“Halfie Club,” Henry murmurs, and I smile.
“Joanna especially . . . I don’t know, there’s something about seeing this person who looks so much like me, who understands me on this weirdly deep level, and who’s leading this awesome full life and thriving . . . and doing all that because she’s embracing who she is so fully . . .”
“Not trying to hide any piece of herself,” Henry agrees.
“And . . .” My voice catches, and a tear slips down my cheek. But I have to keep going. “Being with you,” I whisper. “I feel safe with you. But not like I have to, I don’t know, be less. I can get angry. I can admit when I’m sad. I can feel all these things I’m usually afraid to let out, because I know you’re there.” The tears are flowing down my cheeks with wild abandon now. I don’t even make an attempt to brush them away. “Maybe it’s okay if I don’t find Grace,” I repeat. “Because there are already places where I belong. People I belong to. I couldn’t see it before because I was so focused on . . . on protecting myself.”
Henry sits up, reaches over, and takes my hand. “Are you saying you finally believe in your own happy ending?”
I laugh, surprised, my voice still thick with tears. “I don’t know about that. But maybe I finally believe I deserve one.”
Comfortable silence falls between us again as the sun continues to put on a show, the colors she’s painted the sky turning wild and dusky. Henry strokes his thumb down my palm.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he finally says. “I wish you could see the way I see . . . well, what you seem to think of as faults. I think all your passion—what you think is just rage—is beautiful. So is the way you love your family, the way you support them no matter what, even if they’re driving you up the wall. You can never give anything less than everything. Even when you shove all those feelings down, you still live so fully. Whether you’re defending Rory from the busybody Aunties at the mochi demonstration or going on a high-speed chase in the library or crashing into me on the streets of Little Tokyo. You do everything fiercely. And that’s beautiful, too.”
I look down at my sad little stick, which is becoming more twisted and wilty as I play with it. How does he see all these things I never have?
“You’ve made me see that I belong places, too,” he continues. “That there are people who will let me be my whole self—all my Asian Hollywood friends, that community we’ve built. The folks making this new movie I’m gonna be in. And . . .” He pauses, looking out at the sunset. “I am going to talk to my parents about how I feel. About how I can’t be their version of perfect all the time, and I love them, but I want them to see every piece of me.” He turns to me and smiles, almost shyly. “I never would have even thought about doing that without you. And you’re the one I can be my whole self with the most.”
I swallow my tears—I can’t quite look at him yet, but my heart suddenly feels too big for my body, impossible to contain.
“I believe in your happy ending,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes my heart skip several beats. “Because I believe in you.”
I turn to him, tears streaming down my face. I love studying all of him. Those dark eyes that can sparkle with sly mischief or intense passion. That grin that I thought was too cute—because it knew it was too cute. Now I realize he was hiding under that facade, trying to project the image he needed to. But he’s so perfectly imperfect, the real Henry can’t help but shine through.
“Henry,” I whisper.
I lean in and kiss him, the sun finally drifting off behind us.
His hands cup my face, always so urgent against my skin. He runs his fingers through my hair, and then his hands stroke lower, smoothing their way down my neck, my shoulders, my waist, leaving little sparks of electricity in their wake.
He presses against the small of my back, urging me closer, and I slide into his lap, straddling him at the waist. He feathers kisses over my cheeks, taking my tears away. Then he moves lower, his mouth brushing against my ear, my jaw, my neck. When he gets to that spot—that particularly sensitive patch right above my collarbone—heat flashes through me and I lean into it. I want more. I want everything. I want to feel his skin against mine.
I slip my hands under his T-shirt, stroking my fingertips over the delicious muscles of his back, wanting to be as close to him as possible—
“Rika.” He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild. “Maybe we should . . .” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “Actually, I have no idea what we should do.”
His hand has found its way under my shirt, and his fingertips are tracing the most irresistible patterns along my spine. He seems to be doing it unconsciously, which makes it even hotter.
I flush—but honestly it just feels like my entire body is flushed at this point.
“I . . . I want to,” I say, pressing myself more firmly against him. His eyes nearly roll back into his head. “I want to, um, be naked with you.”
A cool breeze whips through the air, bringing me back to reality. The sun has fully set now, it’s dark out, and we’re in a very compromising position. If someone took a photo of us right now, it would blow the McMuffin scandal out of the water.
“But it’s a little sandy and a little public out here,” I say. “So we should go be naked somewhere else.”
“I . . .” He shakes his head again, like he still can’t get a handle on what’s happening. “I
