“So how did it go?” I say, turning to him. “Your audition. Did your sweet judo moves work out?”
“I executed that throw perfectly,” he says, grinning at me. “Although I missed my sparring partner. They made me use this big, floppy mannequin. Not the same.”
“And?” I swat his arm, impatient. “What does that mean? Did you get it?”
“I don’t know,” he says, his face falling. “I think I did well. I was really in it, you know? I felt like I was the character in the moment, and everything else just disappeared and . . . sorry, does this sound incredibly cheesy?”
“No,” I say, giving him a small smile. “Not cheesy. Passionate.”
“Mmm.” He smiles back at me in that way that makes me instantly blush. Talk about cheesy. “So,” he continues, “what about you, what did—”
We’re cut off by the blare of his phone—the ringtone sounds like a fire alarm.
“Oh, shit!” Henry exclaims. “That’s my agent. I need to . . .” He looks around frantically, but we’re stuck on a major, traffic-jammed LA thoroughfare, where there is most definitely no place to pull over.
“You have to answer!” I squeak as the phone continues to blare. It’s ringing so hard, it’s rattling around in the cupholder where Henry’s placed it. “And do you really not have a dashboard mount? I thought you’d been in LA for months now!”
“I refuse!” he yells back. “I will not succumb to that particular bit of the Angeleno lifestyle!”
“Well, that makes it hard to answer your freakin’ phone!” I snatch the phone out of the cupholder. I hit answer, then put the call on speaker. “This is Henry Chen’s phone,” I say, making my voice as authoritative as I can manage. “He’s driving, but listening.”
“Yeah, Hank,” a brusque female voice barks over the line. She seems completely unfazed by the fact that some random girl has just answered Henry Chen’s phone. “Great job in the room, buddy, great job.”
I sneak a glance at Henry, but his eyes are glued to the road, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He has no idea what this lady who started a conversation as if they were already in the middle of one is about to say.
“I have a few deal points I want to push them on, but assuming they don’t dick me around too much, the shoot will start in three months,” she bulldozes on. “I assured them you’re totally up for the physical demands, even if it means doing some extra training—”
“Wait.” Henry finally manages to get a word in. “Are you saying I got it?”
“Well, yeah,” the woman says, sounding like she has no idea why that would be in question. “Like I said, you killed it in the room.”
“But . . . that’s it?” he says, shaking his head. “No callback, no test, no chemistry read—”
“Hank.” The woman sounds thoroughly annoyed now. “Do you want this or not?”
“Yes.” He nods vigorously, even though she can’t see him. “Of course I do.”
“Faaaabulous,” the woman trills. “Then I’ll get to work. Lates.”
And then she hangs up.
“Oh my god,” Henry murmurs. He slaps the steering wheel a couple times, his face lit with total disbelief. “Oh. My. God!”
“Pull over!” I demand. “You’re about to crash your completely-not-safe-for-LA car! Look, there’s an alley just off Melrose—right there!”
Henry whips the steering wheel around, making a screechy, terrifying turn into the alley. He pulls up next to the curb, stops the car, and turns off the ignition. Then he reaches over the gearshift and sweeps me into his arms, pulling me tightly against him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair. “This is all because of you.”
“No,” I say, pulling back from him. His arms are still around me, our faces inches apart. I reach up and run my fingertips over his cheek, my eyes roaming his face. I love being this close to him, just studying him. “You did that, Henry. You got that part. And I knew you could do it. I’m so happy for you.” I brush my lips lightly against his and smile. “We should go celebrate.”
“Wait,” he says, shaking his head. “What about you? What . . .” His eyes drift to the Cinderella dress, still crumpled in the back seat. “What happened with Grace?”
“The same thing that usually happens,” I say, tossing off a breezy one-shoulder shrug. “Absolutely nothing. The sets and the trailers were abandoned; there was no one there. I did run into Joanna, though.” I disentangle myself from him and sit back in my seat. “So. Where should we celebrate?”
But of course, Henry doesn’t let it go. Because he can never let anything go. A quality I find both infuriating and inexplicably attractive.
“Rika,” he says, his voice heartbreakingly tender. “What really happened?”
“Like I said, she wasn’t there,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I found another old picture of her that she must have left behind. And that dress. And I suddenly had to have both of them—don’t ask me why.”
“This is bothering you,” he says.
“Maybe it is—so what?” I say. “At this point, it feels like she doesn’t want to be found. She doesn’t want to meet me. It’s like she’s avoiding me on purpose. And maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be. She’s the beautiful princess—the queen—who’s disappeared into her far-off castle forever. We’re star-crossed, never to meet. It’s a sad, bittersweet ending—just like all of my Japanese fairy tales. And . . .” I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the lump that’s rising in my throat. “And that’s just how it is,” I proclaim defiantly. “That’s how it always is.”
We sit there for a few moments in silence, me staring at my lap. Determined not to cry. I’m not even going to fucking well up this time. The silence grows heavy around us, an invisible force weighing down the entire car.
Then Henry reaches over the gearshift and takes my hand.
“But maybe this time,” he says softly, “you didn’t want it to be that way.”
The silence grows heavier, pressing against me, making every single breath
