“No,” I say hastily. “I haven’t. Have you?”
“Yes,” he says slowly. “A . . . a few times. But this should be . . .” He hesitates, stroking my hair off my face. “It should be special.”
“It will be,” I say. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
“W-we could go back to my apartment,” Henry stutters. “I don’t know if any of my roommates are there, but—”
“No.” I cup his face in my hands and lean forward. “I can’t wait that long. Let’s go to the car.”
I kiss him and his hands slide under my shirt again, and we are very close to making a very public spectacle of ourselves. But then he breaks the kiss, his breathing even more ragged than before.
“Okay,” he manages. “I . . . I have, um, protection. In the car.”
Somehow, we collect ourselves long enough to gather our things and haul them back to the darkened beach parking lot. Only a few cars are left, making it feel extra desolate.
I push him up against the car and kiss him again, my arms winding around his neck, want coursing through me like wildfire.
“Wait . . .” he gasps. “In the car. Not up against it.”
He manages to get the back door open, and we tumble inside. I toss my Cinderella dress into the front seat, and then it’s just . . . us. A tangle of limbs and lips and his hands sliding under my shirt again, tracing those sweet patterns along my spine.
“Rika . . .” he murmurs.
And then he says my name again and again and again. Peppering it between kisses, whispering it against my skin.
He makes it sound so precious—two syllables to be treasured, to be treated carefully. To be kept safe.
He just keeps saying it, and it brings tears to my eyes every time.
Once upon a time . . .
the nure-onna let herself fall.
EIGHTEEN
My eyes drift open to hazy light, scraps of sun filtering in through the window.
The car window.
I open my eyes more fully. I’m curled in the back seat, Henry wrapped around me, various jackets pulled over us in a makeshift blanket. He’s still asleep, snoring softly against my neck. His arm is draped over my waist and his chest is pressed against my back and I feel warm all over. I revel for a moment in the rhythm of his breathing, the way his gentle exhales tickle the curve of my neck.
I can’t get over last night. The way he looked at me. How there were parts that were kind of awkward, but I never felt awkward because he kept asking if I was okay. I trusted him, I let myself fall into the moment with him. He makes me feel like . . . not like my nure-onna or my temper are tamed or quieted. More like they’ve been given space to flourish and be powerful, and I don’t have to repress anything. I can fully be myself with him. My whole self.
Like we belong to each other.
And then I guess we fell asleep. I don’t exactly remember falling asleep. I can only recall him pulling me close afterward, brushing light kisses against my cheekbones. Still murmuring my name. Everything blurring into hazy, dreamlike sweetness where the only thing that mattered was him touching me. I felt so peaceful, cradled against him. I felt . . . safe.
I wonder if this is what Joanna meant about letting yourself feel things, making space for those feelings instead of trying to deny them. Because right now I feel something I’ve never felt before—a glow in my chest, a brilliant burst of vibrant color, just like last night’s sunset.
And I want to relive every moment, every sensation from last night. His lips, soft against my bare skin. His hands, tangling in my hair. And the way he said my name . . .
I close my eyes, let bliss overtake me . . .
And then remember it’s now morning and we’ve apparently fallen asleep in the back seat of his car and . . . crap.
Trying to move slowly so as not to disturb Henry, I fumble around for my phone, still contained in the pocket of my shorts—which are part of a jumble of clothes on the car floor. The screen is lit up like the Fourth of July, a cavalcade of messages from every single person I know. The Aunties, Belle, Rory. All wanting to know where I am. I am definitely going to be in big trouble when I get home. But there are also messages from other people: Eliza, Sensei Mary, even Joanna. I frown, scrolling through, trying to make sense of the mess of words and furious exclamation points.
Respond!!! one of Eliza’s messages reads. And please tell me when you’ve seen this.
“This” is a link that nearly everyone seems to have flung my way. So I click on it. It leads to some kind of celebrity gossip website trumpeting about an all-caps EXCLUSIVE.
GRACE KIMURA SECRET LOVE CHILD SCANDAL!!!
My heart plummets, and it feels like all the blood drains from my body.
With shaking fingers, I scroll down. I can’t process any of the words, can barely wrap my brain around what the article’s saying . . . except I already know exactly what it’s saying.
I shake my head, like that will somehow make all of this go away.
I scroll back up and force myself to sound out every word. The person who wrote this is practically foaming at the mouth, playing up every minute detail for maximum juiciness. But the facts are clear.
1. Years ago, Grace Kimura, Hollywood’s squeaky-clean rom-com queen and perfect princess, had an illicit baby when she was only a teenager.
2. Said illicit baby—the SECRET LOVE CHILD—is none other than Rika Rakuyama, who has been identified as the girl Grace plowed into at the Nikkei Week parade.
3. This “Rika” “Rakuyama” (if that is, in fact, her real name) is the same person who was spotted with heartthrob Hank Chen at the library a few days ago. What is Hank
