“It’s my parents’ old car,” he says, fiddling with one of the falling-off knobs on the console. “They gave it to me when I came out here.”
“They’re still in New York?” I ask, puzzled. I’d assumed his parents moved with him.
“Um, yeah,” he says, giving me a rueful shrug. “I live in this kind of dorm thing for actors—it’s like boarding school. I have roommates and stuff. Not very slick. So . . . should I take you home or . . . um . . .”
It’s too dark to tell, but I swear he’s flushed bright red. Neither of us wants to go home, but we’re both afraid to say it. Saying it out loud might destroy the delicate, awkward crackle of energy that’s simmered between us since we broke our kiss and were rushed out of the park. It’s like we’re both dancing around an electric fence, the desire to reach out and touch it irresistible, the knowledge that we can’t irrefutable.
“I . . .” I stare at him for a moment, unable to do anything else. I shake my head, trying to wake myself from this all-new and exciting spell that’s been cast over me. “I don’t want to go home,” I finally make myself say. Well, more like confess.
Henry’s mouth curves into a tentative half smile. “Me neither.”
We are thankfully saved from the electric fence by Henry’s phone, which lets loose with a series of chimes.
“Oh,” he says, tearing his gaze from mine and picking up the phone, “looks like we’re back in the service area. And looks like I got some texts . . .”
I glance at my phone. Oh, shit. I also have many texts. From Belle and Rory, demanding more details on my “studying” with Henry. From Eliza and Sensei Mary, asking about the flood of pictures from today’s star-studded lunch hour at Katsu That—and also wondering when I’ll be coming back to practice.
I dismiss all notifications and turn my phone facedown.
Henry’s brow furrows as he studies the screen, and I try not to stare obsessively at every single one of his features, lingering especially long on his mouth . . .
“Yes!” he murmurs, tapping on the screen. He looks up and grins at me. “There’s an Asian Hollywood meetup tonight at this Thai place near . . . hmm, that area where Thai Town and Koreatown and Little Armenia sort of mush together.”
“Very LA,” I murmur.
“Aaaaaand . . .” With great fanfare, he flips the phone around and waves the screen in front of me, even though I can’t really make out any of the individual messages. “There’s a rumor that none other than Grace Kimura will be there!”
“What, really?!” I exclaim. “Are you sure that’s something that could happen?” I try to order my heart to get itself under control, but it’s exploding with newfound possibility. “If she’s in hiding, why would she come to something so public?”
“The Asian Hollywood meetups aren’t really public,” Henry says, tapping a message back to someone. “They’re supposed to be a safe space, no social media allowed. We usually rent out a place so we have it all to ourselves. It would actually make sense for Grace to go there, of all places, because she knows we’ll offer her support and actually respect her wishes to stay off the grid.”
“So . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to get my thoughts in order. I’m so scared to let this new possibility truly take root, and yet . . . I can’t stop the excitement flooding through me, making me feel like I’m about to burst. “Can we go there?”
Henry gives me one of his big, goofy grins. “Of course we can.” He reaches across the gearshift and takes my hand. “See? Didn’t I tell you to have hope?”
I want to refute him. To say that our having “hope” isn’t what magically made this happen.
But as he starts the car, I am shocked to find that I actually do have hope. Maybe for the first time ever. Like, in my life.
And as we take our meandering drive to the Thai Town/K-Town/Little Armenia mush, he holds my hand the whole way.
The restaurant we’re going to—Jitlada—is crammed into one of LA’s corner strip malls, improbable collections of businesses bunched together in a mishmash of rainbow awnings and glittering neon lights.
These strip malls always have exactly three parking spots, none of which are wide enough to position an actual vehicle in. Sometimes in the evening, there’s also a valet outside—as there is tonight. But Henry breezes right by the valet, turns the corner, and squeezes his car into a nearly invisible slip of a spot on the street.
“Wow,” I say, as he aligns his wheels precisely. “That is some smooth parallel parking.”
“Are you swooning over my parking?” he says, giving me an easy grin—but this one’s relaxed, genuine. Not like the smug easy grin from before that unsettled me so much. It’s like . . . he’s comfortable with me.
“What if I am?” I retort.
“How Angeleno of you,” he says, his grin widening. “Come on.”
We exit the car and walk up to the strip mall. Jitlada has a bright red-and-yellow awning, proclaiming its name in both English and Thai. Its windows are festooned with cascading twinkle lights, little strings of colorful beads, and a maze of handmade signs advertising the day’s specials.
“I’ve never actually eaten here,” I muse, taking it all in. “But I keep hearing about how good it is. Especially the southern pineapple shrimp curry—it’s supposed to be so spicy that your mouth goes numb. Auntie Suzy’s always talking about it because she wants to try developing this certain kind of gyoza for Katsu That that also turns your mouth numb . . . what?”
Henry has stopped in his tracks and is just kind of staring at me.
“Come here,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me around to the side
