Swimming to Tokyo (27 page)

“How do you know?”

“There’s no peace in it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not the right one.” His voice is soft, bordering on apologetic.

His words cut through my resolve like a knife through a melon. “I…it’s not. That’s not how this is going to end up.”

I’ve been focusing on his shirt collar and his throat the whole time. It’s the only way I can make myself say anything that’s come out of my mouth the past two minutes. The tears still threaten somewhere between the back of my nose and behind my eyes, and I know if I look up I’ll cry.

Although all it takes is his finger tracing my jaw. By the time he lifts my chin up, my eyes brim with tears and his face blurs in and out of focus. I can’t even see his eyes, and I really, really wish I could.

Especially with what he says next. “I’m meeting my father. He’s on his way to Sydney via Tokyo. He emailed me on Saturday and asked to meet. He wants to make amends, he said.”

Ice shoots down my back from my neck to my knees, but at least it freezes the tears. I blink a few times until I see Finn’s face. It’s composed, calm except for the way his jaw flexes while he waits for me to say something.

Saturday night. I thought he’d been talking in theory. But he knew. I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but Saturday is a blur, so I say, “What do you think about that?”

“I think I’m going to be late.” He shakes his head a little. “I was on my way out the door.”

Right. “Did you…did you want company?” I brace myself for his refusal.

“I don’t know.” Which isn’t a flat-out no.

So I inch up to it like he can’t tell exactly what I’m doing. “Where are you meeting?”

“That coffee shop in Ueno we went to that time. I couldn’t think of anywhere else.”

“I’ll take the train up with you.” I say it like it’s been decided.

“Sure. Yeah.” He picks up a backpack from the hallway near the door and takes a couple of steps. I watch him go before I realize he said yes, although I totally expect him to change his mind.

We keep our distance the whole way to the station. I nearly take his hand, but stop myself. The next move has to be his. As the train jerks away from the platform, I see our reflection in the window, his hand reaching for my shoulder, then dropping back to his side.

“You can touch me.” I spin around. He’s closer than I thought. “You should, actually. Before I spontaneously combust.”

He smiles. A real one that stays in his eyes. “I might like to see that.”

“I bet you would.”

After that, I expect it. Anticipate it. Practically hold my breath for it. But he doesn’t touch me until we’re two stops from Ueno. It’s crowded, and normally we’d be pressed together, sharing a hand grip instead of leaving room for a small child between us. Now, even the couple of times we’ve been shoved together, he’s stepped back.

Until he doesn’t.

His arm goes around me and draws me close, nestling me into that space where I fit along his hip. The relief washes over me. I don’t try to hide it, and I have to dig my fingernails into his shoulder so I won’t cry out.

“Ouch. That hurts,” he says.

“It would be rude to burst into flames in front of all these people.” I try to keep my tone light, and it almost works.

“It would mess up the trains for the afternoon, that’s for sure.” His hand slips under the hem of my tank top to the bare skin of my back. “Where did you say you were going?”

His thumb hooks the waistband of my shorts while his fingers flutter between my skin and the thin fabric of my shirt. “I didn’t.”

His belt buckle digs into my ribs and I shift so it doesn’t hurt so much, but the train jerks to a stop and I end up slammed against him. Way too close for public transit. His knee is between my legs and his hand clutches my butt. Because we’re both reaching for the bar above our heads, our chests meet, and I’m far enough under the curve of his arm that I feel his breath hot on my temple, moving along the edge of my hairline to my ear. His lips barely even graze my skin.

And by barely, I mean maybe not at all.

My mouth brushes the skin peeking above the button of his shirt. It’s not a kiss. But when he draws me the last centimeter to him and I look up, that is.

It feels like a first kiss.

Not our first kiss because that was wild. Breathless. And this is not. It’s soft and tentative.

And in the middle of Japan Rail less than one stop from Ueno.

That thought more than any sense of propriety makes me pull back. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Now. I mean, with your father. You didn’t mean for me to know. I get that. I don’t expect—”

“I wasn’t even considering meeting him before Saturday. Before we had that fight. But then I walked and I thought. I was going to tell you. But then everything happened and I couldn’t. I thought if I saw him maybe then…”

The train lurches to a stop, but this time instead of melting together we break apart. We get separated by a bunch of school kids leaving the train, but Finn waits in the middle of the platform for me and his hand finds mine as I walk up beside him.

His hand is sweaty. Hot. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. But probably not. I squeeze his fingers and try desperately to think of something to say that’s the right amount of comforting but casual. Something that will make him laugh. Smile.

We go through the turnstile, and Finn’s grip tightens. I grab his forearm with my other hand. “Are you…”

My “okay” is drowned out by the shout from across the hall, the deep Irish brogue that rings above all the Japanese chatter filling the station. “Son. It’s good to see you, m’lad.”

F
inn’s father is Irish. As in from-Ireland Irish. I don’t know why this never occurred to me—Finn certainly has the name for it—but it surprises me. Although not as much as the fact that he’s very good-looking. Like stop-and-stare good-looking. Dark hair graying at the temples. Tall. Broad shoulders. Trim waist. He’s Finn, improved with age.

I pictured someone…different.

He’s the last person you’d expect to be the dick he is
. Right. Understood.

Finn takes a few more steps, then stops. I’m still clutching his arm, and I let go, although when I try to untangle my fingers he squeezes them tighter.

His father’s eyes are dark like Finn’s. They flicker, even though his mouth smiles. “Thanks for coming. Ya look good.” The eyes drift over to me. “Who’s your lass?”

“I’m Zoe.” I answer before Finn can. I don’t want him calling me Zosia.

“Nice to meet you, Zoe. Call me John.” To my relief he doesn’t reach out his hand but turns to Finn. “Beer might make this easier, but I’m off the stuff. Coffee?”

“Coffee’s fine,” Finn says. His tone is easy, but he seriously might break my fingers.

We join the next wave of people exiting the station, and John breaks the silence once we veer off toward the coffee house. “How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine.” Finn’s mouth twists a little. “How’s Lexy?”

“Son, I—”

“Don’t.” Finn’s voice hardens instantly.

John nods like he expected that. “Lexy’s long gone. You haven’t heard from her then?”

“Nope.”

John turns to me as I walk in between them. “So how did you two meet?”

I have no idea what to say. A quick glance at Finn makes it clear he’s not answering and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be offended if I didn’t, but I feel uncomfortable ignoring the question in case it makes things worse. “Um, we knew each other in Westfield.”

John nods, and his eyes linger in all the wrong places. “Things must have been different up north. You’re a far cry from the girls who used to come around.”

I think he means it as a compliment, but it feels like a leer. And I don’t know where I pull my retort from. Maybe I’m channeling Amelia because my voice doesn’t even sound like me when I say, “Disappointed not to have a shot, are you?”

After the words come out, I feel awful. Respect your elders. Mom and Dad drilled that into me. And that wasn’t respectful. Never mind if he deserves it or not.

John, however, grins. “And she’s a feisty lass. Good on you…”

He stops just short of “son.” Finn hears it, too. “The coffee shop is there. I’ll meet you inside.”

“Black coffee?” John asks.

“Nothing. Thanks. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Finn waits until John pulls the door before he looks at me. His eyes are deep and black. “So, Zoe, where did that come from?”

I flush a little. It’s more the fact he’s calling me Zoe than his tone. It sounds so foreign. “Don’t know.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows at me, and a smile plays around his eyes.

“Only people I care about get to call me Zosia.”

“Good.” The smile moves to his mouth, then fades. “I guess I should do this, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably.”

His gaze shifts to the door and back to me. “I can’t… I have to do this…by myself. I can’t…”

“I know.” I bite my tongue so I won’t try to say something helpful. “Should I wait?”

“I might be pretty shitty company.” That’s not a no, and my hopes soar for 2.5 seconds before he says, “I don’t know, Zosia. I don’t know.”

He’s not talking about me waiting. He’s talking about this whole thing. The conversation with his dad. Us. He wants us. Me. The fact I’m standing here at all is evidence of that. But the want can’t take away the rest of it. It might even make it worse.

“You want me to make good on my word, is that it? That I’ll fight for you?” I choke a little on the last word.

“Maybe.” Finn lets go of my hand and brings his to cup my neck. “I bet you put up a hell of a fight.”

“I bet I do.” I let my fingers walk up his chest. His gaze cuts to the window again, and I force myself to let go. Whatever we’re going to be won’t be decided now. “Okay. Go. Do this.”

He kisses my forehead, and I rest my chin on his chest, breathing in the scent of him. No Obsession for Men. Just soap and cotton. I squeeze his arm and step away. “I’m, um, going to the shrine.”

He nods. “You, uh, want a book?”

A book? Um, no
? I shrug. “Sure.”

He digs in his backpack and hands me one. I take the smooth cover between my palms, but my eyes fix on Finn. This won’t be the picture in my head either. It won’t. His skin glistening in the sun. His eyes crinkled like they do when he smiles. He does smile for just a second, but it’s gone in the next blink. “Okay, I, um…”

“Go. I love you.”

I wait for him to say it back, and when he doesn’t, it stings. A lot. In the span of seven seconds, I rationalize it, explain it away. Excuse it, even. But it doesn’t stop my eyes from filling as I walk across the dirt path to Toshogu Shrine.

Dammit.

I run my fingers along the
ema
, small wooden placards lining the path up to the main gate. People write their wishes and hang them at the entrance to the shrine as a declaration, hoping the gods answer their desires. Wealth. Health. Love. I know the kanji for love, and a quick scan confirms eight out of ten are looking for just that. Mine would be no different.

Dammit again.

I pay the two hundred yen to go inside the temple, if only because there are fewer people. There’s a school group near the big bell, listening to the guy giving the tour. I catch a few words. Celebration.
Mochii
. I don’t realize I’ve stopped on the edge of their group until two boys who’d been messing around stop. As if I’m going to discipline them. I smile at them a little when they look up at me from under long bangs. The only thing I’m going to do is head to the back near the peony garden.

If Finn looks for me, it will be here. We’ve come here before, to the bench in the shade away from the main entrance to the gardens. It’s quiet—or, at least, as quiet as a shrine in the middle of Tokyo is going to get.

I wonder how things are going with John. Finn’s never once called him “Dad.” I thought of that sometime over the past few days and it stays in my head now. Of course he wouldn’t. My father…he’s Dad. John? Father is a stretch. It’s not even like Finn calls his father John because their relationship changed, moved to a new level a la Mindy and Liz. Finn and John don’t even have a relationship.

God, please let him be okay. I’m in the wrong place for that prayer, but the Japanese are pretty lax about their religion, and I don’t think they’d mind.

I cross and uncross my fingers.

Pull my hands through my hair.

Tap my leg.

Check my watch.

Ten minutes.

My God, it’s only been ten minutes.

It feels like a last resort when I pick up the book Finn gave me. I can’t read a fucking book. I can barely sit still, and no doubt judging by the stark black cover with the white origami crane in the center, it’s a serious one. Finn reads everything, and while I’ve definitely expanded my reading repertoire, I still prefer numbers to words. I thumb the edges and finally flip it open near the front. Page twenty or so.

And my heart leaps out of my chest.

The page is filled with Finn’s careless scrawl. Every page is filled with it.

It’s his notebook. The one he’s carried around all summer. The cover’s new, taped over the torn red cardboard underneath. Aside from the first night we spent together, he’s never let me touch it. Not that I’ve asked. But he hasn’t offered and the unspoken agreement is hands off. It’s his. Too personal to share.

My hands tremble as I turn to the front, and at first I can only skim, trying to read it as quickly as possible. The first page:
Leaving on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. If luck holds, maybe never
.

Drawings, doodles. I imagine him on the plane, slumped in his seat, his long legs folded in front of him. Half-watching the movie, pen in hand.

Another page of just words.
Black. Teeming. Cacophony. Ants. Hurrying. Scurrying
.

A few lines later from the day we met here dated June 5:
True. You. Trust…just. Lie. Why? Flame. Same
.

Two pages later, from that day in Kamakura. I only know because it says Kenchoji across the top. The name of the temple.
Stop and listen. Did you hear those frantic voices cease? Or do you never hear them because you’ve found your peace?