room and rearranging furniture with her eyes. “Would you be willing to share some of your traditions with me?”
She catches the tiny smile curling his lips. “Sure.”
Khiran blinks, frozen in the doorway as he surveys the chaos. “There’s a tree in our living room.”
Anna hums, threading a needle through a piece of popcorn. There’s a pile of popped kernels in the lap of her dress that she’s been alternatively eating and decorating with. Jiro decided to brave the rain to try to find more red hollyleaf berries, so he can finish the strand he started. “There is.”
“It’s rather large.”
She glances at the tree, its peak so tall it curls against the ceiling. “It looked smaller in the forest.”
“I see,” he murmurs, setting a box labeled Moulin de la Vierge beside her before joining her on the floor. “I suppose this is for the boy?”
“A little,” she admits, shrugging. “He asked if you would be here for Christmas.”
He raises a brow. “Would you like me to be?”
“It might help. Maybe it will encourage you both to connect.”
He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Your optimism is charming. Hopelessly blind, but charming.”
Anna huffs, her needle pausing as she lets her hands drop to her lap. She leans her head against his shoulder. “I just don’t understand it.”
He reaches for the box between them, opening the lid to reveal neat rows of colorful macarons. When he holds it out to her in offering, Anna closes her eyes and selects one at random. Yellow. She takes a bite, savoring the citrusy sweet taste of lemon.
Khiran selects a green one. “Don’t worry yourself over it.”
The sound of the kitchen door shutting and the quick fall of footsteps announces Jiro’s return. He comes from around the corner, his dark hair wet but his grin bright. “I found some!” His expression falls flat when he sees who sits beside her. “Oh. Your husband’s here.”
He avoids Khiran’s name as much as Khiran avoids his. A petty game they seem wholly uninterested in ending anytime soon.
Khiran’s brows rise. “I am.”
Anna holds out the pastry box, not above bribing Jiro’s mood with sweets. “Macaron?”
He frowns at the rows of colorful cookies as if weighing whether to say no strictly because Khiran brought them. In the end, he grudgingly accepts a raspberry flavored one. Taking a small nibble from the corner, he makes a show of chewing thoughtfully before shrugging. “It’s alright, I guess.”
Khiran’s lips twitch in the corners. Anna can’t be sure if it’s a smile or a grimace.
Jiro pops the rest of the cookie in his mouth, lips stained with the smug shadow of a grin as he chews.
Khiran returns home late Christmas morning.
Anna knows without asking, that he timed his arrival purposefully. That he took her wish for them to get along to heart, regardless of how little faith he has in it. Under his arm, two gifts wrapped in red paper and gold trimmings snag her attention the moment he walks in the door.
Her lips are turned in a frown when he greets her with a kiss. They had agreed not to exchange.
Khiran smothers a grin. “Don’t scold me too severely. I consider yours to be a gift for both of us. I merely had it wrapped for the occasion.”
Yours, he had said, which means… Anna glances at the packages, the red paper winking up at her. “And the other one?”
His smirk sours into something that looks suspiciously like embarrassment. Glancing away, he sets the presents beneath the tree. Anna suspects it’s strategic; a reason to avoid her gaze when he admits, “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
A huff of laughter, and he shakes his head. “I couldn’t exactly acquire what you really wanted. Not on my own.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought perhaps an olive branch might inspire him to meet me halfway.”
Warmth curls in her chest, a gratitude that goes beyond what words can convey. She takes his hands in hers and tries, anyway. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Thank you for trying.”
The breath he releases is sharp with doubt. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m half expecting him to lob it at my face. Or use it for kindling.”
Anna knows he won’t. For all Jiro’s stubborn refusal to give Khiran an inch of a chance, he won’t refuse a gift out of spite. Not when he lived so long with so little. Whether it is received with gratitude or suspicion, however, is a question Anna doesn’t know the answer to.
Silently, she desperately hopes for the former.
That hope dims when Jiro comes in from gathering herbs from the garden and greets Khiran with a snide, “so you decided to show up?” in lieu of a hello.
Even more so, when their lunch is fraught with tension instead of merriment.
Khiran excuses himself to the living room while she cleans up the dishes and Jiro prepares the chicken.
Anna suspects his leaving was more for her sake than his own—it’s only after he leaves and the tension in the small kitchen eases that she realizes her neck and shoulders are taut with it.
She sets the first plate on the drying rack before moving to the next.
The water is warm on her hands, bubbles tickling her wrists, as she runs the dishrag over the china.
Anna used to think they were too pretty, too fragile, for their lifestyle—the delicately painted florals twirling around the gold rims. Now, despite having broken several pieces over the years, she’s glad for them.
The bit of color has grown on her; a spark of joy mapped in scrolling vines.
“There’s something for you under the tree,” she says, breaking the casual silence. “Perhaps when we’re done here, we’ll open gifts?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his spine straighten, his head swiveling to face her. “I thought we weren’t exchanging.”
“It’s not from me.”
A beat of silence, two, and Anna looks up from her washing. Jiro is frozen, his mouth parted and his eyes searching. There’s a confused furrow creasing his smooth brow, but it’s eclipsed by the suspicion shadowing his gaze. “Why would he get me anything?”
Anna shrugs, pulling the final plate from the water and setting it on the rack before grabbing a towel for her hands.
Turning, she faces him fully, leaning against the apron sink.
She can feel the chill of the enameled cast iron through her dress as she dries her hands.
Weighing her answer, she eventually settles for the truth.
“He understood that what I wanted most is for you two to get along.”
Jiro flinches. The trembling beginnings of guilt darken his eyes as his jaw works around words he can’t seem to bring himself to speak. Anna suspects they probably resemble an apology.
She sighs. “I don’t expect you to like him. There’s always going to be people we simply don’t get along with—”
“It’s not that,” he interrupts, the words leaving him in a rush and a flush rising to his cheeks. “It’s not—I just don’t like how he treats you.” Anna recoils, but he continues before she can speak. “I know he’s not actually your husband.”
Anna’s lips part, but the only thing that escapes is a soft, “Oh.”
Jiro’s face flushes, voice hissing like a pot under pressure. “You said you didn’t have a family name. Which means he didn’t give you one.” He gestured to her right hand. “And you wear that ring, but it’s not on your wedding finger.”
Anna blinks, too stunned to feel embarrassed. “You think I’m his mistress?”
Jiro flushes scarlet. “Well, aren’t you?” He makes a wide gesture to the walls. “He has you out here all by yourself in the middle of nowhere. And he leaves you alone for weeks, sometimes months at a time. He says he’s traveling for work, but he’s probably got a whole other family on the side!”