“Fucking—”I curse in Spanish, and it earns me a hard smack on my head with her paper fan.
“I’ve told you a thousand times not to bring that language into my store.”Her Japanese falls from her tongue unforgivingly.
“The curse or the Spanish?” I wince, still trying to get the salt out of my eyes, but the comment only earns me another strike over the head with the fan.
“Both, and you know better.”
I groan as I step further into the shop.
Abuelita—Baachan’s—presence always commands attention. She’s taller than most women, wrapped in a plaid brown coat that sticks to her frame over long black pants, and her long hair, tinged with varying shades of grey, is pulled into its usual ponytail. There’s a quiet authority woven into the air around her, and even at 72 years, I can tell she was a beauty, with high cheekbones standing proud beneath porcelain skin, touched only by the faintest traces of age. Her almond-shaped eyes narrow on me like cold, tempered steel, painting an icy exterior that seems to be shared amongst our family’s women—a subtle blueprint of the type of women favoured by the men in the family.
“Barely anyone in the family speaks Japanese around the house anymore.”I switch to Japanese as best I can, but I admit it’s rusty, since I only ever use it with her.
Abuelita—Baachan—snorts,“And I’ve spoken to your father about it many times.”She begins the same spiel she’s been repeating for the past—
“—Thirty-one years, and I still don’t know what possessed him to choose an Argentinian woman.”
“Baba—”the impolite title falls from my tongue before I can stop it, and before she can raise her fan to hit me again, I catch it in my hands with a huff. “Can younotbeat me when I’ve brought guests?”
Only then does she notice Christian in the doorway, blinking at the scene speechlessly. If my glare could grant her an early grave, I’m sure it would.
“And how come I’m the only one you threw the salt at?” When I’d brought the team before, no one escaped the salt christening. I’d been hoping by now herarthritis or something would’ve kicked in so she couldn’t throw it anymore.
“I felt your chaotic energy long before you came up the stairs,” she huffs, dismissing me as though she’s completely justified for throwing salt in her grandson’s face, before circling Christian with a curious expression.
Christian shuffles his feet uncomfortably and there’s a bright spark inBaachan’seyes as she takes him in. Her every movement is controlled, tempered from her days as an assassin for her father’s clan in Yokohama, and I wonder if she sees it too.
How beautifully bright Christian’s energy is compared to others.
“Interesting.” She stops her circling to watch Christian thoughtfully. “Most people have a lot of spirits clinging to them, their ancestors, their deceased, the people they’ve killed—my brat of a grandson is the worst of them, but you…” she tilts her head, “you only have one spirit sticking to you.”
Christian’s eyes widen.
“You’re sure?” He steps forward, almost hopeful, “Is it—Do you know who it is?”
“Of course not, child, but I’m sure you do,” her voice softens. “He’s not pleased with what you’re doing.”
Christian’s face falls.
“But… But I…” His energies take on this desolate hue that makes me step forward, instinctively, butBaachangives me a stern look and I’m forced to stop.
“Is he… angry?” Christian asks softly.
“He’s worried about you,” her response is strangely gentle, “But do what you think you must.”
Christian’s entire body relaxes with his relief. His mask falls for the first time to reveal this…affection, plastered all over his face and his energy—Bright colours of purple and rose that light a jealousy so stark it burns me up from the inside.
Baachanraises a brow at me, as if sensing what I’m feeling, but she doesn’t say another word.
To this day, I’m not sure if she sees what I see, or something else entirely.
But who am I to tell her she doesn’t? When I can’t even explain my own shit.
Her store sells a variety of trinkets, charms and antiques, as well as rows on rows of herbs and cookbooks. It’s a classy place for all its shady products, with a smooth mahogany interior and shelves of books on the spiritual world and self-reflection.
Christian’s eyes land on a small charm with a black cat in its centre, and I note the way his gaze lingers on it. The way he reaches for it almost unconsciously, before pulling his hand back, catching himself.
Baachanpractically forgets all about me to hover around Christian, going on and on about her strange things, and Christian is the only one who listens with genuine intrigue.
