Chapter Thirteen
3 years, 17 weeks, 5 days
We drive forever. Fiveever. Sixever. Sevenhundredever. We wind past decrepit buildings skinned with age and scabbed with graffiti. A murder of crows fights over a loaf of bread a homeless person scatters about. Huge neon signs in Korean and Chinese blare in all colors of the rainbow, the smell of fried chicken and sesame seeds pouring in. It’s the exact opposite of the clean, fancy area of town I was vomiting all over.
“Are you taking me to a black-market butcher to sell me for body parts?” I politely inquire. Jack pulls into a parking space and takes the keys from the ignition.
“Get out. It’s a bit of a walk.”
He gets out and I follow his stride down the dark sidewalk.
“You know, if you wanted my liver, all you’d have to do is ask nicely. I’m sure we could work something out. With my fist in your face.”
“Body parts aren’t on the menu with you. Tonight, or any night in the future.”
“Oho! Was that a double entendre? Thanks, but when you’re as fantastic as I am you can’t afford to sleep with nerds.”
He suddenly veers right, into a tiny alleyway. So this is where I meet my end—in an alley of Chinatown, chopped up into little pieces and shipped to China to replace some old businessman’s cirrhosis-infested liver. My eyes widen when he pushes open a tiny door and walks three or so steps down into a restaurant. A counter sits in the middle, glass cases holding gleaming ruby slabs of tuna and pale swathes of yellowtail. Sushi chefs expertly slice and dice and mash rice. Only a few people are at the bar, and the hostess, a short Japanese woman with a dimpled face, quickly darts to us.
“Jack!”
“Fujiwara-san.” He inclines his head. She reaches up and, to my utter shock, pinches his cheeks like he’s a child.
“Look at you! All bones, no fat! You haven’t been eating!”
“I eat well enough,” Jack insists, not even trying to push her away as she straightens his shirt collar for him. Her dark eyes lock onto me, and she smiles.
“Who is this? A friend? You’ve never brought any of your friends before. I was beginning to think you didn’t have any!”
“She’s not my fr—” he starts, then gives up. “Fujiwara-san, this is Isis Blake.”
“Ahh, Isis-chan!” Fujiwara bows, and I bow back and almost take down the tiny bamboo plant on the counter. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say.
Fujiwara turns to Jack. “Usual?”
He nods. “Please.”
“Right this way!” she crows. She totters in traditional wooden sandals over to the bar, seating us at two stools. She’s quick with the drinks—two cups of bitter yet refreshing green tea. She hands us the menus and pats my back, black eyes gleaming into mine. “Please enjoy.”
“I will. Um. Thank you.”
Jack peruses the menu in silence. The Asian couple next to us eat and laugh, talking with their sushi chef in Japanese.
“How did you find this place?” I whisper.
“Fujiwara’s daughter was a client of mine,” he says. “She brought me here once. It’s got the best sushi in Ohio. You don’t have to eat anything, if you don’t want to. I’d guess you don’t feel all that well after puking so much.”
“Then why’d you bring me here?”
He shrugs. “I thought tea and a dark, quiet place would calm your stomach.”
“Trust me, it’s not my stomach that’s the problem. It’s me! In general! How awesome is that!”
“Not very awesome at all,” he concludes.
“So . . . what about Fujiwara’s daughter? Do you still see her?”
“She left. Got married, actually, to an American businessman, and went back to Japan.” He opens his phone and pulls up a picture of a fat, happy Japanese baby in a Santa hat, showing it to me. “She sends me pictures of their son.”
“Do they all do that?”
He turns off the phone. “No. Yukiko was special. She . . . understood me more than most do. She was the only client of mine who held my interest for more than five seconds. So we keep in touch.”
“Did you have—”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. She hired me to pose as her boyfriend so her ex would stop harassing her.”
“Oh. That’s actually pretty cool, that you get to meet so many different people.”
He shrugs. The sushi chef says something to him in Japanese, and he talks back in surprisingly smooth-sounding Japanese. He looks to me.
“Do you want anything?”
My stomach politely reminds me it’s empty again with a rollicking gurgle.
“This thing.” I stab at the menu. “Whatever that is, I want two of it.”
He snickers and says something to the chef, who nods and starts chopping fish and taking out rice. We watch him work, since I don’t know what to say and Jack is quiet.
“They spend years washing rice,” he says finally.
“What?”
“To be a sushi chef, you spend years washing rice. Two, at cheap sushi places. Ten at the expensive, traditional ones.”
I suck in air. “Jesus! Just making rice? The entire ten years?”
He nods. I look at the rice with a newfound admiration. It’s gotta be some damn good rice.
I sip tea and nervously realize I’m on a date with Jack Hunter. I then proceed to gulp tea and scald my voice box. I gasp, and Jack cordially hits me on the back a few times to make sure I’m not choking. The chef gives me a concerned look, but Jack waves it off.
“Why?” I gasp.
“Why what?” Jack looks to me, icy eyes piercing.
“Why me?”
“You’ve never been on a date.” He says it like a fact, not a question. I glower.
“Duh.”
“So. This is your first date. Consider it a learning experience.”
“What am I supposed to do? Talk about my hair? Ask you about your job? My hair is flawless and I already know what your job is!”
“Normally, a male and a female on a date will talk about whatever comes up naturally.”
“Uh, right, but you and I ain’t exactly natural.”
“An immovable object meeting an unstoppable force,” Jack says lightly.
“Two unstoppable forces crashing and careening off a cliff to their untimely deaths,” I correct.
“Oil and water.”
“Oil and firebombs.”
He raises an eyebrow in partial agreement and takes a sip of his tea. The sushi arrives, and octopus and eel and tuna melt in my mouth. Everything is so fresh and delicious I can barely stand it. I wiggle my butt and make contented humming noises.
Jack looks at me. “Are you having a seizure?”
“I’m happy! It tastes awesome.”
“So you squirm and make tuneless little noises when you’re happy?”
I frown and become self-conscious. I eat with more decorum, but Jack scoffs.
“I didn’t mean— It’s fine. It’s just . . . interesting of you. Almost cute.”
I feel an electric surge crawl up my spine and settle in my brain, buzzing. Cute. Cute. Jack just called me—
“In a deranged puppy way,” he adds. The electricity leaves and I realize how stupid I was for thinking anyone would willingly call me cute. I’m not cute. Loud, sure. Rude, yup. Not cute. Never cute.
The sushi goes quickly, so we order seconds and wait.
“So, I mean,” I start. “How did you get into, um. You know.”
Jack sips tea thoughtfully, then puts the cup down.
“There’s a surgery. It’s expensive, and experimental. But it’s got a decent success rate and it would give Sophia years to live. Maybe even get rid of the thing for good. I’ve been taking on double outcalls to make the down payment on it, and I’ve almost got enough. The two hundred you gave me for Kayla will put a nice dent in what’s left.”
“Happy to help.”
He sighs and leans back. “I used to work tables. Waiting at a French restaurant in Columbus. It was good money, and it kept her bills afloat, but then Sophia started getting worse. The surgery came from Sweden. My money was good, but not enough to pay for that on such short notice. And then one night, I waited on the table of the founder of the Rose Club. Blanche Morailles. She gave me a much better option, with higher pay. High enough to make the money for the surgery in a year and a half. I didn’t know if Sophia would last that long, so I—”
Jack shakes his head. “She’s been doing well so far. I’ve got another month to go, and then I’ll have enough. She just has to hold on for another month.”
I was right. He’s escorting to get a lot of money, fast. For Sophia. All of the trouble—acting like he cares about other women, kissing them, sleeping with them. All for Sophia. I stir my drink, and Jack frowns.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Doubtful,” I say.
“You think I shouldn’t escort. You think it’s bad, or unlawful, or whatever.”
“You . . . you have to sleep with people—”
“I’ve told you, it only happens rarely. And it’s not as if I’m forced to do it. I’m free to refuse whenever I wish.”
“Then you should always refuse.”
“If I do it, they’re pleased. They give me more money. More money means more funding for Sophia’s surgery sooner. It’s simple. Sleeping with people is easy,” he says tersely. “It means nothing. It’s a mechanical action. It requires nothing of me I am hesitant to give. The women are usually considerate, and well-spoken, and gracious. Sometimes they’re difficult, or into darker things, but I adapt.”
“They use you.”
“And I agree to it. So they don’t really use me. If anything, I’m using them equally. It’s not all one-sided. It’s a mutual agreement. And as far as escorting businesses go, it’s a good one. No men. Blanche doesn’t make me take male clients, and for that I’m grateful. It’s a good deal. A fast job that can save Sophia. So I’ll keep doing it, for however long it takes.”
“Why not just ask your mom for the money? She’s got a lot, and I’m sure she’d want to help . . .”
“No. I have to help Sophia on my own. She is my responsibility. No one else’s. I can protect her myself.”
His voice finishes with a hard, determined edge. Our next round of sushi arrives. We eat in total silence.
“Are . . . are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says, face icily passive.
“Yes, well, it’s a little hard to tell, considering I’ve seen constipated rocks display more emotion.”
“I don’t need a moron asking how I feel.”
“I’m just trying to be nice! You’re such a fat doodoo shitbaby!”
“Occasionally I have fantasies of intellectual conversation.” He sighs. I’m so angry I start up from my stool only to bump into Fujiwara, who’s behind me carrying a tray of tea. Boiling tea. It spills all over me, drenching my jacket. I yelp and unzip it quickly, throwing it to the ground.
“Oh, Isis-chan, I’m so sorry!” Fujiwara cries. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t see you, it’s my fault.”
“It’s okay!” I assure her. “It’s okay, really, I was the idiot who didn’t look—”
“No, no, it’s all my fault—”
Jack stands, and together the three of us pick up the teacups and help Fujiwara mop up the mess, even as she refuses help and apologizes in an endless stream. She mumbles something about making up for it, and disappears into the double doors of the kitchen. Jack and I sit down, and the bar settles, and it’s only thirty seconds of having my jacket off before I realize what a horrible mistake it is.
The pink shirt. I’d forgotten all about it. It shimmers and quivers with my every movement. My shoulders are exposed. You can practically see through the translucent material to where my polka-dot bra is. I look stupid. I can feel everyone staring at me and I know they think I look stupid, and ugly, and that it doesn’t suit me.
Jack’s gone still, frozen halfway while raising his teacup to his mouth. His eyes are on me, on every part of me as he looks me up and down with a slow, deliberate gaze.
I start to pull my wet jacket back on, but Jack’s hand stops me. “What are you doing?”
“It’s not right,” I hiss. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t supposed to take it off. It looks stupid on me—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Not at all.”
“Just—” I reach for my jacket.
“It’s beautiful,” he says softly, then clears his throat. “You look . . . beautiful.”
An iron fist squeezes my heart, my throat, my stomach, and then lets go, a bittersweet burn spreading through my body like fire. I savor it one moment, and then suspect it the next, and then I realize what’s really happening.
“I get it!” I smile. “You’re still in escort mode from all that time with Kayla! It was only a few minutes ago your date ended, after all.”
“What? No, I—”
“It’s okay, really! You just forgot to flip the switch back from escort you to regular you. Totally understandable. Work and life are hard to compartmentalize. Thanks for the compliment though. I bet I’d have to pay at least ten bucks to hear it if I were a client, huh? But I got it for free. Score!”
“Isis—”
Jack’s cut off by Fujiwara crowing apologies as she comes between us with a tray of tiny tea cakes, cookies, and a few scoops of green tea ice cream. I pull my jacket on and zip it all the way up to my chin. I chat with Fujiwara excitedly the entire time I eat dessert, talking about how good the sushi was, and where she gets her fish, asking the best tips for getting green tea stains from jackets, and thanking her for the sweets. Jack’s silent, picking at the cookies, and Fujiwara brings him the bill.
“I’ll pay half,” I offer, leaning over to look at the price tag. My eyes practically bug out. Jack waves the envelope I gave him the money in.
“You already have.”
We drive back to the Red Fern parking lot in silence. I busy myself with my phone, trying not to see the white knuckles Jack has on the steering wheel.
“You must be tired,” I say when he pulls into the parking lot and I get out. “Get some rest, okay? And thanks for the practice date! Not that I’ll ever need to practice, since, you know, it’s never going to happen, but it was a nice thought. I had fun. Sort of.”
“You’ll have more fun,” Jack says, hands in his pockets and a faintly pained look in his eyes. “You’ll go on more dates, with other guys. Good guys. And you’ll have fun.”
I shake my head. “I won’t. I told you—that kind of stuff isn’t for me.”
“It is,” Jack insists. “You’ll fall in love someday.”
I laugh. “Nope. Never again. It’s been three years, and it’ll be a hundred more. Drive safe, okay?”
I whirl around and start walking to my car. I swear I feel fingers glance over my hand, but they pull away just as quickly. Or maybe it was the wind. I don’t look back. I drive home. When I check on her room, Mom is mercifully asleep, safe and sound. I pull the shirt off as soon as I can and throw it in the closet to rot.
Beautiful.
...
Part of me wanted to grab her. To pull her back. To hold her.
Another part of me knows she’ll hate the first guy to do it after so long.
And the third part of me is afraid. Afraid at her conviction. Afraid of how convinced she is that she’ll never love again. Afraid of how pretty she looked in that shirt. Afraid of how sad she sounded when she convinced herself I didn’t mean what I said.
I am afraid of the things I am beginning to feel.
Because I haven’t felt anything new, for anyone new, for so long.
I might not be able to convince her that the world isn’t devoid of gentleness. But I can at least make her smile, if only for a moment.
...
I wake up to Kayla’s texts filled with smiley faces and exclamation marks, describing her date—how kind Jack was, how good the food they ate was, and how he kissed her like he loved her. She’s going to ask him out again on Monday, and she thanks me a million times for whatever I did to get him to go out with her.
Mom’s at the table, sipping coffee.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
Mom smiles and nods. “Pretty well. You must’ve gotten in late, I didn’t hear you. Did you have fun?”
I recall the sushi place, and how delicious it was. I remember the tea and puking and Jack’s soft eyes—
Beautiful.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “It was fun.”
“Boys?”
“Just one.”
Mom quirks a brow, smiling. “Oh really? Not a dozen guys this time? Just one? He must be special. Care to tell me about him?”
“Nothing happened! I just— There was a guy.”
“Booze?”
“Not even a bit of sake.”
“So it was a sushi place? With a boy? Sounds very suspect, young lady. Did you use protection?”
“Mom!” I snap, my face heating. “I’ve told you repeatedly: boys have cooties and bad hygiene. No one likes them except other boys and people with no sense of smell.”
“So I can expect you to bring home a girl one of these days? I’ll try to act shocked.” She smiles.
“I’m not bringing anyone home!” I wail. “I know it’s hard to believe, but some people my age aren’t entirely obsessed with the idiotic game called dating! Some of us have lives! And generally higher goals than messing around in the mud with our peers. I’ve got colleges to apply to! And friends to hang out with! And an entire life to plan!”
“Whatever you say,” Mom singsongs. I get a pan and start the burner, taking out a few eggs and slices of bacon. I can feel Mom’s eyes on my back, watching me, contemplating how much I’ve grown up or something equally annoyingly parental. The smell of sizzling bacon fat fills the kitchen. The birds chirp outside, sun streaming through the curtains. It’s beautiful.
Beautiful.
My skin prickles as his voice reverberates in my head. It makes me fumble with the pan and nearly sends all of breakfast casually crashing to the floor. Goddamn him! Even if he didn’t mean it, it still sticks in my head, like a grass thistle in my clothes.
And to put the shit cherry on top of a shit sundae, I can’t even lash out at him over it. The war is over.
I know that from how happy Kayla seemed. With her now potentially satiated, I have no reason to attack him, other than general dislike and boredom. And those are petty. So petty I don’t know if I’ll have the heart to fight him with them.
It’s over.
I’m supposed to be happy. I won, more or less. Or we ended on equal terms, with me slightly winning. Or am I losing? Did him calling me that awfully wrong word mean he won? Does it even matter who won or lost? It’s over, and now I have nothing to look forward to. Nothing to scheme, nothing to plot for. Just emptiness where the war used to be. And somehow it hurts more than it should. I’d gotten so used to it, to exchanging barbed words with Jack whenever we passed in the hall or catcalling him with insults, that I’ve forgotten how to be normal. Do I just smile at him? No, that’s repulsively, completely, definitely gross. All the other girls do that.
I spend the rest of the day finishing my college applications. I stare at them all—Seattle, Oregon—and secretly I know I’m only going to be sending off the one to Redfield. It’s the closest. It’s the only one that’ll let me still look after Mom and get a college career at the same time. I don’t have siblings; I’m the only person she has left. I can’t leave her, hurt her like everyone else has. I dipped into my Europe traveling fund to pay for Kayla’s date last night. I’ve pretty much all but given up on that dream, anyway.
But it’s for the best. It’s the right choice. Not the one I wanna do, but the right one. And that’s all that matters.
I stare at the thing on my wrist. The pockmarks will always be here, burned into me by Nameless, by his cigarettes. Mom’s never seen them. I’ve been careful, the same way people who cut are careful. I searched their forums for tips on how to keep things hidden—wrist bandages, long sleeves always, sweatbands, and thick, chunky bracelets. Kayla’s the only one who’s seen it. And she treated it respectfully, without asking questions or prying too hard. Kayla’s my only real friend in this place.
She deserves to be happy.