The gorgeous hiking trails winding up into the mountains give you stunning views of the city. Its majestic observatory—featured in a cavalcade of movies that never seem to do it justice—takes you to the stars. And the deeper you hike into its wild clusters of nature, the more untamed and overgrown it gets. It feels like entering a magical hideaway, cut off from the smog and urban bustle of the city.
Because it’s summer, I know all areas of the park will be hopelessly crowded, so I have Henry park in the big lot near the famous merry-go-round—that means we’ll have to hike a bit to get to the abandoned zoo area, but that will be way faster and less frustrating than trying and failing to find parking in one of the tinier areas closer to where we’re going. The tinkly music from the merry-go-round gives us a somewhat eerie-yet-festive fanfare when we exit the car.
Henry can’t seem to stop looking around excitedly as we hike farther in, his eyes lit with genuine awe.
“Do you come here a lot? It’s incredible.”
“I do,” I say, trying to brush all thoughts of my imminent reunion from my mind—even as the fluttery feeling in my gut remains. “I’m kind of surprised at your reaction, though—don’t you have cool parks in that ever-superior New York of yours?”
“We do,” he says, his eyes doing that twinkly thing that means he’s just oh-so-amused. “But this is something else. I didn’t realize such grandeur was possible in LA.”
“Well, get ready, because there’s way more where that came from,” I say, gesturing to the gloriously clear early evening sky. “Once we get to the old zoo, I’m expecting you to be fully dazzled.”
I have to say, this amorphous stretch between day and night always feels extra weird during the summer, when the sun hovers in the sky for longer and the light fights off the encroaching darkness for a few extra hours, refusing to give an inch. The heat also lingers, although out here it’s not quite as blistering as downtown. All the green tempers it—there’s that scrap of shade from a lazy palm frond, that soft breeze feathering over our skin. I know summer is a time a lot of people associate with pure fun—freedom and possibility, a season when things both end and begin. But I’ve always seen it as hopelessly melancholy. The sun and the heat try so hard to stay, to hang on to those last gasps of daylight before sliding into the cool gloom of fall.
It’s not just summer that’s weird and melancholy right now, though—there’s also this off-kilter energy between me and Henry. After Craig stormed out, things mostly got back to normal—whatever this afternoon’s version of “normal” is. We cycled through our customers, Henry took pictures with all his fans, and we left Auntie Och gleefully tallying up the day’s impressive earnings.
And Henry and I have snapped back to our usual dynamic—his happy-puppy energy bouncing off my permanent scowl and resulting in snipey bickering. But right now there’s something about it that feels hollow, like we’re playacting exaggerated versions of ourselves, wearing costumes that suddenly feel too big.
I can’t help but flash back to our afternoon at Katsu That, to that moment when he met my eyes and very seriously asked if I was okay—
“Rika, is everything all right?” Henry says, as if reading my mind.
And those simple words bring up that wild swirl of untamed feelings all over again. I feel my face get hot, my chest tighten. I don’t know why I’m having all these emotions over such a basic question.
“Fine,” I say briskly, quickening my step.
God, we’re about to be late. Part of me wants to turn around and go home. There’s no way she’ll wait for very long—is there? Will she fight as hard as the sun to stay here? Will she fight as hard . . . for me?
I can’t stop that tiny flutter of hope skittering through my gut, wanting so desperately to believe that we’ll arrive at those jagged rock formations and see Grace Kimura, her brilliant smile lighting up the whole damn park as she throws her arms wide to greet me. “We’re coming up on seven way too fast, and since she never responded to your texts, we have no real way of communicating with her, and I just . . . I hope . . .” I trail off, the words thickening in my throat. I can’t even vocalize my hope. It feels too much like . . . well, a fairy tale.
“She’ll be there,” Henry says, the sureness in his voice sending a flash of warmth through me that has nothing to do with the hazy sun. “But I meant, like, are you all right after what happened with that rude asshole—Craig?”
“Oh,” I say, my voice tipping up in surprise. “I mean . . . yeah. Of course. He’s always doing shit like that—saying shit like that. I’m used to it.”
That last bit comes out way snappier than I intend, and I bite my lip, as if trying to stuff all the words back into my mouth. Henry’s quiet for a long moment, and the only sounds are our feet rustling against the soft cushion of the grass as we continue to tramp toward the abandoned zoo.
When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet, I have to strain to hear it.
“That doesn’t make what he said okay.”
I . . . what? I have no idea what to do with that, so now it’s my turn to be silent. I find myself walking faster, moving ahead of him. Like I’m trying to outrun both the slow set of the sun and any further conversation.
But Henry being Henry, that’s not the end of it.
“That guy’s a dick,” Henry says with great conviction. “And you’re so you—”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I say, my face flaming.
“Just . . . you never have any problem telling me when I’ve done something . . . displeasing,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his
