We both laugh at this. Dad was so hard to please. “But remember when he’d go down to the school, though? Like when my eighth-grade teacher thought I cheated.”
We look at each other. “Yeah. Or when my soccer coachbenched me for the district final game.” Nami whistles. “Dad gave them all a piece of his mind. He did try to protect us. In his way.”
“Still, he could’ve used therapy.”
“I think Dad is why I picked Mitch,” Nami says, biting her fingernail as she hitches up one knee and loops her free hand around her leg. “He never raised his voice. He always agreed with me. Never was short-tempered.”
“That’s true.” He’s a blob devoid of all personality and emotion, and that includes anger.
Nami glances at me. “Hey, I’m sorry. About the other day. Saying you were trying to have a heart attack like Dad.” She swipes at her wet eyes. “I just… I don’t want to lose you, too.”
I see fear in her eyes. We both lost Dad without any warning. I pull her in for a tight hug. “You’re not going to lose me,” I promise. “I’m going to be here to annoy you—and ruin couples’ dances or whatever you need ruined—for years.”
“Good. You better be.” Nami sniffs into my shoulder. She draws back, wiping her nose. “And you’re not really careless,” she adds, somber again. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“It’s okay. I did crash the car. That’s legit.”
Nami chuckles.
I think about all the ways our parents shape us—Mom and her endless dieting, Dad’s short fuse. And Dad’s sudden exit from our lives. “You know, Mom and Dad, they just did the best they could. They’re flawed, and we’re flawed, and we just all have to live with it.”
Larry trots over and sniffs to the side of Nami’s knee. She gives her dog nephew a scratch behind the ears.
Nami stares at me. “Since when are you so… zen?”
“Self-care,” I say.
“Pedicures?” she asks, clear skepticism in her voice. “That’s all it took?”
“It’s more than that.”
“Okay.” Nami shrugs. “Hey. I’m sorry if I was a bitch during wedding planning.”
“I was pretty bad, too.” I sigh. “Let’s just blame Mitch. I think it’s all his fault.”
Nami laughs, rueful. “Damn straight it is.” She sniffs. “Can I stay with you for a while? Sleep on your couch? I just… don’t want to go home.”
I guess she doesn’t want to go back to the condo she and Mitch shared. I don’t really blame her.
“Of course,” I say. “Stay as long as you need to. But I am putting the condo on the market.”
“You are?” Nami sits up ramrod straight on my couch. Larry lifts his head, and Nami gives him a pat. “It’s about damn time! Mom says you should’ve sold this place years ago.”
“Uh-huh. What were you saying aboutnotganging up on me behind my back?”
“Oh, please,” Nami says, but she snuggles into my arm. She leans her head into me. “I need more tequila.” She holds up the bottle and takes a swig. “God, I just… I feel so broken.”
“Give me a turn,” I say, and she hands me the bottle. I take a hard sip, too, feeling the liquid burn down my esophagus. “Yeah. I know. Life plays rough sometimes.” I glance at a box sitting near my coffee table. Grandma Mitsuye’s Japanese dolls poke their heads out. Near them sits Grandma Mitsuye’s bowl. It’s been in the family for generations, an old gray and blue ceramic rice bowl from Japan.
“Is that Grandma’s bowl?” Nami asks, pointing.
“Yeah. She gave it to me after…” The miscarriage. “After I lost the baby.”
“Oh,” Nami says, and she leans over and picks up the bowl. “It’s cracked,” she says, pointing to the gold-lined cracks along the side of the bowl.
“Do you remember what Grandma Mitsuye always said?” I ask Nami.
“She says we hold our chopsticks like peasants,” Nami says. “She reminded me of that when I took her out for sushi last week.”
