“Henry.” I plant my feet and cross my arms over my chest. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing—why would anything be wrong?” he says—so loudly that the valet turns and shoots us a quizzical look. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I counter, still refusing to move. “Whatever you are, it started back in there”—I jerk my head at Jitlada—“when that big audition came up. You got all tense.”
He shrugs, his bizarre smile faltering. “I’m fine,” he repeats, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. He throws me a smarmy wink. “You don’t need to worry about me, Sweet Rika.”
Ew. What was that?
“Stop saying you’re fine!” I shoot back, frustration curling in my gut. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”
A million and one emotions play over his face, and he’s trying with all his might to keep that big, weird smile in place. But eventually he loses, his shoulders slumping, his face falling.
“Because I don’t want to,” he snaps.
I reel back like I’ve been slapped. “But . . . but I . . .”
He starts walking toward the car again. “Come on, let’s go.”
Somehow I manage to get it together and follow him, jogging a little to catch up. In my haze of confusion, I realize my kaiju-temper isn’t slamming against my breastbone, demanding release. Instead I just feel . . . hurt. Even though he told me to come with him, it’s like he’s walking away from me, his back stiff and straight.
“I . . . I’ve told you everything,” I say, the words pushing themselves from my throat. “Like, stuff I never tell anyone. Stuff I don’t talk about . . . hell, stuff I try not to think about. And then we . . . in the alley . . .” I trail off, that frustration rising in my chest again. The words are getting all mixed up in my brain, and I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
“And that means I owe you something?” he fires back, stopping in his tracks and frowning at me.
“N-no,” I say. “That’s not what I meant, I just . . . you got all weird and—”
“And what? That ruins your perfect fantasy of whatever it is you think I am? Whatever you . . .” He shakes his head, like he can’t find the words either. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this isn’t the photo op you wanted, and I’m sorry it’s not going to bring more excited customers to your Aunties’ restaurant, and I’m sorry I can’t be so fucking perfect all the time—”
“That’s not fair,” I snarl—oh, there she is. One kaiju-temper, coming up. “You know I’m not like that. I barely even knew who you were before we . . . we—”
“Rika!” He whirls around and marches the last few steps to the car. “Just . . . stop. Stop being so difficult.”
Difficult.
That’s what everyone always calls me, whether I’m popping balloons or refusing to wear a scarf or letting my temper explode all over Craig Shimizu and ruining the mochi demonstration.
But Henry never called me that. Henry acted like he saw something else. Sweet Rika, the girl with the potentially mushy heart.
I guess the key word here is “acted.” He’s an actor. He knows what to say, what to do . . . how to look at a girl right before he kisses her in a moonlit alley, so she totally falls for it.
And Sweet Rika doesn’t even fucking exist anyway.
“Fine. Let me remove this difficulty from your life,” I growl at him, turning on my heel and stomping in the other direction. “I can walk back to Little Tokyo.”
I will not look behind me to see how he reacts. I just keep stomping.
He doesn’t call after me, doesn’t start running like he’s chasing me through the airport at the end of a goddamn Grace Kimura movie.
A moment later, I hear his car engine start.
And hot tears gather in my eyes.
What the hell?
Did I actually want him to chase me?
No. No way. That’s exactly the kind of so-called happy ending I don’t believe in. And this just proves that it doesn’t exist.
I keep up my stomping even as tears stream down my cheeks—from anger, I tell myself. That’s the remnants of my temper getting out. Nothing more. I don’t know exactly how I’m getting back to Little Tokyo, which is most definitely not within walking distance. I wish I could call an Uber or something, but Auntie Suzy is always lecturing us about how we can’t afford such luxuries, so I don’t even have an account.
I’m still rage-stomping when I hear my name being shouted through the night.
My head snaps up, and I see Henry Chen’s dented Subaru pulling up next to me.
“Rika,” he says, slowing the car to a crawl so he can keep pace with me. “Please. You can’t walk all the way back to Little Tokyo—”
“Yes, I can,” I insist, my head held high—even though I was just thinking the same thing.
“Get in the car,” he says. “Come on, I—”
“No,” I snap. “I don’t want to sully your night by being difficult.”
Of course my voice cracks on that last word, completely undermining the badass aura I’m trying to project. Why can’t I just turn into the nure-onna, dammit? She wouldn’t care about any of . . . whatever this is.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “Just . . . please. Get in the car. I . . . I have curry!” He takes one hand off the wheel and brandishes the brown paper bag, waving it around desperately, like he’s trying to tempt me. That delectably spicy smell wafts my way, tickling my nose, reminding me of those little sparks of hot peppers . . .
Goddammit.
I feel like a cartoon fox, lured by a pie left out on a windowsill.
“Fine,” I concede. “But only for the curry.”
One side of his mouth lifts, his eyes softening—and now he looks like the real Henry again. I firmly order my heart not to skip a beat over that. But it doesn’t listen.
“Only for the curry,” he agrees.
Once I’m in the car, Henry pilots us back to the same tiny side-street spot and maneuvers the Subaru into it. I
