“Baby Hank has been in this industry since he was an actual baby,” Joanna snorts. “He has more experience than any of us!”
“Ahh, but he’s still so innocent!” Diya says with a smirk. “So earnest, so happy all the time—always believing the best of people! The rest of us are bitter old crones.”
“Speak for yourself, crone,” Mason says, rolling his eyes. “My youth is eternal.”
I sneak a glance at Henry as the group dissolves into good-natured bickering. He hasn’t really said anything, just let them rib him and joke among themselves. But he has the biggest grin stretched across his face, and he’s leaning back in his seat, his broad shoulders relaxed. He is at ease. He loves this—this place, these people, the community they’ve built.
I look around the room, all these Asian faces. These incredibly varied, happy Asian faces. No one’s shrinking or trying to hide, no one’s threatened by Beckys or elders who think they’re a mistake or a blight on their people.
No one’s acting like they have to . . . I don’t know. Apologize for the fact that they exist?
“This is so great!” I say—then realize I said that out loud, not just in my head.
Four heads swivel in my direction, and I immediately feel self-conscious.
“Sorry,” I say. “I, um. I stick out? In my community. For a variety of reasons.” My cheeks flame. I don’t need to be getting into my tragic backstory with total strangers. “But you all seem so, I don’t know, comfortable in your own skin? Happy, even?”
“Are you expressing shock over the fact that we’re all Asian, but we don’t hate ourselves?” Mason says, cocking an eyebrow.
“Oh . . . oh, sorry, no!” I sputter. “God, I . . . I was only speaking for myself—I always feel like . . . um . . .”
“Mason, give her a break,” Henry says, squeezing my hand protectively.
“Seriously!” Joanna says, swatting Mason’s shoulder. “You know we’ve all fought, like, literal battles to get to where we are. Between racism, white supremacy bullshit, pop culture stereotypes, family pressure, inter-community prejudices and politics, the fact that so many people still don’t even know what ‘Asian American’ actually means . . . I mean, the messages we’re fed about ourselves from birth, both from the outside and the inside, isn’t that why we’re trying to ‘be the change’ and all? So the next generation is less self-hating and grows up totally well-adjusted and comfortable in their identities?”
“Well, yeah,” Mason says, rolling his eyes. “I was teasing—I swear, y’all never get my humor.”
“Ooh, girl, don’t even listen to him.” Diya pats my hand, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Jo is right, we’ve all fought hard to get here. And we all stick out in our own ways—trust me. There’s plenty of purity-policing in all of our communities. So many East Asians like to tell me I’m not actually Asian because apparently brown-skinned girls don’t fit in with their idea of what that should look like.” She harrumphs, tossing her glossy mane of hair.
“And don’t even get me started on the anti-Blackness in the Korean side of my family,” Mason says, slouching back in his seat. “Fuck that, we’re all Asian—and here, we celebrate that.” He flashes me a charming grin. “Consider yourself celebrated, eh, Rika Rakuyama?”
I smile back, something soft and warm lighting my heart. My nure-onna hisses, urging me to shove that softness down as hard as possible. But the thing is . . . I don’t want to. I want to bask in this warmth. This joy. This celebration.
“Speaking of celebrating,” Henry says, releasing my hand and resting his elbows on the table, “you said Diya might know if Grace is stopping by?”
Oh, right, Grace! Ever since we left the old zoo . . . ever since we kissed . . . and then kissed again . . . I seem to keep getting distracted from my primary mission.
“Girl hasn’t been on the text thread at all,” Diya says, her gaze darkening a bit. “Truth be told, I’m worried about her.”
“She said she’d send up a flare if she needed our help,” Mason says. “But she also said she needs space right now.” He shakes his head. “Trying not to be like my parents, all up in the land of boundary violations.”
“Pfft, stop insulting your ancestors—I have no boundaries,” Diya says, whipping out her phone. “I’m texting her right now to make sure she knows we’re here.”
“God, I haven’t even gotten to meet her yet,” Joanna says, toying with the end of her ponytail. “Though maybe that’s for the best, since I’ll probably melt into a pile of incoherent goo when I do.”
“Really, you’re a fan?” I say, tilting my head at her curiously.
“Of course!” she says, her smile widening. “Look, I’m an easy cry—if I start telling her what Meet Me Again meant to me the first time I watched it, seeing an Asian American woman as a legit rom-com lead . . .” Her eyes flutter dreamily as she brings a hand to her chest. “Forget it. I will lose my shit.”
“Sweet Rika, are you saying you’re not a fan?” Diya says, drumming her red fingernails on the tabletop—and somehow I just know that “Sweet Rika” is my nickname in this circle now, just like Henry is Baby Hank. Obviously an incorrect nickname—Diya doesn’t know me very well. “Do you not swoon every time our Grace gets her man?”
“Dude, even I swoon,” Mason says. “And I’m the most unsentimental bastard you’ll ever meet.”
“Oh, I just . . . her movies aren’t really my thing,” I say, trying to brush it off. “I don’t believe in happy endings like that.”
“Excuse. Me?!” Diya levels me with a shrewd look, sizing me up through her long lashes. “Baby Hank, have we not raised you right? How are you treating your girl? Why is she so anti-romance?”
“Oh no—no!” I say hastily. “It’s not because of Henry. It’s just . . . the way I am.” I give them a valiant smile, hoping maybe that can be the end of it.
“No,” Diya says, shaking her head vehemently. “Big fat nope, I refuse to accept this, Sweet Rika. I saw that light in
