Halfway Valentine | Special 9: "Made to Be" 1/4

PROLOGUE

“Hey, baby. Ah, thank God, I was able to reach you,” I said a bit huskily into the phone as I rubbed the sleep off my eyes. It was four in the morning and I thought it was the perfect time to call my girlfriend. “I just wanted to call—”

“Hey, Ems!” she interrupted. “It’s really loud in here, so speak up.”

She shouted loudly that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “I can tell.”

“What? You’re a bit choppy! Sorry?”

“I said it sounds noisy!” I shouted back, and as if on cue the chant got faster and faster and the conga drums got louder and louder. “I take it you’re having a ball over there?”

“I can barely hear you! What did you say?”

In the background, despite the slow speed, choppy connection, I heard some men and women talking to her in Portuguese; Naomi’s reply to them was lost in the cacophony. And it wouldn’t even matter because I wouldn’t be able to understand it.

“Where are you?”

“Still in Tete, Mozambique, babe! The locals here in the village are throwing this little feast and they’re forcing me to learn this traditional dance!” She laughed. A laugh that told me she was indeed having a blast there. “Even Panda’s loony dance will look better!”

“I hope I can save you from the embarrassment!”

She laughed again. Another man was telling her something. Another peal of laughter.

“And the kids are the best here, Ems! Yesterday I taught them how to Dougie, and now they’re doing it like pros! I wish you could see them right now! And the energy in this place is just crazy!” She was giggling and hooting. “Yay! Work it!” she cheered.

I let myself laugh at an image of Naomi and some African children Dougying. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Speak up!”

I brought my fingers to the bridge of my nose and squeezed. “I just wanted to talk. I miss you.”

“Yea, I miss you, too, and I’m glad you called! I didn’t even notice that there’s phone signal here; I could’ve called you first! Listen, though . . .”

“I know, I know—you’ve got to go.”

“Let me call you back when I get a better signal! Oh, wait—no. Tomorrow we’re heading to this little village and we’re staying there for three days then we’ll move to a nearby village and stay for two days! And then another couple of days in Malawi to check some orphanages and hospices! Zero ways of communication over there, babe, so I might be able to call you or FaceTime with you only when I get to the airport or, er, when I fly back to Melbourne, ’kay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you!” she said just before her voice got drowned out by a whole chorus of chanting men.

“Love you, too.”

I hung up, annoyed. I’d just wanted to talk to her, but I supposed I should have known better. Social work had a way of turning people into more . . . sociable human beings—I’d witnessed firsthand at a relief operation for the tsunami victims I’d participated along with Naomi a few months ago. We stayed with hundreds of other people inside a school gym. I’d seen Naomi interact with the most people I’d ever seen. And she was brilliant with it—almost like a different person. And to think I had thought she was somewhat allergic to people the first time I met her. The thought elicited an ironic chuckle from me.

I was proud of her, really. In awe of her every time. And her rebellious, free-spirited, spontaneous nature was the reason I was so drawn to her; I couldn’t deny that. I’d never met anyone like her before. Most people I’d known seemed to live their lives as if marking off goals on a score sheet. Until I came to Japan and really lived my life, I realised I’d been no different. Somehow, compared with the choices she’d made and the places she’d travelled, my life seemed so . . . unexciting.

She was truly an amazing girl—passionate and devoted to the things she cared about. Most of her life was wrapped up in caring for other people. She grew up with this compassion, this connection, to the needy of the world—the damsels in distress. I suppose that was what made me fall in love with her all the more, the way she took care of others. Especially the way she took care of me.

I couldn’t be upset that she’d gone off to Africa even in the middle of her second year of postgraduate studies. I couldn’t blame her. Her family had already assigned her as an understudy at an early age. It was somewhat her responsibility to cover for her ill grandfather.

Her ill grandfather, I thought sadly. Jonathan Campbell, the man with the biggest heart. Someone must award him a Humanitarian Nobel Peace Prize or an honorary statue or something already. And who would’ve thought the man wasn’t invincible? But just like Superman, he had a Kryptonite. It came as a shock to everyone a month ago when we heard that he had suffered a stroke in Zambia. It was a tough, gloomy period for Naomi and the rest of the Campbells. Now Jonathan’s back in Melbourne on the road to recovery and, despite his insistence and stubbornness, was not advised to continue working. And this was where Naomi came in. She was asked to take over his unfinished project. Now my queen’s over there in the most otherworldly place on Earth, doing the thing she enjoyed the most, living her dream—her exciting dream, carrying the Campbell legacy on.

A bittersweet feeling gnawed through me. The thing was, I was happy for Naomi. I really was. But I just couldn’t bring that happiness to the surface. Not when I was being constantly disturbed by some other things—some fears, I suppose.

I heard about the internal political strife in some African countries and malaria and some crazy local tribes and the killer crocodiles. God, I feared for her well-being. I had recently watched this film The Last King of Scotland and what if Naomi got tangled in that sort of terrifying situation?

Oh, God, no. Please, no.

I threw back the covers, really wishing I could stop thinking about that. Still, as I headed for the shower, something else was bugging me, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Turning on the water, I found myself wondering if—in the brief moment that she’d gone—Naomi had found her true love, her real passion.

And it wasn’t me.

Two weeks later . . .

I sat slumped on the couch in the teacher’s lounge of Bright Kids International Kindergarten that humid Tuesday afternoon, staring down at a close-up photo of Naomi on my phone screen.

Funny. I’d always thought her smile was wider than that. And that her eyes drooped more at the corners. Had I forgotten what she looked like already? Or was it that the photo simply didn’t do justice to the live, in-the-flesh version of the strikingly beautiful blonde? 

In our almost two and a half years of being together, I had memorised all of Naomi’s smiles. She had about a thousand of them. This one, in particular, was a rare one. Soft and vulnerable. I call this one the Rainbow smile—it always shows up after the rain. After crying, that is.

“Kaeshite (Give it back)!” Nagisa’s voice sliced through the wall and pierced my brain like a Ginsu knife. Time for the kids’ daily battle over the Lego. I lay down on the couch and placed a throw pillow over my exposed ear, never taking my eyes off Naomi.

Should I tell her to come home to me already? Nah, that might be a tad too clingy. Should I make her promise to give me a call three times a week or message me once a day? Nah, that might be a tad too demanding. At the very least I needed to tell my girlfriend how left out I’d been feeling.

The first few days after Naomi left were tolerable. We had been in constant communication whilst she was warming up in Melbourne, preparing herself for her dispatch to a far-off land, getting ready to embark on a mission to save the world. Then she took off and we just lost contact thereafter. For four excruciating weeks—that period of time she’d been in the actual field, our only interaction were four very brief, very indistinct, very lame phone calls, and a relatively longer, sweeter one during my birthday three weeks ago. And this was killing me.

We survived it—this long-distance sort of relationship—before. It had been tough, but somehow we were able to make it work. We made each other feel important and loved and secure in some way. And we even grew individually. But now since Naomi left, all I seemed to be doing was going around in circles.

“Dame yo (No)!” The loud screaming of Shouta, another little rascal, was heard.

“Kaeshite!” Nagisa fought back.

“God, I miss you,” I murmured, tracing my finger over Naomi’s gorgeous eyebrow. The communication problem would get better. It will, I assured myself. It would probably improve once Naomi gets back to Australia. The last news I’ve heard from her was her going back to the Melbourne headquarters this Friday to prepare for the report on the progress of the project and her going to be sent off to Beijing next week for some bigtime conference. She also told me she would have to go back to Africa again for the rest of the project but couldn’t tell me how long she would be gone. And that was another thing that was killing me — the indefinite number of days of being Naomi Campbell-less.

“Yamete (Stop)!” Shouta was yelling back at Nagisa. “Yamete! I was playing this first!”

“But it’s mine! Kaeshite!”

“Dame yo! You don’t even belong to this class!”

“I don’t care. Sore, boku no Lego dayo (That’s my Lego)! Kaeshite! Kaeshiteeee!”

“All right. That’s it,” I muttered. I leapt off the couch and ran next door into the K-2 classroom.

“Hey!” I hollered from the doorway. “How many times do we have to tell you? No Japanese in this classroom. Just English, okay? And no more fighting.” I stepped further inside and pointed a scolding finger at the boys. “Nagisa, go back to your classroom. And Shouta, I want you to go to that chair in the corner and finish your food quietly. Now!”

The two troublemakers froze in midargument, their dark eyes wide as golf balls.

“And Yuka-chan,” I called to the little girl who was yelling at her classmate. “Stop shouting at Miho-chan or I’ll tell your Aunt Misaki what a bad girl you’ve been.”

The girl grumbled, turned around, and grudgingly stomped toward her desk.

Just then the head teacher, Aiko—a very prudish, mysophobic thirty-something Japanese woman with a perfect English grammar and American accent, rounded the corner of the hallway and frowned at all three of us.

“Boys, no more fighting,” she ordered as soon as she stepped inside the room. “And listen to Emily Sensei. Finish your lunch now so we can clean up. C’mon!” The boys mutely obeyed. As soon as they trudged past, Aiko turned toward me and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Well, that outburst wasn’t like you, Emily Sensei. What’s wrong?”

I raked my fingers into my red hair, grasping my forehead tightly. A sharp pain was throbbing inside my skull. “Nothing,” I lied. “Everything’s fine.” Aiko wasn’t exactly the perfect person to share all my personal dramas with. I barely even know the lady. I only tag along Jessica whenever she had a part-time teaching stint here.

“Are you sure?” Aiko asked.

“Yes,” I said evenly. Then I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. “I’ll just wait for the kids to finish their lunch.”

Aiko nodded slowly, wiping her hands on the handkerchief she seemed to almost constantly be carrying. “All right.”

You’re losing it, Fitch, I scolded myself as I walked back to the teacher’s lounge. I had to get a grip soon; otherwise I’d end up scaring off the schoolkids or accidentally scalding them as I threw stuff around. And Misaki’s five-year-old niece, Yuka, was in the building, too. I certainly had to pull myself together.

If only I didn’t have work today I could be in my own bed, reading books, or drowning my psyche in some mopey Japanese TV drama or Sia music. But no. Instead I had to wrangle with these thoughts for an entire eight-hour tutoring-slash-babysitting-slash-wrestling stint. Maybe I should just fake being sick and go back to the dorm.

An ironic smile crept over my face. I knew I’d spent enough time moping around the dormitory these past few weeks. Actually, this was one of the good things about my part-time job: It had definitely taken my mind off Naomi. At least for today.

I took a seat on the couch again and put my phone on the table in front of me. I picked up a small bit of fried shrimp from my untouched bento box and popped it into my mouth. I hadn’t realised that the sky had begun to darken. A few moments after, a clap of thunder shook the windows, startling me a bit. Then a fitful, smattering rain slapped at the panes at irregular intervals. It was early July and a showery summer was expected. I leant back against the couch, resting my head on the worn vinyl, and let out a heavy breath. As soon as I closed my eyes, my phone went off, the vibration of the call making it dance on the wooden table. My heart skipped in excitement. Finally.

I leant forward and reached for my mobile.

“Hey, Emily-chan.” It was Misaki.

“Hey,” I said a bit lamely, and hoped Misaki didn’t hear the disappointment in my tone.

“How’s work?” she asked.

“Ugh. God, it’s like a circus here. The kids are raising all sorts of hell,” I blurted, glad to finally have a vent. “And Yuka-chan is a flippin’ cheeky primadonna in need of a major attitude adjustment. Like, I’m not even kidding, Misaki! I find it hard to believe that you two are related.”

Misaki laughed. “If you’ve met my big sis, you’ll understand where she got it from.”

I sank deeper into the couch and smirked. “So your sister’s got some attitude problem, huh?”

“Not really. She’s just misunderstood.”

I snorted. “Oh, could you be nicer? You can say it, Misaki. Your sister’s a bitch.”

She laughed again, but didn’t comment any further. “So . . . I rented The Lord of the Rings Trilogy and I thought maybe you could accompany me to a Girls Night In since it’s raining? I could use some of your cute, geeky commentary. Koreru (Can you come)?”

I smiled. It was always so nice to have Misaki as a cheerleader. She had always been there.

“Well . . .” I hesitated. It’s not that I should say no. It’s not something that I should feel guilty about, perhaps even conceal from Naomi?

Here it was, a cold, rainy day, and my girlfriend was nowhere to be found.

Ever since Naomi became an understudy of her grandfather, our relationship had been somewhat dented. Not that it was completely her fault, of course. I played a role, too. I had wanted for both of us to grow and for my girlfriend to realise her true potential and follow her dreams that was why I had allowed her to go. Which was exactly what had happened. So what was the fucking problem?

The problem, I heard a little voice answer, was that it seemed as though there should be . . . more. I wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed, other than security seemed to be an integral part of it.

I shook my head, thinking I was making too much of it. Our relationship was just going through some growing pains.

“Come on. Ima sugu aitai (I want to see you now),” Misaki urged. “Oz is dying to see you, too. He’s been making these wailing sounds all morning. And I have spicy chicken wings on the dinner menu.”

“Hmm . . .” I debated for a while before realising that it was either this or head home to a microwave dinner and some awful Japanese game show on the telly, and I couldn’t help but remember the feeling I’d had when watching Naomi respond to my snidey remarks. I’d just miss her more.

“Emily-chan? You might as well say yes because I’m not going to hang up until you do,” Misaki said when I hesitated again.

“All right,” I heard myself say. “How about I pop over later around six?”

“Can’t wait,” Misaki said with a giggle. Why does her voice have to sound so syrupy? In spite of my reservations, I found myself smiling at Misaki’s sweet persistence.

Before I flipped the cover flap of my phone’s leather case over, I caught sight of Naomi’s wallpaper picture staring at me from the phone screen. “Don’t look at me that way,” I said. “I’m only going out to watch a movie . . . Okay. A marathon of Lord of the Rings . . . Okay. I’d probably be sleeping over, too. You know Misaki. She would never let me go home late.”

Naomi’s photo gazed back at me silently.

“Okay, if you call me right now, I won’t go and just stay in our room and dream about you all night,” I said.

I counted to ten.

Then I counted to twenty.

Nothing. With an exasperated sigh I tossed my phone into my open tote bag, zipped the bag closed, and headed downstairs to the school kitchen for a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Ice cream were soothing rich frozen spoonfuls of perfection and goodness. Ice cream could make anything right. Perhaps the ice cream’s sweetness could wash down this bitterness I had been feeling.

Perhaps.

I sat down at Grandpa’s office desk and opened a thick folder containing our Child Aid Africa project files. At least I thought I was at a desk. I hadn’t really seen the top of it in several days.

I looked at the stack of folders arranged neatly on my table and for a few seconds listened to the nonstop bleeping of my computer because of the overwhelming number of incoming e-mails. Norma Campbell International indeed had come a long way. From its humble beginnings of merging with other non-profit organisations for small programmes to starting its own projects, increasing its membership, funding numerous research studies, and attracting several donors. Surely, the future seemed bright for NorCamp.

I leant back in my chair, crossed my legs, and tried to concentrate on the monthly reports. It should be able to present the Development Instructors’ results, discuss how their work had progressed, incorporate necessary changes and agree to the plan for the rest of the period. The first page presented the goals and I decided to review them.

NorCamp International's Child Aid Africa aims to reduce poverty,

hunger and the spread of HIV/AIDS, improve the

environment, and strengthen gender equality. All of which

will also contribute to the goals of reducing child mortality.

In a world where Man can fly to the moon, can communicate

from one end of the globe to the other in seconds and . . .

Communicate . . . I’d been having some trouble with that lately. I really, really, really needed to call Emily.

Just in the past week I’d received a package, two phone messages, five text messages, four Facebook messages, and six e-mails.

A beep from my computer suddenly snapped me out of my thoughts. Glancing up at the screen, I noticed the Mail alert flashing in the corner. I clicked onto my inbox and saw that it was from Emily.

Make that seven e-mails yet to be answered.

I sighed and closed that particular tab. I couldn’t write to her now—not when I had to review the reports, compile statistics, and make a comprehensive presentation in front of the bigwigs of our donors for tomorrow’s Midway Meeting. She’d written me so many long, in-depth e-mails, I knew I’d feel bad if I didn’t put time and effort into responding. And there was no way Emily was going to stand for a “Hey, my princess! I miss you. I love you.” in response to a five-page ramble on how the redhead missed the exotic scent of my lotion and my pancakes and my “smiles.”

Perhaps I’d have time later if I wasn’t too tired. I was already having a tough time keeping my eyes open to read.

I let out a long, deep yawn and stretched my arms. Then I sat back in my chair and stared at the files, propping my feet on the desk. I opened a drawer and took one of the stress balls from the care package Emily sent me and squeezed it for all it was worth. God, I definitely needed this.

A knock sounded on the door. “Naomi sweetie.” Lynda, Grandpa’s personal secretary cum nurse—the longest, most loyal employee of the bunch whose only crime is that she gets a bit flustered when the phones are ringing like crazy and who suffers from migraine attacks now and again, poked her head into the room. “We’re all taking a break and heading out for sushi. You joining us, pumpkin?”

It was July. One of the coldest days of the year. The thought of a nice cucumber sushi and a warm cup of green tea recharged my energy stores. The version of sushi of those Japanese restaurants along Little Bourke Street might be inferior to Japan’s authentic ones, but they would do for now. Maybe if I got some food in me, I’d be able to stay up long enough to finish my work. “Yea, I’m there,” I replied, tilting upright in my chair. “Just let me shut down my computer, Lynda. I’ll meet you at the elevators.”

“Okay, pumpkin.” Lynda closed the door, and I could hear the office people’s muffled talk grow fainter as they headed down the hall.

I snapped the folder shut, threw it on the desk, and went to shut down the computer. A slight pang of guilt passed through me when I saw Emily’s thread of messages in a different tab staring back at me. I quickly clicked on the message box. My fingers flew across the keyboard.

I clicked the Reply button, knowing the redhead wasn’t going to be satisfied with my response but feeling better that I’d at least done something.

Okay. So maybe I should have taken more time, I mused, putting on my blazer. But a girl’s gotta eat, right?

Right?

“Yatta (Yes)! Strike one!” I raised my fist into the air.

“Uh . . . Emily-chan?” Misaki tapped me on the shoulder. “This is bowling. You don’t call out ‘strike one’ when you knock all the pins down.”

“So?” I asked, reaching up to tighten my ponytail. “It was a strike. And it was the first one I’ve made the whole game.” I smiled and held my index finger in front of her face. “Besides, Misaki, I gotta yell something. I gotta show some attitude in my cool new bowling shirt.”

I held out my arms to properly display the blue T-shirt I’d borrowed from Naomi’s closet. The statement Without ME, it’s just AWESO was printed over the front in big, white letters. “It’s Naomi’s,” I told her. “She has five of these in different colours. Isn’t it awesome? I feel so awesome that if I have an awesometer on my body it would say ‘Awesomeness Overload.’”

With a chuckle, Misaki shook her head. “You two have a great sense of cockiness. It’s almost not normal,” she said, then she walked over to the ball return and picked up a shiny, black ball. “So you want to see ’tude, Emily-chan? I’ll show you attitude.” She grinned smugly and stepped up to the white line. A second later the ball crashed into the pins, sending all of them flying. “Oh, yea! That’s right! Ten pins go down!” She knelt down and made a slicing motion with her arm.

I shook my head, laughing. When Misaki first suggested we go bowling, I’d hesitated. I had never been very good at the game, and I was afraid I’d make a proper fool out of myself. But there was no competition here. Misaki was out for fun only.

When I’d let go of the ball too late and it had ended up bouncing down the lane, she had clapped me on the back and said, “Excellent dribble, Emily-chan!”

Naomi probably would have spent fifteen minutes instructing me on my technique and making me feel like a useless idiot—inadvertently, of course.

It was so nice to be out with Misaki. In fact, it was nice to be out with anyone after hanging out with so many paired off friends over the last few weeks. It wasn’t just Jessica anymore; it was Jessica-and-her new rocker beau Kenji. And my classmate Megumi-and-her Argentine boyfriend Ignacio. And Aiko-and-her weird husband. And Katie-and-Cook on Skype. And Cassie-and-Greyson—or whatever guy she had her sights on at the moment. And the dorm janitress-and-maintenance guy. Yes. Even those two had their fair share of lovey-dovey moments.

This was the first time in a long while that I was on the lonely side of the couple line. And I didn’t like it.

Plus here it was a Saturday and the semester had officially ended the day before, and quite frankly the communication between me and Naomi was still unsatisfactory. Except for that uncomfortable phone call yesterday morning before she boarded a plane heading for Beijing for a three-day international conference tackling children’s rights and those three exceptionally well thought-out lines in her Facebook message which I thoroughly enjoyed.

I was being sarcastic, of course. I hated it. I hated Naomi for making me feel so . . . abandoned. I felt even worse than that contestant who was given the final rose then was dumped soon after just because the bachelor realised he was more in love with the other girl. If it weren’t for Misaki, I’d probably be locking myself up in my dorm room, sobbing my eyes out and imagining all sorts of awful things—like Naomi realising that her happily ever after was actually meant to be shared with the needy of the world or Naomi realising I was just too immature and boring for her now that she was in Beijing and mingling with lots of inspiring, intellectual, mature individuals—ones who probably shared with her goals and the passion for the same things. I admit to falling asleep halfway through her ramblings about politics and global warming and the horrible injustice in this world. I admit to merely staring dumbly at her whenever she starts talking about why movie houses should sell granola bars rather than popcorn.

“You know all this attitude is making me hungry, Emily-chan,” Misaki said, patting her stomach. “What do you say we blow off the rest of this game and go get some food?”

I raised my brows. “Are you really hungry? Or are you scared that I’m on a roll now and might catch up?”

“Catch up?” she repeated, chuckling. “You’re, like, seventy-six points behind, hun.”

“All right, all right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I suppose I could go for a choco mint milkshake.”

We headed down to the other side of the bowling alley, pushed through a door and into a fluorescent-lit fast food restaurant named Duke’s Diner. Naomi and I would frequent the café area during the weekends. We’d talk and laugh about random things as we sipped our espressos or shared a soothing glass of chocolate mint milkshake. So going inside the place that four in the afternoon was like returning to the scene of the crime. As soon as Misaki and I stepped inside, the same old sinking feeling swept over me. I couldn’t push aside the memory of how Naomi and I used to be. God, I miss my blonde beauty.

Misaki studied the list of items on the marquee sign behind the counter. “So, what do you fancy from dear Duke?”

“You mean Dick?” I snorted, resting an arm on the counter. “The soda jerk here is a right arsehole.”

Misaki glanced around. “Which one?”

A gangly, very animated yet annoyingly douchey Japanese guy in a paper hat leant toward us. “Irasshaimase (Hello), Emily-san and friend. Hisashiburi dane (Long time no see),” he said cheerily. “Gochuumon wo douzo (What can I get you)?”

“This one,” I muttered, then faked a smile at the lad. “Hi, Toshi,” I greeted back just as phony. Misaki looked at me, laughing with her eyes. Then she turned back to the counter attendant, smiling her accommodating smile.

The guy grinned back. “So what can I get you?” he repeated, fixing his stupid-looking paper hat.

Misaki stole a quick glance at me and grinned, obviously sizing me up. “Let’s see . . . We’ll take one chocolate mint milkshake, one large special Coke float, two orders of nachos, two double-decker Croquette burgers, and a basket of French fries.”

“Misaki-chan!” I shouted. “Do I look like I eat that much?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Good point,” she said, staring at the food guy with a serious expression. “Better make that two orders of French fries.”

I gave Misaki a playful whack on the shoulder but couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. “What are you doing? I just wanted a drink,” I said, even as my stomach grumbled.

“I’m only challenging that shirt.” She pointed a defying finger at my top. “Let’s see if you can out-eat me, Miss I’m So Awesome,” she teased and gave my tummy a little poking.

Laughing, I gave her shoulder another light shove. “Misaki!”

Toshi looked from me to Misaki and back again, and it was like some sort of comprehension slowly swept over his features. I saw his huge grin as he entered our orders into the register. And my stomach gave a little squeeze. From an outsider’s point-of-view, Misaki and I definitely looked like more than friends. Friendly friends. Flirty friendly friends. And food could be considered a date, I thought uneasily.

Misaki draped an arm around my shoulders, making me feel more self-conscious. “You’re too skinny, Emily-chan.”

I slanted a brow at her and faked a cough. “The pot shouldn’t call the kettle black.”

She laughed. “Yea, but I eat. Like a lot. And you don’t. You should eat more.” She gave my arm a squeeze.

“Yea, but I’m not like you. Your metabolism works faster than JJ’s mouth moves when he’s locked-on. And I hate you for that!” I whined, and she laughed again.

Toshi suddenly spoke, his eyes sizing Misaki up. “Yea, I mean, you . . . could pass as a model.”

“She is a model,” I informed him matter-of-factly and quite tersely. And proud deep inside. The first time I laid eyes on Misaki, I thought, something must be wrong with the universe if this girl doesn’t end up flaunting her pretty face in TV commercials or magazine covers. And I wasn’t mistaken. Misaki was finally discovered five months ago by a scout whilst she was innocently sipping Coke at a restaurant and since then had been modeling part-time.

“That’s what I thought.” Toshi smiled. “So . . . Ijou de yoroshii deshou ka (Will that be all)?”

Misaki nodded. “Yes. And for here, please,” she said, reaching out and shaking my long, red ponytail. “I’m going to show this girl how to live a little. Allow me to feed you.” She opened her leather shoulder bag, took her wallet out and started counting out a few bills.

“Okay, but you’re not paying,” I said, grabbing her wrist. Paying for food is definitely a date.

Toshi clapped his hands together. “All right, I’m gonna go take care of your order. Chocho omachi kudasai (Just wait a moment),” he said, his eyes sparkling as if a devious realisation just hit him. He disappeared into the kitchen area.

Misaki turned to me. “He seems nice. A bit trying hard to act cool but he’s very friendly.”

I let out a snort of disgust and rolled my eyes. “Ugh. He’s like this big spawn of the devil inside.”

Her eyes widened a bit. “Emily . . .”

“It’s true,” I huffed, rapping absently on the countertop. “Kare wo miruno wo iya da (I can’t fucking bear the sight of him).”

“Emily-chan!” she hissed, giving me a mock glare. “Sonna koto iwanaide kudasai (Please don’t say such things).”

I gave a casual shrug and went on drumming my fingers. “I’m just saying the truth. No tatemae, remember?” Just then, Toshi appeared from the kitchen doorway and returned to the counter.

“Hai, douzo (Here you go),” the lad said, pushing a tray toward Misaki. “Issen happyaku kujuu en desu (¥1,890).”

Before I had even touched my purse, Misaki handed a couple of bills to the guy. “Here,” she said as I fumbled with my wallet. I saw Misaki slip in some 100-yen coins into a small Red Cross donation box by the till. I managed to retract a one thousand yen bill, but Misaki snapped it out of my fingers and stuffed it back into my open purse. “Too late,” she said, picking up the tray. “But I will let you select the table.”

Toshi couldn’t hide his sly grin. “I’ll just bring the special Coke float to . . .” He looked at the Japanese girl with inquiring raised brows.

“Misaki,” she filled in, and she turned to me with a weirded-out expression. I returned the look and rolled my eyes. Who puts names on ice cream soda orders? There was just something fishy about this guy.

“Okay, Misaki-chan,” he said, scribbling on an empty cup. “You’re going to have to wait a bit for the float and the burgers. Bangou-fuda wo omochi ni nari, teeburu de omachi kudasai (Take a number and just wait at your table).” He was grinning like a Cheshire cat. The glint of mischief in his eyes sent an icy sensation creeping over me. Oh, hell no, I thought. The dick did not assume Naomi and I had broken up and he had a chance to make a move! But I only grabbed the number tag and turned on my heel, not bothering to set the record straight.

I led the way to a secluded corner booth. “I saw you donate,” I said, settling onto the hard, orange Formica bench. Misaki placed the tray down on the table and took a seat next to me. “I think that’s really nice of you.”

She waved me off, pulled out a nacho chip from the loaded plate and tipped it to let the extra toppings slip off. “No. It’s not even anything compared to what Naomi’s been doing,” she said, taking a bite of the chip. “I mean, that’s just donating money. But being out there and doing the actual work? I think that’s awesomeness overload in true form. Naomi’s such a wonderful person to do that.”

“I know,” I agreed silently. Of course I knew Naomi’s amazing and extraordinary and all that, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit abandoned at the moment.

Just when I was beginning to dwell on miserable thoughts again, Misaki spoke. “So tell me again how this guy is so creepy.”

“He’s, like, obsessed with my girlfriend,” I told her, scooping up a nacho chip from my own plate and bit down on it. “Every time Naomi and I come here, he blatantly stares at her like a complete creepster. Then he would flirt with my girlfriend in front of my face. He’ll give Naomi VIP tickets to his hip-hop dancing gigs and would go on and on about how Naomi’s eyes were so amazingly blue. It seriously irritates me.”

She rested her elbow on the table and leant in close with a little appalled grimace. “He~e? Does he, really?”

I picked a French fry from the basket and popped it into my mouth. “Yep. And last time we were here and we ordered two espressos, Naomi got hers for free and I had to pay. And you know how you can make those espresso art, yea?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, my espresso had these weird, ugly alien crop circles while Naomi had this perfectly-shaped heart. I mean, what the fuck?”

Making a face, Misaki nodded. “Chotto hen dane (Yea, that’s a bit creepy) . . .”

“And now look at him, looking over, wishing Naomi would suddenly pop in. Poor guy . . .” I took a sludge of mixed chocolate syrup and vanilla ice cream through the bendy straw.

She glanced over and shook her head sadly. “Yea, poor guy . . .” she echoed quietly, then she turned back toward me and rested her chin in her hand. “Speaking of which . . . Did Naomi return your calls or messages already?”

“Well, we did talk for like ten minutes while she was at the airport yesterday. But that’s about it. It wasn’t even a decent one since she was with friends from work. There were so many people in the background and they kept talking to her. I felt like an outsider, you know. So, yea, we haven’t really had a proper chat. But now that you’ve mentioned it, I’m going to take out my mobile and ring her again right . . . about . . . now.”

I did exactly what I just said. Naomi had finally responded to my messages—sort of. She hadn’t actually responded to anything I’d told her, but at least she’d taken a second to write to me. And she had called me and updated me on her life—somehow. It wasn’t the decent conversation I was expecting, but at least she’d made an effort to get in touch with me. Now I wanted to talk to her more than ever.

One ring . . . two rings . . . three rings . . . Eventually I heard a click followed by Naomi’s tape-recorded voice. “Hi, creeper. This is your friendly-neighbourhood Naomi. I know you need me, but I’m kind of in a middle of something right now. However, if you—”

I quickly pressed End Call. No need to leave yet another message and look totally whipped. I held the phone against my chest and sank deeper on the bench.

“Nope,” I mumbled sadly. “Still the friendly-neighbourhood voice mail.”

“Here’s your order.” A voice suddenly sounded behind me, and a couple of burgers and a soda float appeared on our table.

I glanced up and saw Toshi standing over me with a tray. He moved opposite us, planted his free hand on the back of an empty chair, and shot for a nonchalant look. “So . . . uh . . . where’s Naomi?”

“Not here,” I answered flatly, slurping my milkshake noisily.

“Where is she, then?”

I reached for my Croquette burger and partially unwrapped it. “China,” I deadpanned, and he laughed loudly like it was a joke. Fucking loser.

“China?” he repeated incredulously, laughing like a maniac. “What could she possibly be doing there? Jodan ja ne yo (Stop kidding)! You know, Emily-san, you can just tell me if you two have—”

“She really is in China,” Misaki interrupted, leaning back in her seat and taking a sip of her float. “She’s there for a conference.” She smirked up at Toshi and the bloke’s cheeks began to flush.

I was hiding a grin behind my napkin. Sometimes I really wondered if Misaki and I had a psychic connection. I stifled a laugh at the idea.

“Okay,” he said, now smiling awkwardly. “Itsu kaerunoka wakaru (Do you know when will she be back)?”

I scowled. Before I could open my mouth for a sharp ‘Fuck knows. I don’t even know. And, in the first place, it’s none of your fucking business,’ Misaki answered pleasantly and gave my thigh a scolding squeeze under the table, “Umm . . . We can’t say for sure when . . .”

“Ah . . . Sokka (Is that so) . . .” He looked dismayed for a second and removed his stupid paper hat. “But she’ll be back, right?” He flicked his floppy black hair a bit tensely.

“Yep,” Misaki answered. “Definitely.”

“Okay,” he said, beaming again and putting his hat back on. “Sore ja (Right then), enjoy your meal.”

“Thanks.” Misaki smiled back. Then the creepy dude loped off, back to his den—the counter, that is.

I let out a sigh and tapped a few buttons on my phone. “Misete ageru (I’ll show you).” I opened my Outgoing Calls list and handed my phone to Misaki for her to see. “Look at this.” The Japanese girl scanned it down and a sad smile broke on her face.

“Yes. I know. I’m pathetic,” I said with a grimace. “But Naomi’s being awful. I made, like, thirty calls to her. I phoned her almost every single day since she got back to Melbourne, four or five times a day. I left her phone messages, sent her e-mails and Facebook messages . . .”

A cold, numbing sensation washed over me with the aggravating effect of the icy mixture from my milkshake. So here it was. Undeniable proof that I had actually lost my mind.

Misaki put a consoling arm around me. “Listen, I know you want to keep in close touch with your girlfriend. But you have to understand that she’s probably very busy right now, taking care of her grandpa and the organisation and all of that.”

“I already know that,” I said with a sigh. “I’m just asking for a teenie weenie bit of effort from her to show that she misses me back just as much, you know. Yesterday, when she called me, she even talked to me about how much it’ll cost me if I keep phoning her. I mean, what the fuck? I don’t care about my phone bill, I just wanted to hear her voice and know what’s going on in her life. Was that too much to ask?”

“Hey,” Misaki softly said, giving me a reassuring pat on the arm. “That doesn’t mean she loves you any less. It’s her job to concentrate on dealing with the businesses her grandfather left. It’s your job to understand it.”

I sighed irritably. Why couldn’t this pretty girl be completely timid and meek and discreet like how Japanese girls were supposed to be? How was it that she could tell me exactly how I felt and say it to my face? Was she just psychic in a freaky, ex-girlfriend sort of way? Or was I just that obvious?

“Look, Emily-chan,” she said soothingly. “We’ll have fun tonight, okay? We could rent cute animated movies like Happy Feet or Toy Story 3. Or ugly animated ones like A Christmas Carol.” That elicited a snort of laughter from me. “I could invite Yuka-chan too for added entertainment factor. If you feel lonely or anything you could even sleep over at my place.” She took the cherry from the top of her float and popped it into her mouth. “So, what do you say? Sore de ii (How does that sound)?”

Misaki handed me back my moby and I stared again at the list of phone calls I had made. A sick feeling welled up in the pit of my stomach. This wasn’t me making all those calls—a desperate, clingy girl who felt worthless without my girlfriend.

I’d always known girls like that—my sister Katie’s one, in fact. The ones who kept tabs on their sweethearts at all times, planned their lives around them, and threw fits worthy of an Academy Award if they didn’t return a call or stared two seconds too long at some other girl.

I had always pitied them and prided myself on my enlightened attitude. Now here I was, playing the same stupid games.

I had to stop this fast.

My nose scrunched up as I pondered. “Hmm . . . Yea . . . Robert Zemeckis should really start creating less ugly characters, eh? I mean, I’d pick Shrek over Ebenezer Scrooge anytime,” I mumbled wryly, and Misaki laughed.

As soon as we were done eating, I stood abruptly, threw my crumpled napkin onto the table and powered up my grin to full voltage. “All right, then, should we stop by the supermarket for some chips first?”

With a huge smile, Misaki slid off the bench and got to her feet as well. “My pantry’s full of munchies, but I could use more of Mr. Coca-Cola,” she said, hooking her arm around mine. We made our way toward the door, giggling like a couple of little girls.

“All right,” I said, tossing my ponytail behind my shoulders. “Tanoshimo yo (Let’s get this party started).” I looked over my shoulder as we reached the front door. Toshi was looking right at us. And the look on the douche’s face made me doubt his character a tad more. His face was lighting up like a halogen lamp, like he won the lottery.

Before we fled, I got one last glimpse of Toshi’s widening smile through the glass windows. Of his co-worker holding his hand over the counter for a high five. And then his smile shifted to an untrustworthy smirk.

Okay. That was weirdly suspicious. And there was something really off about him I just couldn’t seem to put my finger on. But, fuck it, I was out to have fun.

I walked through the side door of the house and tiptoed inside, hoping to steer clear of any human contact. No such luck that Wednesday afternoon. When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I found my grandfather sitting at the table, talking on the phone. “I agree, Minerva,” he was saying in his usual dealing-with-business tone. “We have brilliant treatment for HIV, but health systems failing in provision of care. We have good data on risk factors for HIV acquisition, but limited agreement on prevention strategies.” When the old man saw me, his eyes lit up. He held up a finger, motioning for me to wait a bit, then spoke into the receiver again.

“Minerva, would you excuse me for a while?” Grandpa turned back to me. “Hi, sweetums! You’re home early today, huh. That’s good,” he said, moving the receiver away from his mouth. “How was the lunch meeting with the new Partners?”

“It went well,” I answered. “Koepsell-Fleig Corporation was rather impressed with the Child Aid Africa midway progress reports from last week. Now they’re talking of extending the efforts to other continents and Haiti could very well just be the beginning. Mrs. Yolanda Bach said she’ll get back to us next week regarding the Haiti Project. She said she talked to the directors after the meeting and, by the looks of it, it’s very promising. They loved the programme and the Work Plan. The proposed project period is just right. They’re willing to give decent budget to accommodate more communities. They also mentioned wanting to build teams of volunteers for the Orphanage Assistance in Kolkata, Vietnam, and Costa Rica so I’ll start working on that later.”

“Oh, Naomi, my little honcho, I knew I could trust you,” he said, obviously very pleased with my shoptalk. “Anyway, I got a call from Governor Mwilima and Mr. Schäfer from the Namibian Embassy this morning. They said they’d be willing to finance a medical/healthcare aid to Katutura.”

I strove to inject enthusiasm in my tone. “That’s awesome, Grandpa.”

He spoke into the receiver again. “Excuse me, Minerva. I was talking to my granddaughter, Naomi. You’ve met her about thirteen years ago in Honduras, right? . . . Yes, she’s Gi-Gi’s one and only child and very much a chip off the ol’ block . . . Yes, yes, she’s grown up already . . .”

I leant against the counter and yanked a Fuji apple out of the basket. After polishing the apple on my slacks, I took a crunchy bite. I remembered that Honduras trip in vivid detail.

I’d been eleven, on summer break from school, and Grandpa had thought it would be educational for me to make a pit-stop in the rebellion-torn country. Where I had stayed has been safe, but so filled with poverty, the problem of helping these people seemed too big for one person, one organisation, even one country to solve.

The country had been fascinating, though, and had spurred my love of travel, my thirst to see the rest of the world, something that I had been trying to quench. It had also inspired me to give more to my family’s causes, to help other people in times of adversities.

“. . . Mhm, she just got back two days ago from Beijing for the Child Rights conference . . .” I listened, eating my apple in silence, as Grandpa rambled on, “. . . Oh, yes, that’s right. Naomi was the one who carried on the Child Aid Africa project . . . Oh, yes, yes, was she a fantastic double. She even developed a new project—Haiti Orphanage Assistance—and she just told me it’s very likely to be approved . . . Really? That’s absolutely fantastic! . . . Well, in that case, I got to tell her about this now. Excuse me again for a bit, Minerva.”

“Naomi,” Grandpa called again as I was taking my blazer off. “It’s Mrs. Bertrand, a board member of ASFA, on the line. You’ve met her before but I’m sure you don’t remember.” Then he cupped a hand over his mouth and whispered, “The tall lady with the funny-looking nose.” That elicited a chuckle from me as I recalled the long-limbed French woman who had a scary huge beak-like nose. Then he straightened up and his normal voice returned. “Anyway, she was just telling me about next year’s Southern Africa AIDS Conference in Durban. And she thinks you could be a great asset to her organisation so she was hoping I could send you there next year. She said she also wants to meet you to discuss about prospective projects and new programmes.”

“Wow. That’s, uh, great news, Grandpa. Tell Mrs. Bertrand I look forward to it.” I tried to smile but was convinced it came out as a grimace. “Have you taken your meds already?” I added automatically, lithely sidestepping the topic.

“Yes, Lynda was here earlier. We also did some brisk-walking this morning.”

“Good,” I said, giving him a weak smile.

“There’s pizza in the microwave. Gerty brought it home after . . .” He trailed off and gave me a scrutinising look for a moment, then his forehead crinkled up with worry. “You look pale. Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Grandpa,” I muttered, trying to avoid eye contact. “Just tired.” I quickly set down my bag and pretended to wipe some dirt off my high-heeled shoe. Luckily my grandfather was too busy with his phone call to press for more information. He had no idea his granddaughter was seconds away from total disintegration.

I tossed the remains of the apple in the garbage and turned to rinse my hands. I had nothing against Grandpa at the moment—or any member of the family. I was simply on the verge of a major breakdown. And I was too exhausted to explain what was wrong and too exhausted to pretend everything was fine.

Somehow I had managed to get through one more day of work in the office, pretending I wasn’t missing my redheaded princess. In fact, my shields managed to hold up pretty well. I got through several hours of paperwork without even making eye contact with Emily’s framed photo on my desk or her wallpaper picture on my phone screen, ate lunch with my co-workers, and even told stories about the redhead to my friends without feeling a pang of guilt. But after work, just as I was congratulating myself on my superb acting ability, I’d headed out to the parking lot and saw a line of white lilies. I had managed to find the strength to climb inside the driver seat of my Cadillac instead of leaving salty puddles all over the hot asphalt, but the effort had sapped all my energy. 

I grabbed a plate of vegetarian pizza from inside the microwave oven and headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway to my room.

Pillow. That was all I wanted. A few slices of pizza and a big, fluffy pillow to hug. I could even spray Emily’s perfume on it. Nothing more. Who cared if it was only five-thirty? As far as I was concerned, the day was over. Might as well turn in now.

I didn’t even get to the first pizza slice before the tears came. The second I reached the seclusion of my room, I flopped down on my bed and cried.

Seven weeks. It’s only been seven fucking weeks, I thought miserably. How am I going to make it through five months?

“Naomi?”

I lifted my head and saw Mum hovering over me, a look of concern creasing her features. She was holding a couple of cold, sweating cans of Victoria Bitter.

“Are you okay, dear?” she asked.

I groaned. “Mum, I just feel like being alone right now.”

After putting the beer cans down on my desk, Mum walked back toward the bed. My gaze flew to the framed photo of Emily on my bedside table. The one I took during last year’s Summer Sonic music fest in Osaka.

The redhead’s face was flawless, almost glowing. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow. That was the last thing I needed to see right now.

“I heard you crying from my room,” my mother explained, pushing her short blond hair behind her ears and crossing her arms over her chest. “Do you want to talk about it, sweetie?”

“No,” I said into the pillow.

Mum sat down on the bed. She never had been very good at taking a hint.

“You know, I feel really guilty about endorsing you to your Grandpa. You were having such a nice life back there in Kyoto and I wish I never forced this big responsibility on you this early.”

Suddenly guilt churned in my stomach. I had never wanted it to seem like anyone compelled me into doing this. This was my choice. This was my dream.

I lifted my head up just enough to find my mother’s gaze. “You don’t have to feel bad about anything, Mum. And I wasn’t ‘forced.’ I went here voluntarily and I wanted to do this for me, for Grandpa, for Nana Norma, for the organisation, and for all those people out there in need, okay? I just miss my girlfriend so much.” My voice broke, and a new round of tears streamed down my face. “Christ, I just miss Emily so much.”

“Yea, well,” Mum put a hand on my arm and squeezed lightly. “Listen, baby, I know it’s hard. But it’s only for a few months.”

“A week away from Emily seems like a lifetime.” I sniffled, then wiped my nose with a knuckle. “God, sometimes I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“But you said this is what you want . . .”

“I know, I know,” I said, sitting up. “I mean, I don’t know. I think this is what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s what we’ve been working on for the past decades. But I also want Emily, Mum. I want her next to me. I need her close to me. Though I know it’s impossible for the two to go together. I know I will always have to choose.”

Mum let out a soft sigh and reached out to place a hand on my shoulder. “You need to start thinking about where you’re really heading, Naomi. And where you and Emily are heading . . .” She gave me that meaningful look. She was going to say the M word and I still wasn’t ready for that part of the alphabet. And before my mother could elaborate, I spoke.

“Oh, I know what you’re doing, Mum,” I said, shrugging her hand away. “You’re manipulating me. But I don’t want to argue about the same old.”

“I’m just concerned about you and Emily. You don’t even have plans for the future.”

“We have. I think.” My left shoulder lifted in a shrug.

“Ah, yea? Like what?” She raised challenging brows.

I looked at Mum blank-faced for a moment whilst my mind raced for an answer. “Oh, you know,” I finally said. “First I have to train with Master Yoda for a few years or so. Emily will be my right-hand woman. Then I need to find a couple of good left-hand robots that can help me out. Plus there’s this whole business of finding my lost twin brother and all. I might be like Emily, you know. With a twin . . .”

Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Naomi.”

“But I promise I won’t go over to the dark side, Mother.”

Mum shook her head and chuckled to herself. “Naomi, my baby girl, you’re losing it.”

“I know. Jesus,” I groaned, rubbing my face with my hands.

She stroked my hair with a soothing hand. “Do you want me to invite Mia and Chase or Jill over for dinner? Don’t you miss your roomie? I heard Jillian’s here in Melb, working in a law firm just down Rathdowne Street, right?”

“Thanks, Mum, but I’d just . . . I’d really like to be alone.”

Mum put a comforting hand on my thigh, her features instantly sobered. “Emily called me and she was worried about you. I just told her that you’re just incredibly busy and you’ll get in touch with her once you get some time out.” She gave my thigh a few light pats. “Is there something you want to tell me about you and Emily?”

I looked away and stared out the window at the bleary light of nightfall. “Nothing.”

Mum stood up and crossed to the desk to grab the cans of beer. “Uh-huh. Let’s grab a beer and then you can lie to me about how perfectly fine and smoothly you two are sailing.” She walked back to the bed, pulled the tab on top of one can, then handed it to me. “If you miss her so much, why don’t you Skype with her? Or FaceTime with her. Or at least give her a call.”

“Yea, I will,” I mumbled before gulping on my beer. I winced a little from the bitter taste of the amber liquid.

“Call her now,” she urged, taking a sip from her own VB can.

“Not now, Mum.”

“Naomi,” my mother said in a disapproving tone.

“Look, Mum,” I said, drawing in a breath, “I have a lot going on in my head and I know Emily knows me so well to be able to tell something awful is up just by the sound of my voice. It might just bother her.”

“You know, there’s one thing you’re really damned good at,” Mum said, settling onto the dresser stool and crossing her legs.

“What’s that?” I asked, drinking from my can.

“Not talking.”

“I talk.”

She arched a motherly yet condescending brow. “Ah, yea?” She twisted the tab off her can, flinging it toward a garbage can sitting in one corner of the room with a flick of her thumb. It pinged against the edge and landed inside the bin. “That’s bull, Naomi. I can understand you not talking to me sometimes. I mean, I’m your mother and I could be incredibly nosy and unbearable to talk to. But for Pete’s sake, Naomi, you have a smart, beautiful, lovely girl waiting by the phone and you don’t talk to her.”

“I talk to her,” I forced out my clogged throat. I did the same with the tab I had managed to rip off the can but it fell short, landing on the carpet just beside the bin. I crawled off the bed and retrieved it, avoiding Mum.

“About what? About how you couldn’t talk to her at the moment?” she quipped, half-smirking.

I set down my half-drunk beer on my desk with a dull clink, feeling like I shouldn’t add more bitterness in my life right now. “Mum, just — just stay out of this, okay?” I said, holding up a hand.

“What is this going on between you and Emily?”

“I don’t know,” I said, treading heavily back to my bed.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she asked, genuinely alarmed.

“I don’t know. Jesus, Mum,” I snapped, whirling around to glare at her. “Which part of ‘I don’t know’ do you not understand?” I wished I knew why I was acting this way. I wished I hadn’t let Mum come in here in the first place. I wished I had locked my door and slept till tomorrow morning. “Look, I can’t explain it right now,” I said, hoping to head her off. “There’s just this thing that I know I can fix. I just need more time . . . to process.”

“Process what?”

“Just—” I scrambled, irritation creeping up the back of my neck, “something. Okay?”

“Well, whatever the reason was, I really think you should apologise to Emily.”

“And I really think you should mind your own business,” I retorted. “Christ, Mum.” I groaned and fell face first onto my bed. For fuck’s sake.

“Don’t be a smart arse and just de-stress yourself, missy,” she said, downing her beer. “Why don’t you just go out to the cabana and get some cool fresh air. Gerty is there getting a massage from Raulito. You seem badly in need of one, too.”

I lifted my head to look at her, my eyes weary. “No, thanks. I know Aunt G will just be a nosy cow and bombard me with questions while she giggles with Raulito’s tickling. At least here you actually have some privacy . . . and peace of mind.”

“Oh, really?” Mum said, snorting. “Not as far as I can see, hunny.”

“Yea, well,” I mumbled, “if I could just be left alone then I might have some.”

Hint number three missed its mark as well. Jesus fucking Christ. Mum stood up and grabbed the phone from my desk.

“Um, Mum? What are you doing?” I asked, sitting up and pushing my tangled hair out of my eyes.

“Calling in the troops,” Mum replied. “I’m inviting Mia and Chase over for dinner. You’ve done enough wallowing for one day.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. Fuck’s sake. Perhaps I should suggest my mother to look up the word alone.

 

“Emily Sensei, check out my painting!” As soon she saw me appear from the door, Miho—with her pigtails swinging excitedly—held up a finger painting she’d just completed, every colour of which was also on her shorts, T-shirt, and face.

“Very nice, Miho-chan,” I told her. “Well done.”

Yuka came running across the lawn toward me. “Not as nice as mine! Look at mine, Emily Sensei,” she insisted, holding hers up.

It was already summer break and the kindergarten decided to organise a summer day camp that sunny Saturday. Assigned to assist from 1 to 4 PM, I couldn’t help but be dazed at what might have occurred during the first three hours of the little backyard party. The school playground was a warzone. Parents and guardians were there, sharing all sorts of summer fun—pink lemonade, barbeque, stick vases, newspaper hats, hula hoops, beach balls, finger painting, scavenger hunt, balloon animals, and more.

“Wow. This is great, Yuka-chan,” I said, keeping a smile plastered to my face.

“And yours too,” I added hastily, knowing the twins, Riko and Ruka, would also want praise for their artwork. All the kids were just as paint-covered as Miho was.

Yuka smirked triumphantly and stuck out her tongue at Miho. Miho’s face fell, her lips trembling as if she was about to bawl.

Misaki’s five-year-old niece, Yuka, had a face like a pretty cherub—rosy cheeks, endearing smile, pale skin like a china doll, twinkling dark brown eyes, and shoulder-length dark brown hair with blunt bangs. She definitely got the pretty, sweet-looking gene. But don’t be fooled; Yuka’s a little brat, going around the school like she’s the boss.

Jessica was tackling some blobs of red and blue paint under a picnic table. “Sorry, I know they’re kind of a mess, Emily,” she said. “But they got bored with looking for clues in the bushes and begged to fingerpaint. They wore me down.”

“I’m sure you intend to compensate for that error in judgment by volunteering to help me shower and shampoo the little angels, right?” I asked sweetly.

“Right,” Jessica reluctantly agreed. “Sounds swell.” Then she threw me a sponge. “If you’re here to help.”

“Everyone, wash your hands in the sink,” the ever-prim Aiko ordered with a grimace as she scanned the grimy kids and the muddled school yard. She was breathing heavily, her hands on her hips. “Time to clean up!” Her words were greeted by grumbles of protest.

“After that we’ll start making our own sushi and play some more!” I added cheerily.

“Yay!” The children squealed and clapped their hands with delight. Their parents and guardians went with them as they eagerly lined up in front of the outdoor sinks.

I sighed and began to scrub at a wall the kids had managed to design with pink and green polka dots. Nagisa and Shouta began to fight over a beach ball and my head started to throb once more. I had just recovered from terrible colds and I felt like it was making a bloody comeback. I rubbed at the place between my eyebrows, looked sideways and spotted Misaki walking over to me, smiling her sweet smile. She was wearing her wire-rimmed eyeglasses and I thought that made her look cuter.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” she said, glancing at the horde of unruly children.

“I swear, if every girl spent a day in this job, the teen pregnancy rate would drop to nothing,” I observed grimly.

Misaki turned to watch Jessica stumble down the path with three paint-covered K-1 students clinging to her legs. “I don’t think we were that obnoxious at that age, were we?”

I thought about it. “Probably worse,” I said, and Misaki laughed. Then we heard someone shriek.

“Obachan (Auntie)! Emily Sensei!” a familiar five-year-old called. “Miho-chan just pushed me! On purpose.” We turned around and found Yuka by the swing, holding her right arm as if it were broken. It wasn’t.

Misaki turned to me with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. She’s my little drama queen.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Don’t worry about it. You do realise you’re talking to someone who spent more than two decades of her life with Katie fucking Fitch, right?” I said and Misaki only giggled at the comment. We went over to Yuka. “Let me see it, sweetie,” Misaki said gently to her equally-pretty niece, checking her arm.

                                                                                                        

“I need ice cream to make me feel better, Obachan,” Yuka insisted. “It calms me down.” She turned to her classmate. “Next time you touch me, Miho-chan, I’m calling my dad. He’s a lawyer.”

“Great. Okay,” Misaki said, bending over to grab the girl by the shoulders and steer her toward the sink. “I’m getting my niece out of here. I apologise again if she’s giving all of you such a hard time.”

Laughing a little to myself, I shook my head from side to side as I watched Misaki get down on one knee to wipe the paint off Yuka’s rubber shoes. Her glasses even fell off her face and she had to struggle keeping her niece still. Her haughty sister, Yuka’s mum, seemed to be content with just observing from a distance—talking on her cellphone and meticulously studying her long, newly-polished fingernails. She certainly looked every inch of a diva. Her dark brown hair was pulled back, making her chin and cheekbones look sharp. It was strange how she could be so pretty when her features were so angular, her eyes so piercing. There was no doubt she was a head-turner with her elegant beauty like her younger sister but she was that person who would easily be included on anybody’s Top 10 Least Favourite People list unlike Misaki who was rather likable.

Somehow I felt sorry for Misaki. Her life was crowded with awful people who were absolute trouble and pain-causing. Including me, of course. And she was too sweet and gentle and forgiving for the rest of us. I turned on my heel, went back to the wall, and started sponging again. Soon after, I felt seriously overtired.

I needed ice cream, too.

A couple of hours later—after the excruciating mêlée and food fights with the kids—I stood in the open doorway of the school kitchen refrigerator, carefully scanning the inventory. I made it through another half-day shift without breaking down, and I wanted to reward myself with a treat.

I tried the freezer for the second time, hoping a pint of Ben & Jerry’s would miraculously appear behind the frozen broccoli. No luck.

“Hey, girl!” Jessica came running into the kitchen, her funky bowl-shaped dark brown hair with dramatic blond highlights bouncing. “Guess what just happened!”

“What?” I managed to say calmly. This was too much spunk to take without any sugar in my own system.

“Kenji just called!” Jessica exclaimed. “He got a phone call from the manager of Keith’s Pub.”

“Baldy, you mean,” I deadpanned, remembering the despicable pedobloke who had an unsettling obsession with Karen.

“Right, Baldy,” Jessica said with a throaty laugh. “Apparently someone cancelled at the last minute for tonight’s gig and Baldy wants Kenji and his band to fill in!”

“Wow,” I remarked, trying to sound enthused. “That’s great, Jess.”

“I know, right! He’s like a real working musician now!” she said, doe-eyed.

I couldn’t help smiling. In a way, it grated on my nerves to see my dorm mate hopping with excitement. Still, just because I had no reason to be psyched up because my girlfriend wouldn’t be there cheering Kenji’s band with me didn’t mean I couldn’t be happy for Jessica. At least someone in this room had a life at the moment.

“So you’re coming tonight at 9,” Jessica said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Uhm, erm, I don’t think so.”

Jessica frowned. “Why not?”

“I don’t know, Jess. I just don’t really feel like it.” I turned around and opened the pantry door, searching desperately for any package marked Chocolate Covered or Cream Filled. No sense in trying to explain to my friend that I was being purposefully antisocial.

“Come on, Emily, it’ll be fun,” she urged, stepping into the doorway and blocking my view.

“But I’m really exhausted,” I said, leaning against the door frame. “Didn’t you see how many kids I had to play tug o’ war with? For a second it felt like tug o’ war for my sanity. I’m sorry, Jess, I’ll have to pass on this one.”

“Emily, lying in your bed and eating ice cream the entire night wouldn’t do you any better. So why not go with us? I’ve already spread the word through the dorm and Hamada U crowd. I invited your classmate Megumi and her boyfriend too. Even Miss Aiko said she and her husband will be popping by. The place will be crazy, c’mon.”

I heaved a deep sigh. I knew Jessica was only trying to boost my spirits, but the last thing I wanted was to spend another day alone in a room crammed with canoodling people and seasoned with piercing love songs.

Jessica raised her brows, light glinting off her eyebrow piercing. “Didn’t you agree it was better to be social than get friggin’ sick and paralysed in your room?”

“Yea, but . . .” My eyes darted around the room, as if I could find an excuse stamped out on the kitchen wallpaper. “But my girlfriend’s not here and—”

Her brow furrowed. “Why? Is Naomi the kind of girl who puts some sort of home detention bracelet on you when she’s away?”

“No. What the fuck, Jess?” I said, half defensive, half amused.

“Then she doesn’t like you to have fun?”

“No!”

“So she doesn’t want you to enjoy your Mojitos and listen to some pretty fucking amazing music?”

I snorted. “Of course, she does!”

Misaki suddenly appeared in the doorway, walking over with a little grin. “It’s settled, then,” she said, opening a bag of pretzels. “This is the perfect opportunity to unwind and leave all your troubles behind, Emily-chan. Look what happened to you when you tried that ‘stay-in-and-lock-myself-up-in-my-room’ therapy for several days. You got sick, right?” she went on, her words growing muffled as she crunched down on a couple of pretzels in a very un-Misaki-like way. “You have to go.”

“Wow, Misaki, whatever happened to your grace,” I joked.

A pretzel suddenly bounced off my head. “Ow.” I stroked my head and laughed.

“You’re going if Jessica, Kenji, and even Oz have to help me physically drag you in there,” Misaki announced, “so you might want to call Naomi and tell her you’re going out tonight. She might get worried.”

“Worried? She couldn’t even pick up her phone for me!”

Misaki touched my shoulder. “Just do it. And do it nicely. Okay, Emily-chan?” She plunked another pretzel into her mouth. “Anyway, I gotta go now. I still have a quick photo shoot in Kobe. See you later at Keith’s Pub, all right?” After giving me a soft peck on the cheek, she spun on her heels, and sauntered out of the kitchen. Jessica trotted after her, too excited to invite more people to her boyfriend’s gig.

I moved to the kitchen table with a lackadaisical trudge, feeling all bushed. Misaki was right. The few days of seclusion didn’t make things any easier for me. I figured going out and painting the town red tonight with my friends would be a good idea.

I pulled back a chair, lowered myself into it, then took out my moby from my pocket and called Naomi’s room phone again. Her mobile phone was turned off the whole day. It was Naomi’s answering machine that I had reached. Again. Fuck’s sake.

You love her. She loves you. She’s busy doing something amazing. She’s busy making a difference. Be a nice, supportive, understanding, patient girlfriend, I reminded myself. So I put on a sweet tone and left a message about Jessica’s boyfriend’s gig.

I put my head down on the table. I really didn’t want to go to Keith’s Pub. But what could I do? It wasn’t like I had the strength to fight Jessica or Misaki on the matter. Besides, the last thing I needed in my life right now was more conflict.

So I’d go. I’d hate it and I’d probably be losing my control there or I’d get a crippling hangover tomorrow, but I’d go.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. After all, I thought, at least they had Mojitos there.

 

“Aunt G, would it be all right if I borrowed your van?” I asked, shifting my weight on the stool at the kitchen island. “I need to be somewhere quiet and think for a while. And you know how Voltron makes these annoying sounds.” By 'Voltron,' I was referring to my handsome Cadillac. Aunt G baptised the car with this name when she inherited it from her ex-husband who died from a lightning strike. I thought it was a really cool-sounding name so it just stuck.

“Naomi dear, you know that whatever’s mine is yours,” my aunt replied, bustling around the kitchen as she cleaned up from dinner. I had avoided the meal by claiming I had already eaten at the office and was busy with returning some e-mails. Truth is, I’d been avoiding the hot seat during family dinners. I knew Grandpa, Mum, and Aunt G had a plot to continuously torture me with questions I had no answers for. “The perks of communal living, you know.” She gave me a wink.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I scoffed, running a finger along the rim of my teacup—my version of supper. “I don’t want even a little bit of your ill-chosen pool of lovers. You’re a femme fatale, Aunt G.”

Aunt Gertrude turned, a soapy wooden spoon in one hand. “Did a bushfly fly up your arse again?” she said. “Because, sweetie, you’re as grumpy as a Siamese in a hot tub.”

Despite my mood, I paused with my teacup halfway to my mouth, and laughed, warming to this petite woman who seemed part SuperAunt, part SuperCook, part SuperHomeManager, and part SuperAccidentalComedienne. “Got a lot on my mind, Aunt G, that’s all.”

“What’s to worry about?” she said lightly, flipping her long blond braid over one shoulder. “We meet a bunch of people and teach them how to teach other people how to start their own vegetable gardens, they learn from us, they get to have something to eat, they could even sell the products and earn some money, then we get up in the morning and do it all over again. Been doing it like that for going on more than three decades here in Norma Campbell International. It was good enough for your grandmother, for your grandfather, for your mother, and for you.”

“I know that,” I said, taking a sip of the orange pekoe.

Aunt Gertrude paused in running a sponge over a plate, the scent of the dishwashing liquid adding a lemony hint to the kitchen air. “Why, is your professor bugging you again? I thought you already updated him on your thesis through e-mail.”

“No. It’s not that,” I mumbled, staring down at my drink.

My aunt nodded slowly, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Okay . . . if this isn’t about NorCamp or grad school then it must be about . . . a certain redhead. Do you want to talk about it?” She folded her arms over her chest and cocked her head with concern.

I shook my head. “Nope. I’m sure whatever I tell you now will be screaming on the front page of The Campbell Times tomorrow.”

Smirking, she raised a thin, over-plucked amused brow. “My, my, someone’s in a wise-ass mode today, huh?”

I sniffed, then drained my cup of tea. “Sorry, Aunt G. I can only be nice to one person today. Today is not your day. I’m going now.” I hopped off my stool and slipped on a green pullover hoodie.

“Seriously, love, aren’t you going to rest? You’ve been up and about since you got here from Beijing,” she paused then quickly added, “Actually, no. You’ve been unstoppable since you arrived here from Africa. And, for the love of God, it’s freezing outside!”

I picked up my cup and made my way across the scarred oak floor to her. “I just really need to get some . . . fresh air.” And to make sure no one in this house would fucking see me break down, I silently added. Three days ago I had been lucky to have enough self-control not to lose it in front of Grandpa and Mum. I didn’t think I’d be lucky again so I needed to make an escape.

“Okay. Just don’t stay out too late. We have to go over the Kafue orphanage reports and brief some volunteers tomorrow morning so you need some proper sleep.”

“No worries there. Sleep is something I seem to be able to do without nowadays,” I said flatly, putting the cup down by the sink then bending over to give my tiny aunt a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the tea, Aunt Gerty.”

My aunt shook her head slowly. “So stubborn as a wall.” She turned back to the plate, rinsing it under running water, then putting it in the plastic dish drainer to dry. “Just don’t be out too long, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I headed into the hall and grabbed the keys from their usual spot on the table by the door. It was just too impossible to have a productive train of thought in this house.

I started up the hybrid minivan and let it roar quietly. Then I backed out of the driveway and headed down the street.

The quiet hum of the engine helped me relax, and the lights seemed to be illuminating everything just for me. I turned right onto the main strip of Macaulay Road, easily blending into the sparse Saturday traffic.

Saturday. During Saturdays back in Kyoto, Emily and I would take Oz out for strolling in the morning, have a romantic lunch at the Italian restaurant, Mama Luna’s, and drop by Duke’s Diner later during the day to talk about the week’s events. There was nothing more cosy and comfortable than drowning in Emily’s big brown eyes . . . and a huge cup of espresso.

I took a left going to the busy street of Bellair. The coffee shop that used to be my favourite loomed into view. Obscura. A small Laotian café. They serve the best fucking latte on Earth.

No sense stopping, though. I didn’t feel like having coffee alone, and the smell of coffee and croissants only reminded me of Emily. I’d only feel more miserable.

But where do I go? As I headed back down McConnell Street and onto the main thoroughfare—Kensington Road, every single place looked gloomy. The restaurants. The fastfoods. The bars. The coffee shops. The movie theatre. Even J.J. Holland Park—the park Aunt G’s been recommending since forever which at the moment was crowded with skater boys and youngsters playing rugby—seemed lackluster.

Perhaps I should just pop in our old lady neighbour Mrs. Perkins’ house and offer to babysit her cats. Perhaps I should swing by FoodWorks and buy truckloads of pudding or yoghurt. Perhaps I should pop by Kensington Pizza and grab a box of my favourite Vegetarian pizza. No need. I bet there’s already some in the microwave. Perhaps I should call JJ and ask how the wedding planning was going. It’s only in seven months; the lad must be shitting his pants right now. Perhaps I should just go back to Grandpa’s office and do some extra work. After all, I still had loads of e-mails to reply to and stacks of paperwork left to finish.

Without thinking, I rounded a corner and drove down several blocks before turning onto a peaceful peppercorn tree-lined street—Gower Street. Our street.

I parked the van across the road from my house. For a long moment I sat staring at the bungalow structure. Fragments of images flashed past me, like a film on fast-forward. Emily and I, getting out of my Caddy from a fun grocery trip at the supermarket. Emily laughing with my family as we barbequed. Emily and I, sitting on the porch, tracing stars and making dreams together. Emily and I, riding elephants in Thailand. Emily and I, painting the walls of newly-constructed orphanages together. Emily and I, changing the world together. Emily and I, building our life together. Ranga and Blondie, growing old together.

But was that possible? Emily’s last thought would be moving to this town faraway from her family and friends. Emily didn’t belong here, not in this world. She’d hesitated in letting me go and was dreadfully scared for me. She couldn’t deal with uncertainties or instability or going somewhere without an itinerary. Emily was used to a life of comfort and loved being pampered, protected. Emily was organised. Emily wrote lists. Emily lived by rules. She was that girl who chose to stay home, cleaned her side of the room, and studied for the exams. I was the girl who chose to climb trees, mimicked my grandpa’s movements as he dug wells and painted houses, and adored climbing mountains and camping in the woods.

I remembered Emily mentioning something about wanting to work as a teacher in a junior high school in Japan. Another set of pictures flashed before my eyes. Me, in Kyoto. Me, working behind a desk in Kyoto. Emily, coming home from her teaching job as I took care of some office paperwork. My redheaded princess and I, living that humdrum, domestic life. But that wasn’t me. I didn’t belong there, not in that world.

The only trouble was figuring out where we did belong, what we were made to be.

Covering my face with my hands, I slumped over the steering wheel and rubbed my face. I felt beyond guilty. I had been so detached, so reclusive lately that it was making me hate myself. And the thing was, Emily was probably the only person who could lift my spirits.

Maybe I should go back in there, in the comfort of my room, ring up my girlfriend and have a decent convo with her. Maybe?

I straightened up and restarted the engine. In any case, I probably should head back. The drive wasn’t exactly making me feel better. In a way, it seemed fitting I should be driving around aimlessly. Since I got here from Africa, all I seemed to be doing was going around in circles.

I parked the van in the garage and took a deep breath before heading back into the house. My long drive might have helped me sort things out a bit, but it didn’t ease my mood much. Hopefully I could avoid the rest of my family for a while and drown my sorrows with a box of pizza. I hadn’t realised that there was a black Rolls Royce limousine parked in front of my Cadillac.

I walked through the front door and was on a direct path to the kitchen when Mum suddenly appeared at the entrance of the dining room.

“Hey, hunny. There you are,” she said, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Put on a gracious smile, will you? We have a guest.”

I rolled my eyes. With Mum, Aunt G, and Grandpa in the house privacy was not a word in the Campbell dictionary. And guest could only mean either (a) another gossip-loving family member, Aunt Margie, swinging by to check up on Grandpa, or (b) our ever-pleasant neighbour, Mrs. Perkins, bringing us some of her delightful raisin bread and freshly-picked tomatoes, or (c) the young Spanish masseur, Raulito, popping by to give Aunt G more tickling. But then again, I don’t remember either one of them owning a fancy limo. I stopped short in the doorway when I saw who it was.

“Hiya, Naomi!” JJ sang out, looking up from the Nintendo DS he was abusing with his thumbs. He was seated at the dining table, a couple of cold, sweating untouched bottles of Foster’s beer in front of him.

“JJ!” I exclaimed, surprised. “What the fuck? What’s a Sydneysider like you doing here in Nowhereville?”

His dark grey pea coat, light blue shirt and classy tie looked incongruously formal in the intimate, unfussy atmosphere of our house.

Mum turned toward my friend, a friendly smile on her face. “JJ hunny, I have to disappear for a bit. Feel at home, all right?” she said sweetly, and JJ nodded and smiled gratefully in response. Then she turned her attention to me, giving my cheek a couple of light pats. “I’ll leave him to you, ’kay, sweetie? Feed him, get him drunk, do whatever. I just have to look over the weekly reports from the Angola camps.” Then she made her way out of the room and down the hallway.

As soon as my mother disappeared, I turned to JJ. “What the hell brought you here?”

JJ shoved his DS into his tiny leather messenger bag, then stood up and moved to give me a one-armed hug of hello. “I’m getting married in seven months. I need all my bridesmaids glowing, you know.” He grinned. “And Melb’s hardly Darwin, come on.”

I gave him a level stare. “Don’t tell me my mother summoned you.”

He gave me an uneasy lopsided smile. “She—she did, actually,” he said guiltily. “But I also thought of visiting you as soon as I heard you’ve come back. But, you know, the wedding planning kept my hands full.”

I moved toward a nearby window. “Wow,” I murmured, peeking cautiously through the curtains. “It’s a wonder that there are no paps flocking outside yet. Your wedding has been the buzz in all the tabloids lately; it’s insane.”

JJ leant against the door frame, sniggering. “I made sure the escape was flawless and like you said,” he shrugged, “this is Nowhereville.” After a giddy fit of laughter, he then cleared his throat to embark on another subject, a slightly serious-sounding one. “So. I just want to—”

“Who is this young man?” Grandpa’s thunderous voice had startled even me.

JJ straightened up, looking like he was about to wet his pants as he stared up at the tall, rugged, grey-bearded, salt & pepper-haired, dictatorial Sean Connery-looking man. “JJ, sir. I’m, uh,” he fumblingly responded, “JJ Jones. Jonah Jeremiah Jones, sir.” He held out a trembling hand which my grandfather shook with caution.

The old man studied JJ suspiciously and the boy stiffened under his gaze. Grandpa could be fierce, and he didn’t care whom he did it in front of.

“Are you courting my granddaughter?” asked Grandpa, raising his bushy eyebrows. “Sorry, little buddy, but she has a girlfriend already.”

JJ shook his head, answering very quickly, “No, no, not at all, Mr. Campbell. I’m well aware she’s taken. I am, too, and I’m even friends with—”

“Then who’s that for?” He gestured at the potted jasmine plant with a purple ribbon sitting pretty between stacks of folders and large maps on the dining table.

“Oh, this?” JJ hurried to the wooden table and shakily picked the plant up. “This is actually,” he cleared his throat, “this is for you, sir.” He held it out to him, smiling weakly.

Grandpa didn’t reach for the potted plant, but he kept his piercing blue eyes fixed on the trembling lad. “For me?”

“F-for – for, you know, your recovery and—”

“I’m not dying.”

I looked at my grandpa’s face. His bright blue eyes were twinkling, enjoying winding poor JJ up. What a sadist. I couldn’t help but smile a little at the scene unfolding before me.

Very slowly, JJ lowered the jasmine plant. “I know that, sir. I was j-just—I just thought—”

A ringing of a telephone was heard. And then another phone sounded—a different ring tone. Thank God.

“Right. Okay,” Grandpa said with a click of his tongue. “That must be World Vision and ASFA. Very important calls.” He suddenly took the potted plant from JJ’s hands. “Thanks for this, by the way. You have no idea how much I missed the smell of jasmines. It was the scent of my wife’s perfume.”

JJ scrambled for an empathising response. “I’m . . . err . . . so sorry to—”

But Grandpa already had his back on him and was stalking back to his room. “And I know you, squirt,” he called with a dry chuckle as he disappeared into the room. “You’re the grandson of Bill Jones, who was a rogue and a scoundrel, but possessed a genius for buying real estate at dirt-cheap prices and turning that same real estate into some of the most prime pieces of property around the country. Could you tell your slimebag of a gramps next time he wants to make more money, do it without stamping on lesser mortals, all right?” His loud, hearty laughter then a shutting of door was then heard.

I struggled to keep a straight face and not burst out laughing. Grandpa, for all his goodwill, was classically so blunt. It was a Campbell thing.

JJ looked incredibly disconcerted. “Oh, God,” his voice wobbled. “He hates me. Jonathan Campbell hates me.”

I offered a tiny smile, hoping it would pacify the lad. “He loves the plant.”

“Yes, but he hates me.”

“Well, he hates everyone in your family tree. Not just you.”

“Oh, bobbins,” he gulped in dumb amazement. “Oh, my holy bobbins—”

“Right. Okay. Before you fucking chew your own tongue there, let’s go to my room,” I declared, grabbing the two unopened beer bottles from the table. “You know how nosy everyone is in this house.” With a weak grin, JJ followed me out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

“Wow,” JJ gushed when we reached my bedroom. He stood in the middle of the room and gave it an inspection. “Lovely room you got here. It’s so . . . therapeutic.” He inhaled the herbal incense sticks I had lit up. He moved to the giant corkboard on my wall and gazed at it like a little kid in an art museum. I noticed JJ’s new hair—trimmed shorter, making him look more mature, manly, and dapper. But unlike Emily I wasn’t the type of person who wastes time on pleasantries. “Feel free to sit anywhere, Jay,” I offered. Then I held up a bottle of beer. “Fancy a beer? Or perhaps you prefer chardonnay, sire?” I teased.

He turned to me and grinned. “Beer is perfect. Thank you.” He unbuttoned his pea coat, peeled it out and took a seat on the stool at my dressing table.

I twisted the top off a Foster’s and handed it to him. “Oh, wait. You probably want a glass.”

JJ shook his head. “No, today I’m an ordinary man. Which means I’m going to chug it back out of a bottle.” I laughed as he did just that. Then with the back of his hand, he swiped off the bit of foam that lingered on his mouth.

“How’s the wedding planning going?” I asked, uncapping a beer for me as well.

“Okay, so,” JJ scratched his chin and shifted on his stool, “Venue: check. Orchestra: check. Catering: check. David Blaine, master magician: check,” he said, and that made me chuckle, “Gown designs: X. Lara didn’t approve of the newly-hired designer’s sketches. But we’re working on it already and . . . Bridesmaids: X.”

I stopped smiling. “What do you mean ‘Bridesmaids: X’?” I asked, sipping at my beer. “You gave out the unofficial wedding invitations a year ago and the list seemed pretty complete to me.”

“Well, let’s see,” he said, twirling his amber bottle on the dresser table. “Halo doesn’t want to be partnered with Sean in the entourage. I don’t know what happened but those two are currently in a cat-and-mouse mode again. Panda’s been a bit down lately. You know, with Thomas flaming busy with law school and interning at the White House. And . . . you and Emily . . . you know—”

“Me and Emily?” I echoed with alarm. “Nothing is wrong with me and Emily. We’re—” I paused. “We’re okay.”

“Really?” He lifted unconvinced brows. And that made me reconsider my answer.

I dipped my head, avoiding his gaze. “Really,” I mumbled, taking my boots and socks off a bit awkwardly with my free hand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the wry amusement on JJ’s face as he eyed me closely. “Okay. If you say so,” he said, after taking a long, pensive sip of his beer. Then his hand went fiddling with my newly-bought souvenir shot glasses displayed on a wooden mini shelf mounted by the dressing table. “Zambia . . . South Africa . . . Malawi,” he read the printed place names on the shot glasses, “Angola . . . Mozambique. Wow. How long were you in Africa all-in-all?”

I went to sit on my bed, crossing my legs and tucking my feet under my knees. “A month and a half so far. Some of us had to leave because a couple of our team members caught malaria and I had to go back for the midway meeting.”

JJ nodded slowly. “Hm. I see,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be back in Africa, though?”

I took a swig of beer. “Yea, actually I was supposed to fly back, like, three days ago for the remaining half of the project, but I have to work on new projects and meet new sponsors so I’m staying here for a while. Like, just last week, I was sent to China for a conference. Good thing I have really amazing team members. They can make things happen without me there.”

“Yea, good for you and the project,” he said, smiling faintly. “So . . . after this you can finally go back to Kyoto?”

I bit my lip. “Well,” I said, my free hand absently toying with the heart-shaped pendant of my necklace, “the child aid project is supposed to be completed by the end of September . . . but then I have this Haiti project all set and if it gets approved then I may have to be away longer. Like I have to personally meet with the sponsors—the company’s in Berlin, by the way—and I gotta work extra hard to finalise the work plan . . .”

JJ’s brows met, looking incredibly affected. “Wow. What about Emily?”

I let out a long, audible sigh. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself, too,” I admitted wearily. “What to do with Emily. My time away from her just keeps on getting extended; it’s annoying. But I have no choice. I have other responsibilities.”

He drew back on his stool, his face serious. “And here I thought everything is perfect between you two.”

Another sigh. “I don’t know, Jay. Perfect is such a ridiculously intense and over-used adjective.” For a few moments, JJ let me stare down at my beer bottle in silence.

“You might want to check your messages, by the way,” JJ suddenly spoke, tipping his beer in the direction of the answering machine on my desk. And I noticed the rapid blink of the message light.

“Oh, fuck,” I said, giving my forehead a slap, “how could I have forgotten?”

Swiftly I got up, hurried to my desk, and pushed the button on the machine. I’d practically lived in the office this whole week that I had ignored my phone. There was a call from Jill, my ex-roomie, asking if we could meet up for lunch next week. One from Chase, just wanting to see how I was doing and if I wanted to chill with our high school buddies including David. One from Yolanda Bach, the representative from Koepsell-Fleig Corporation, relaying some messages I had already been informed of. Dutifully, I still scribbled the details on a pad. There were two hang-ups, each with a long pause before the click of the receiver.

BEEP!

Hey, babe! Guess you’re not home. Oh, well, I just wanted to say hi and that I’m thinking about you. God, it’s so hard to think about anything else. Could you give me a ring back when you’re done saving the day? Please?

I dropped my pencil as Emily’s voice filled the room. Christ, I had missed that sweet, husky voice of hers. I stabbed the Stop button.

“Well, I bet she’s happy for you,” JJ spoke, smiling a bit. “She must be really proud.”

“That’s the problem,” I mumbled sadly. “I don’t think she is. She must be thinking this job’s her rival or something. And I don’t blame her. I’ve been a shitty girlfriend.”

I pressed Play again, and jotted down the brief message from Uncle Gary, direct from Congo, on a potential sponsor—he had only been contacting either me or Lynda to report on the progress of the medical aid he’s in charge of since he and Grandpa weren’t on good terms at the moment, another from a co-worker telling me the potential sponsor indeed had potential. I waited through the blank tape on a delayed hang-up, then gritted my teeth over three calls from three different blokes I had met during the Beijing conference who’d managed to wangle my phone number. Somehow my In a relationship with Emily Fitch status on Facebook didn’t stop them from thinking they’ve got a chance with me. How fucking dense and delusional some men could really be.

Where was my little Ranga? I suddenly wondered. I needed to hear more of her sweet yet super sexy voice.

And then it came.

BEEP!

Hey. Sorry I wasn’t able to call for the last couple of days. I got horribly sick and good thing Jess and Misaki had stepped in as my personal nurses. It’s crazy how a common cold can put a stop to most things in life, yea? Here I was dreaming of you and blowing my nose and slurping on instant noodles at the same time. And you know what . . . it was still so romamtic. She let out a cute raspy little giggle, and I smiled when I heard the word ‘romamtic.’ Now when I’m well again, and back to my usual business, it’s as if I see you everywhere. I shiver each time I spy a tall blonde, hurrying down the street or the dorm hallway. What is that a sign of? That I’m fucking losing it? She let out a soft chuckle. Perhaps . . . Or maybe it was just the residual effect of the colds . . . Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. I hope you are too. Love you. As always. Hope you’ll be home soon.

JJ shook his head sadly. “Aww . . . Poor Emily. She can barely take care of herself,” he commented sympathetically. “Everyone knows she’s not exactly the strong, independent type . . .”

I switched off the machine for a moment. My heart sagged. My girlfriend had been sick and I didn’t even have a fucking clue about it. I wasn’t even able to ask her how she was feeling or give her tips to cure herself or ask someone to make her hot bowls of cream of potato soup. I’m such a tit, I thought guiltily. An utter, utter tit.

I stabbed the Play button again.

BEEP!

Hey, it’s me again. I just got back from jogging with Oz. Anyway, Jess said she heard our room phone ringing. I thought it might have been you trying to reach me. Guess not. Oh, well, just ring my moby. I love you. Oh, and I heard from your mum that you haven’t been eating on time and you’re basically living in your office. Don’t overstress yourself, babe, and take the vitamins I sent you. Also . . . if it’s so hard to give me a ring back, write, please? Like my Facebook status, poke me, send a smoke signal or something. Just anything to assure me you’re okay. And let me know why the hell you’re not answering your phone. Later.

I turned the machine off again, feeling more and more like a tit by the second. Guilt gnawed mercilessly at me, creating a cavern in my tummy.

JJ took a swig of his Foster’s. “Anyway, how’s she holding up?”

“Fine, I suppose,” I answered, my finger still on the button I just pressed. “She has Oz to take care of and she got so busy with uni these past few weeks because of the end of semester exams and essays and all that. She also got a part-time job as a teacher in an international preschool there so there’s something keeping her psychotically busy.”

“Should be good for her, eh?”

“Yep,” I said, trying to convince us both it was true, “I think it’s a nice distraction for her. There’s no reason for her to miss me so much.”

And no time to think about how pretty fucking useless her girlfriend is, I added silently.

“And, uhm,” JJ said, hesitating a bit, “am I reading this incorrectly or are you two having some sort of trouble communicating?”

“Yes. I know,” I said wryly, “And don’t rub it in. I’m such an idiot. A big, fucking dick. I haven’t answered her e-mails and calls. How worse could I possibly be, yea?” I hit Play again, hoping we were done with that subject.

But no such luck.

BEEP!

Hey! Me again. Wow. You’re pulling some long days, huh? Just wanted to tell you some news. Kenji has a gig tonight at Keith’s Pub. Jess is going to make it a dorm and Bright Kids’ teaching staff night out so she’d probably be bringing in a huge crowd. The more they pack ‘em in, the more they’ll book Kenji. Anyway . . . so, I’ll probably be out and about tonight. Okay? So . . . maybe I’ll talk to you tomorrow? Hope your grandpa’s recovering fast. I’ll be thinking about you . . .

And she was gone.

I stared at the machine as a computer voice declared flatly, “End of message.”

“And the ‘World’s Best Girlfriend’ award goes to me,” I said dryly. I yanked my swivel chair out from under the desk, collapsed into it, rested my head back and closed my eyes. “God, I suck at this,” I said, rubbing my face with a hand. “I suck at everything when it comes to dealing with Emily.”

“Call her now,” JJ suggested.

“She just said she’ll be at a friend’s gig,” I mumbled into my hand. “I’m going to ring her tomorrow morning.”

“Just text her, then.”

I wanted to scream that I had enough meddling people in my life. Instead I removed my hand from my face, opened my eyes and said wearily, “No, it’s probably better to talk to her on the phone. It’s more personal. She’ll only get annoyed.”

JJ smirked. “She probably is already annoyed. Just send her a sweet little message now.”

“Tomorrow, okay? I’ll call her tomorrow,” I said irritably.

His brow furrowed, but the smirk was still plastered on his face. “What’s the difference between now and tomorrow?”

“Twenty-four hours. That’s the fucking difference,” I snapped, jerking forward in my seat, and JJ pressed his lips together.

“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered. Surrounded by meddlesome, irritating people—The Story of My Fucking Life. I rubbed at my forehead wearily, then turned to JJ with a softer expression. “I’m sorry, Jay. It’s just—it’s been a long day. Sorry. I’m just bothered as hell and I’m taking it out on you.” Taking a long, calming sip of my beer, I spun the chair and flipped open my laptop. It’s been about a week since I last signed in to Facebook. Perhaps I should Like and comment on Emily’s latest status or photos at the very least.

JJ leant forward, propped his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. His face turned from teasing to serious. “What is happening here, Naomi?” he asked quietly.

Instead of opening my web browser, I sat there, staring numbly at the photo slide show screensaver on the laptop screen. JJ waited. In the silence, I set down my beer and brushed off my hands.

“All right,” I said with a sigh. I slightly turned my chair so I was facing JJ. “You know there’s something called competing systems, right? When one computer program has to be completely shut down in order for another one to work?”

He nodded, listening. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s sort of how I’ve been feeling lately.”

Another nod. “Okay.”

“You see, Jay, I love Emily. I really do. There’s no question about that. And she means the most to me,” I said with all sincerity. “But when I’m here in Melbourne or out there in Africa, it’s like I can’t find a place for her, like I can’t function here and anywhere else if I get focused on her.”

A third nod. “Okay.”

“And the few times I have talked to her on the phone, my old ‘Emily’ programming kicks in and I become completely useless at everything else. I can’t concentrate, you know what I mean. I can’t relax. It’s as if my whole fucking brain goes haywire.”

“But you can’t completely shut down either part of your life. And you can’t choose between them,” JJ added.

“Exactly,” I said, my index finger absently tracing the filigreed N and E on my bracelet. “It isn’t healthy. It’s like either I become useless with my job or I become useless at being Emily’s girlfriend. And for the time being it’s like I have to concentrate on the project and the organisation, you know.” Then pushing my hands into my hair, I groaned, “Jesus, I might be losing my mind.”

JJ was silent a moment, as if pondering on the matter. “See, Naomi,” he began, straightening on his stool. “Maybe you don’t have to choose, after all. Maybe you’re one of those people who are just gifted with multi-tasking. I mean, quite frankly, you’re the most dexterous person I know and I’m pretty sure you can handle hammering a nail while giggling with a redhead in your lap.”

I looked down at the gold bracelet I’d been fingering and slowly exhaled. I’d been over this about a bazillion times, and I always came to the same, staggeringly astute conclusion. “I don’t know, Jay.”

“You don’t know,” JJ repeated, frowning.

I put my feet up on the chair, hugged my knees to my chest, and shook my head, slowly and sadly.

JJ remained silent for several long seconds. Then he exhaled heavily, got to his feet, and walked over to rub his hand over my stiff back. “Does Emily have a hint about what’s going on inside you right now?”

I didn’t bother to repress a snort. “What am I supposed to tell her? ‘Hey, baby. I’m sorry I’ve been a crappy girlfriend lately because I just can’t seem to make up my mind between you and my job’?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s selfish.”

“Selfish?” My voice cracked in surprised hurt. “How can you say that? I don’t want her worried about me when she’s thousands of miles away on a different continent.”

“She wants to worry about you. Jesus, Naomi, how can you be so stubborn? You’ve got a girl out there who loves you. Who wants to share everything with you, good and bad. She deserves to know what you’re feeling. If you love her half as much as she loves you, you better let her in and let her help you.”

“That wasn’t what I meant to do.”

“It’s what you are doing. It’s unfair to her, Naomi. Just like—” He cut himself off. “Christ, I’m sorry.” But his voice was stiff and cool. “I’m being a stickybeak again. It’s none of my business how you and Emily deal with your relationship.”

I reached for the mouse and finally decided to open my Facebook page. The News Feed appeared before my eyes.  

I didn’t crack a smile, didn’t even make an effort to reply. I clicked on the Top news button and scrolled down for more updates.

Emily’s yearning words hit me like a sledgehammer. I felt beyond sorry.

JJ, who was standing behind me, looked over. “Look at her. She wants company. She wants you. And you’re denying her both because you haven’t got everything neatly stacked in place. That’s not just selfish, Naomi. It’s not just unfair. It’s sad.”

JJ took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I studied his face, and my stomach turned. There was disappointment there, and I knew what that meant.

I felt my face redden with indignation. I was sick of JJ playing the behavioural police.

“God, I fucking hate it when you’re normal!” I blurted out.

He smirked. “Took my meds on purpose. I knew I would have to smack some sense into you.”

I groaned and leant back in my chair, pushing both hands into my hair. “But I really don’t know, JJ,” I said, my voice rising to a high, feeble pitch. “I mean, of course I want Emily. But I want this too. So I don’t know.”

JJ shrugged, resigned. “Well, Naomi,” he said, “you better figure out something soon.” He was now putting his coat back on. “Otherwise you’re headed for a total systems crash.”

My finger then instinctively clicked on Emily’s name leading to her Wall.

“Shit,” I muttered, and something in my chest panged hard as my gaze flew over the words before me.

“And Emily might be looking at other computers,” I heard JJ mumble.

I turned to the curly-haired boy and fixed him a sharp look. But I couldn’t deny that there was nagging truth in his words. It was one of those things Emily talked about. A thought that was so frightening I was afraid to say it out loud or even think about two seconds too long.

JJ drew back, hands up, his face a mix of contempt and pity. “I’m just sayin’. Emily might pick up the phone and dial 1-800-Perfect-Girlfriend and it’s someone else answering.”

Everyone knew I was brilliant at being jealous, and boy, I could feel its green poison infecting me as I sat there in my chair and watched as these other girls made their move to get my girlfriend’s affection and attention more than anything else in this world.

With a sober nod of farewell, JJ slung his bag over his shoulder. “I have to go now, Naomi. I guess I’ll, erm, I’ll just see you around. Hopefully after you’ve fixed things between you and Emily.” Without waiting for my response, he turned and stalked out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“Shitting hell’s sake,” I muttered, trying to maintain my level of anger and jealousy as I stared fiercely at my computer screen. Unfortunately I couldn’t ignore the hollow pit in my stomach. I bent forward, touching my forehead to my knees.

Fuck’s sake. I wished I hadn’t let JJ stay this long. I wished I had just run in here and locked the door. I wished JJ hadn’t taken his meds so he would just be that fidgety basket case.

But most of all, for about the three-millionth time in my life, I wished JJ wasn’t so right.

I was going to have to talk to Emily.

 

“I’m going to go wish Kenji good luck,” Jessica said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray in front of me. “Save my seat, will you, Em?” Then, before I could respond, Jessica had trotted off toward the wooden platform in the corner where Kenji was setting up his microphone. The tables were packed and the crowd seemed all right—not so lame, not so wild. I took a deep breath. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

I sat back in my chair and gave Keith’s Pub a careful scan, mindlessly toying with the mint garnish of my Mojito. I couldn’t believe the size of the crowd that Saturday night. Everyone from the dorm and kindergarten was there, hanging out in pairs or groups of even numbers, swilling beers or cocktails, and impatiently eyeing the stage as if My Chemical Romance themselves were going to make an appearance. Squeezed together at our own once big but now rapidly tightening table were Megumi, Megumi’s Argentine boyfriend Ignacio a.k.a. Nacho, Aiko, Aiko’s ultra-quiet husband, another male co-teacher from Bright Kids named Keisuke, my Mexican dorm mate Marina, and me. And I’d had to chase several people out of Jessica and Misaki’s empty chairs. I wished Jessica would hurry up and get back; I hoped Misaki would get here soon.

I exchanged a few smiles and small talks with the people around me, but in the back my mind were such disquietingly catty thoughts:

This is disgusting. Kenji’s eye-fucking Jessica. Jessica’s eyes are completely glassy. Nacho is practically licking Megumi’s face. Aiko is clutching her husband’s hand. Even Keisuke keeps shooting looks at Marina.

I’m surrounded.

I wonder what’s taking Misaki so long . . .

I glanced up the stage, where Jessica and Kenji now stood facing each other, creating their own cosy airspace as Kenji tuned up his guitar. They certainly looked compatible together—with their matching funky hairstyles and facial piercings. Irritatingly so.

A bittersweet feeling stirred within me. I shouldn’t have come. In all honesty, I was incredibly happy for Jessica and for Kenji, but again just couldn’t put it on view. Not with everything else pressing down on me.

“¡Dios mío, míralos! Look at them,” Ignacio grumbled, following my gaze. “¡Che, boludo (Yo, dude)!” he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Pick up your guitar, not the girl! Let’s get this show rolling!”

Jessica shot Ignacio a withering look as his boyfriend horribly blushed in embarrassment, and everyone at our table laughed. Marina and the cocky Argentine guy started talking to each other in Spanish, obviously still making fun of the lovers, as the rest listened on. Spanish is a very sexy language, I have to mention again. My good friend Sierra Tequila proved that to me once upon a time.

Kenji’s band started playing some cheesy Japanese rock music, as Jessica sat with some of our dorm mates at a table closest to the stage and provided the best view of Kenji. I glanced around, looking for Misaki, but came up empty. What was taking her a long time, anyway? I tried ringing her mobile phone for the last time but still couldn’t reach her. Last I heard she was still at that magazine feature photo shoot in Kobe.

Taking a long sip of my Mojito, I watched the couples around our table once more. Megumi and Ignacio were talking so intimately next to me. Aiko and her husband’s linked hands were on display on the table. In front of me, Keisuke and Marina seemed to be flirting with each other. 

Yep, I thought as I leant back in my chair, I shouldn’t have come. The music was depressing. The people-watching even more. I needed someone more than ever. Hell, I was even tempted to call Zoe and ask her to lend me Fondle for a while only to feel less lonely. I felt my shoulders start to droop as my good mood went into a decline. Tears were close, perilously close. I battled them back and sipped the Mojito like medicine.

So much for distraction.

“Hey, Emily-chan,” Megumi said, turning her face away from Ignacio long enough to acknowledge me. “You’ve been pretty quiet the whole time. Daijobu (You all right)?”

“Yep, I’m all good,” I responded, smiling halfheartedly. Then my eyes widened. “Omigod. Your face is so red, Megumi-chan. What are you, drunk already?”

“Are you seriously asking her that?” Ignacio broke in with a snort. “She’s been insisting for an hour already that I’ll look sexier if I put on some mascara.”

“Ah, honma ya (Oh, it is true)!” Keisuke agreed, laughing. Marina and Aiko chuckled with him.

“See?” Megumi lifted her hand to stroke Ignacio’s hair and playfully tugged on his goatee. “Watashidake ja naiwa (It’s not just me). You’ve got really long and pretty eyelashes, Nacho.”

Ignacio drew back in his chair, scowling. “Stop it, Megumi. Seriously. I’m your boyfriend. Not some Ken doll you can dress up.” He pulled out a cigarette stick from the left breast pocket of his shirt and lit it up. “You know, all you Japanese think about is looking pretty. Even your men look pretty.”

“Ouch.” Keisuke jokingly jerked back as if he’d been punched.

“Touché,” Marina said, holding up Keisuke’s glittery handbag. Everyone at the table cracked up.

“For everyone’s knowledge, if it isn’t obvious still,” Keisuke began in a polite manner, “in Japan, the white, skinny, stylish men get all the girls.” He smirked and raised his plucked brows triumphantly.

Shifting in his chair, Ignacio puffed his cigarette. “Well, in our parts, it’s the exact opposite. You gotta be tan and rough and all muscly. Like a legit footballer, you know. Look at this, man.” He flexed his arm and his biceps bulged, and Megumi instantly touched them like they’re the most amazing thing in this world. “And if they put you and me together in a ring, I’d still beat the crap out of you.”

I truly believed the guy. Ignacio was tall and muscle-bound, and his dark shoulder-length hair was constantly wet and slicked back from his forehead. Even in a pair of jeans and red polo shirt the bloke looked ready to perform some awesome physical feat at any moment. I wouldn’t have been too surprised to see him hurdle the tables or climb the side of a building bare-handed.

The wisps of smoke blew over me, and I fanned them away. “Does anyone know if Misaki’s going to come?” I asked.

Aiko shook her head. “I was actually going to ask you about that. Weren’t you two texting earlier?”

“Yea, we were. Like four hours ago when she was on a break,” I replied. “But then I tried ringing her again and her phone’s suddenly turned off so I don’t know anymore. She said her shoot will end at eight. I’m kind of worried; she’s supposed to be here already.”

“Mira (Look), Emily,” Ignacio said, laying his olive-coloured forearms on the surface of the table. “Maybe she just got stuck in work or, que sé yo, caught up in the rush hour or something. Isn’t she supposed to be coming from Kobe?” He grabbed a fried onion ring from the table, popped it into his mouth then pulled his girlfriend in for a kiss. Eugh.

“Yea, I suppose you’re right.” I sighed, and hoped my best friend would just turn up soon. Before this giddy self-confidence dissipated completely and this old “go-out-and-have-fun” therapy explode in my face.

Megumi broke away from Ignacio and leant her chin on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay, Emily-chan?” she whispered. “You look sort of jittery.”

“I’m fine,” I answered, flashing her a tiny smile. “Just tired from work.” I rubbed a hand over my face to pull myself back. I was beginning to feel the face-warming and head-woozying effects of the rum in my drink too. Megumi seemed to have been convinced as she relaxed and went back to talking with her boyfriend. I craned my neck to see past Aiko toward the front door. Still no Misaki.

I let out one last sigh and picked up my pen. Enough of the moping. I had to stop being all piss and vinegar or acting like a Debbie Downer or I’d ruin this entire party. Still, I was tired of just sitting here and wanted to talk to someone. To anyone.

I stared down at the list I had been writing, clicking my pen in consternation. Now that the kindergarten was on a summer break, I needed something else to keep me incredibly busy so I wouldn’t have to think about the blonde all the time. Something totally distracting. Like making more lists for instance. This new list in my hand was just one of the few I had started.

Number five. What could I list as number five? Hmm. Of course, more and more ice cream! Ben & Jerry could fix anything. I took a gulp of my Mojito before scribbling again.

“Number six . . .” I murmured to myself, idly tapping the end of the pen against my chin as I pondered. “Hmm . . . Maybe all blondes should be exiled or something. That way, I wouldn’t have to be reminded of her.” I smoothed the pink Post-It and wrote again.

I was just ready to put a period when someone’s hand lay on my arm, making me stop writing and breaking me out of my thoughts. “Emily-chan, doushitano (what’s wrong)? You okay?”

I looked up. It was Misaki, with a strange drink in one hand, now wearing her contact lens and looking more gorgeous than ever in a short, one-shoulder black and white chiffon dress. I swallowed back the joy at the sight of her and pretended to be unaffected by her presence. “Hey,” I said, taking a calming sip of my Mojito. “You’re here.”

“Well, yes. I’m here,” she said, smirking. “I told you I’m coming, right?” She pulled back the chair to my left and lowered herself into it. I couldn’t help but notice the way her hair swooped gorgeously past her shoulders when she moved.

Jessica walked over, a smouldering cigarette between her fingers. “But you’re two hours late, girl. You’ve missed some pretty good songs.” She settled down in an empty chair across us and crossed her legs.

“And Keisuke buying us a round of tequila shots,” Marina added, sipping her cocktail.

“And Emily couldn’t relax without you here,” Ignacio chimed in, smirking teasingly.

“Yea, she was worried sick,” Aiko echoed, and her shy husband only nodded his agreement.

Misaki turned to me, her eyes twinkling. “Were you, really?”

I felt more tense and awkward. “Yea,” I mumbled, feeling a blush rise to my face, “You know I need you here.”

With a giggle, she gave my ear a playful tug. “Oh, you’re such a child, Emily-chan.” Then Marina started asking her about the photo shoot. 

I leant back against my chair, disengaging myself from the conversation. It was more fun watching Misaki being surrounded by my friends, answering all their questions in that sweet, soft voice of hers. I was uncontrollably feeling a flutter of date jitters. Weird. I hadn’t experienced that sensation in ages.

Oh, fucking shut up, Fitch, I chided myself as I straightened my tank top. It wasn’t like we were on a date. Misaki and I were probably just the only ones ‘dateless’ in this place. Let’s just leave it at that.

Misaki was laughing at something Jessica was saying, and the flutter intensified. She was better looking than I’d remembered and I only saw her like seven hours ago. Funny. I had always assumed hair colour was a prerequisite for a girl’s good looks. But Misaki’s super-straight and super-shiny dark hair only seemed to draw more attention to her brown eyes and pulse-altering sweet smile.

“I got sidetracked. I’m really sorry, you guys,” Misaki offered with usual sweetness. “And I couldn’t tell you I was coming late ’cos my phone ran out of batt. Honto ni gomen nasai (I’m so, so sorry).” Then she twisted around in her chair to face me, her intense gaze making the back of my knees sweat. “I’m sorry, Emily-chan. I knew you were trying to reach me.”

I shone her a smile as I shifted in my chair and yanked down the hem of my mini skirt. My reply came out thickly. “No worries, really. I’m just glad you’re finally here.”

Jessica grinned and grabbed her half-finished beer from the table. “Seriously, it’s okay, Misaki.” Then eyeing Misaki’s drink, she smirked and cocked a teasing brow. “Brazil’s national cocktail, huh? What happened with Coca-Cola?”

She flashed a little grin. “Well, you know those people I met earlier at the photo shoot . . . They were all really nice and . . . naughty, yes. They thought it would be just right if we have some sort of an after-shoot party so we went to a nearby pub for a few drinks. Well, there’s this one girl, Yasmin—a model from Brazil, who introduced me to this wonderful Caipirinha and I . . .”

I barely heard her as, in spite of myself, I noted again how pretty she was. It annoyed me that I couldn’t get past that every time I saw her. It was as if her appearance constantly set off alarm bells in my mind, and for the life of me, I didn’t know why. My gaze swept over her makeup-free face, lingered on her smiling mouth, her unadorned lips. As I gazed at her, I knew distraction would be no problem. But as soon as that thought hit me, I quashed it and felt almost nauseated, thinking that it was just the alcohol feeding me with these unruly ideas.

“. . . so how long have you been waiting, Emily-chan? Nanji goro kita no (What time did you get here)? Emily?”

I blinked. “Yea, I, uh,” I swallowed, the desire for everything in front of me multiplying by the second. And I hated myself for it—for being this weak. I only felt alone and lonely and Misaki was only here in my corner to cheer me on. That was all. Nothing more.

“I got here at exactly 9,” I answered with all the casualness I could muster.

“You just went elsewhere,” she said, a tilt at the corner of her tempting lips. “Nani kangaetenno (What’s on your mind)? You’re thinking about Naomi again?”

I lowered my head and stared down at my drink, my cheeks growing hot. “No, no. I was—no, really, I actually, uh . . .” I fumblingly replied, “I was just thinking about the loo, you know. The queue outside must be extra long tonight.” I didn’t know I was already decapitating the mint sprig of my drink. I offered her a tiny grin, hoping she dug my lame excuse.

Misaki simply put an arm around me and giggled. Another bullet dodged. She hugged me close, glanced up the stage and watched Kenji’s band in comfortable silence. I looked at the cuddling couple to my right, Megumi and Nacho. I glanced at Aiko and her husband and their inseparable hands. I looked at Jessica who had that I’ve-got-a-boyfriend glow; Kenji just dedicated a couple of love songs to her. I closed my eyes against the bright red light coming from the stage. Naomi. Still not here. Your fair-haired queen. Still on a different continent, bazillion miles away. No matter what my friends did to try and distract me, my brain wouldn’t stop repeating the words. Even my favourite cocktail drink wasn’t doing the trick.

“Holy shit! All right! This song is cool,” Ignacio exclaimed in his heavy South American accent, as Kenji’s band started up one of their faster tunes. To be honest, Kenji appeared to be more like wailing than singing. He looked like he was in actual pain as he warbled into the microphone. It was not a pretty sight, I tell you.

I watched as the Argentine guy drummed his hands on the table and shook his head back and forth to the rhythm. Megumi leant toward him, whispering sweet-nothings, and they broke out into peals of laughter. Did those two ever spend any time apart anymore?

“Girl, you okay?” It was Jessica’s turn to worry. Her head was tilted to the side, her moss-coloured eyes scanning my face anxiously. “What’s going on with that face?”

My brow furrowed. “What face?”

“Don’t you like their music?”

I shook my head. “No, no, they’re okay. They’re good, actually,” I said with another empty grin. Don’t be a bitter tit, I scolded myself. It’s Saturday night. And I supposed it wasn’t Megumi’s fault—or Nacho’s—that they were so incredibly, sickeningly happy. Together.

“Lighten up, Emily,” Ignacio said, reaching over to clap me on the back. I grinned weakly, desperately trying to inhale again. Ignacio’s friendly little slap seemed to have dislodged a few inner organs. As Kenji ended the song with a wail, he whistled and clapped loudly. “I swear, Jessica, your boyfriend’s ready for Summer Sonic music fest.”

“Or Self-Pity Fest,” Misaki muttered for my ears only, giving my arm a squeeze as she pulled me closer to her. “I could swear I saw tears.”

I burst out laughing, causing everyone at our table to turn and stare. Jessica had been right. I was having an okay time here. Here, surrounded by old and new buddies, Naomi seemed like a distant memory.

Picking up the pen, I went back to my list. “Number seven . . .” I murmured, “Hmm . . . More ice cream . . . A mountain of—”

“What are you doing?” Misaki asked, glancing down at the paper in my hand. She fished a lime out of her drink with a stirrer and sucked on the rind in a really adorable manner.

I felt the potent rum kicking in, taking over my senses. “I’m writing my list of post-breakup pick-me-ups,” I dully explained, taking a sip from my glass with my free hand.

“What?” she blurted, seemingly alarmed. “Do iu imi (What do you mean)?”

I shifted in my seat, tightened my grip on my ballpen. “Just to be prepared. In case Naomi dumps me. Over the phone. Via e-mail or text message or a Facebook wall post, whatever—”

Misaki snatched the Post-It from me. “Hee~! Jodan desho (You don’t mean it)! What are you talking about, Emily-chan?” She skimmed what was written and you could tell she wasn’t amused. She looked at me, her eyes intense. “Emily? Are you crazy?”

“I’m just readying myself, you know.” I reached for the paper again, but she jerked her hand away.

She scowled. “Chotto kiite (Listen to me). Dame yo (Stop this).”

“It’s bound to come,” I reasoned with a shrug. “So why not be ready, yea?”

“Nani itten daka wakattenno (Do you know what you’re saying)? Sonna bakanakoto suruna (Don’t come such nonsense), Emily-chan,” she said. “Stop this, okay?” She hastily folded the Post-It up and returned it to me. “Let’s talk about it, okay?”

“Mou sono koto hanashitakunai (I don’t want to talk about it). I have a headache.” 


“Iiwake shinaide (Don’t make excuses).” Her voice was firm. “You have to talk.”

I tucked the list into the pocket of my suede mini skirt, and took my drink again, shaking the contents and watched as the mint leaves danced in the rum. “She came back from Beijing and I still haven’t heard from her,” I shared glumly. “It’s like I don’t even exist in her world anymore.”

“Don’t say that. Maybe she’s just more busy now because she has to, you know, report about the conference. I mean, she’s a bit dormant on Facebook, too, so that doesn’t really mean she’s singling you out.”

“Do you know what else she told me during that phone call? She’s just pitched a new project for the orphanages in Haiti. In Haiti, Misaki,” I emphasised. “That’s like on the other end of the world.”

Misaki nodded, listening. Unconsciously she slipped one leg on top of the other, her skirt rising a couple of inches, exposing more of that long, creamy skin.

Leaning forward, I cleared my throat, my grip tautening around the glass. “Then I asked her if once the child aid project’s done she could come home already. She said, ‘We’ll see,’” I told her, pushing a hand into my hair. “That’s like maybe, innit?”

She fiddled with a lime wedge. “Yea, pretty much.”

I threw the ballpen onto the table. “I don’t like maybe.” My shoulders sagged as I twirled my glass between my palms. “It always means no.”

Misaki shook her head, smiling. “You know, I feel like I’m talking to Yuka-chan right now. Stop this, Emily-chan.”

“It just pisses me off, you know. This,” I pointed out my situation with real misery. “Missing her so much. Not knowing what’s going on and what’s going to happen. It’s upsetting. It’s maddening.”

She just stayed silent, so I railed on, “Then she told me to just send her e-mails because she checks her mail more often and she doesn’t have time to open her Facebook account. So I did. I sent her e-mails and I haven’t gotten a single reply. Then she said to just call her home phone because she turns off her moby during work and meetings. I did. I called her almost everyday and it’s always the answering machine that answers. I mean, what the fuck? Is this her way of telling me ‘You’re just not my priority right now so just bugger off for a sec, yea, babe?’”

“Don’t say that,” Misaki said, shaking her head. “I don’t think she meant to do this to you. Maybe she’s just dealing with some serious business, that’s all.”

“What did she mean, then?” I burst out. “See, I’m not an ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ sort of person, Misaki. I’m the ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ type. Is it too much to ask for her to guarantee me that she’s been thinking about me, too, and missing me the same way I do?”

Misaki didn’t speak. She just looked at me with such gentleness and compassion.

I made a sound of impatience and exasperation. “I really hate not knowing what will happen,” I said, spinning the glass between my hands, the ice clinking in watery melody. “I know this is sounding like our same old Rainbow Bridge convo. But I really hate it. I hate being unsure. You know, I used to be that eager beaver girl who reads the last page of the book first because she needs to know how the story will end before she begins to read it.”

Her gaze, always soft yet intense, zeroed in on mine. “Again, just wait and see, Emily-chan,” she said, placing a gentle hand on my arm. 

I looked away, tracing the rim of the glass with my finger. “I hate that. It’s doing my head in. Why can’t I know now?”

“Because you just can’t,” she answered simply.

“God, Misaki, take my word of advice,” I told her hotly. “Don’t get a girlfriend. It’s a massive headfuck. Especially if that person’s such a pain in the arse.”

Misaki turned to the cuddling couple next to me. “How many did this redhead drink already?”

“A Corona beer, a tequila shot, and two Mojitos,” Ignacio filled in. “That’s her third.”

She turned back to me, pointing a finger like an older person scolding a kid. “Okay. No more alcohol for you, Emily-chan.”

I crossed my arms on my chest and jutted my chin. “You’re not my mum.”

“You’re here to unload your stress,” she said as she gently took my hands and uncrossed them, “and to chuck away your worries, okay? You know, overthinking doesn’t give you anything but hypertension and brain tumour. So just sit back and relax. And enough Mojitos. You’re starting to get scary again, Emily-chan.” She reached for my hand and started working on my fingers, causing my heart to freeze midbeat.

“What are you doing?” I asked, watching her hands rubbing down my own, and feeling rather light in the head.

“Um. Giving you a massage?” Smiling, she went on kneading my hand.

“Okay.” I squinted at her, sensing the effects of the Mojitos. Her fingers felt so good on my skin.

She gave me a cute wink. “Just relax, Emily-chan,” she murmured, slightly bobbing her head to the song, and I felt myself really easing up a bit. A smile curved my lips. I liked the feel of her fingers on my hand—gentle, sure. They made me feel protected, safe. I so desperately needed that now.

I took another drink and felt the corresponding buzz as it went down. I heard a little voice inside me whisper, You shouldn’t even think about flirting with her.

“Thanks, Misaki,” I said, leaning toward her ear so she could hear me over the music. “I needed this.”

“Your girlfriend will go mad once she finds out you’re drinking this much,” she said, trying to reestablish some boundaries between us. “You should—”

I drew my head back so that we were eye to eye. “And I really needed you here tonight,” I added, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

She looked at me, then, a soft smile on her face, a smile that spoke of shared experiences. “Where else would I be?” For an instant, I thought she’d simply smile and keep on. But she held my gaze for just a beat too long, our noses mere inches apart. It took a moment for my brain to register what was happening.

Jerkily I leant back in my chair and rolled my eyes, pointedly ignoring the shiver that had gone through me. Yet emboldened by the many Mojitos I had, I easily replied, “You should stop being so sweet, you know. Or I might fall in love with you all over again.”

I gave myself a mental whack in the head as I realised what I just said. Fuck. Fail.

“Shikata nai wa (I can’t help it),” the pretty girl said with a half shrug. “I’m sorry. I can’t leave a lady in distress.” She had a teasing smile dancing on her lips and a playful glint in her eyes, and I realised that I was crossing a dangerous territory. My tummy tightened.

After quickly downing my drink, I nervously pulled my hand free from her hold and held it up for a wave. “Hey, Jess,” I slurred to my friend who was over at the bar, suddenly feeling the need for another drink. “One more Mojito, please!” Unfortunately, instead of this whole going out thing making me feel better, it left me frail and shaky.

I shouldn’t have put myself in this position. I’d known what was going to happen, I’d even warned myself about it, and sure enough, I’d been right.

The weak, over-sensitive, needy Emily Fitch was back. And she was Naomi Campbell-less.

This could only mean one thing:

Trouble.

To be continued . . .