“Not anymore,” he said in a low voice.
Oh.She pulled the plunger. It was a skillful shot. The ball fired into the playfield, lighting the top bumpers and racking up points. It went chiming and kachinging past the bumps and standups, then it whirred around the spinning disc in the middle. A second ball was released. Usually this was her favorite stage of the game, having multiple balls in play, but today Marigold’s focus was off. She zipped the flippers shut too late, losing the first ball into the trough, then the second ball rolled down and shot into the pit.
Kenji held out another quarter. “Try again?”
Her gloved fingers hovered above his palm, her thoughts roiling. The last time she’d touched him—reallytouched him—was when they were kids.
She yanked off her glove.
“Mari, what are you—”
It was just a touch. As simple as breathing for most people. But for Marigold?
She heard music in the lines of his palm, a warm swell of cellos and fluttering flutes when she traced across his skin, invisible sparks stimulating the sensitive nerves in her fingertips.
Nothing about it hurt. Her lungs didn’t pinch, her throat didn’t go tight. And what she saw, what shefelt,was her heart leaping at a montage of stolen glances and hidden smiles, of excuses to spend time together—like offering driving lessons or showing the latest games in the arcade. She saw him standing behind her in the cafeteria line in high school, smiling to himself when she bought a strawberry sundae cup and pried open the lid as though it were an illicit treasure—her face going as bright as her namesake. Because, for longer than she dared believe, Kenji...
“You like me,” she breathed, her heart hammering. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I said I had a little crush.”
“You said not anymore.”
Understanding cleared his eyes. “Yeah, that’s right,” he replied. “Now it’s a big crush.”
He leaned down to her and lightly brushed his nose against hers. It took Marigold’s breath away, how such a simple touch engulfed her with warmth, with giddiness—with desire. Would it be dangerous to want more?
She threw her arms around him, tipping her lips to his. To hell with it all—there, in the middle of the arcade, surrounded by the flashing lights, Marigold decided to find out.
Chapter Forty-Six
Over the next months, Marigold and Kenji spent every possible moment together—debating whether you could actually hear the lasers inStar Warsif there was no air in space, sharing banana splits at Fenton’s, feeling sorry for the lobsters in the Orchid Lounge’s fish tanks. Her sisters teased that Kenji knew the route from Palo Alto to Berkeley well enough to draw a map upside down—which he did, including shortcuts that were best for different times of the day. Marigold kept it in her backpack.
The only hitch in their love story was keeping it secret from Marigold’s parents—no easy feat since she still lived with them.
“You don’t think I’ll charm them?” Kenji asked one Saturday as they drove to San Francisco. “I charmed your uncle.”
“Uncle Francis likes anyone who’s a member of the clean plates club. Plus you get along with Eugene and greet them in Cantonese. That’s major brownie points right there.”
Kenji made no secret that he was serious about her, aboutthem.Marigold was, too. But when it came to introducing him to Helen and Philip, she kept holding back.
For once it wasn’t Helen she was worried about; it was Philip. Her father had always been in her corner, mitigating fights and cold wars with Helen, baking extra almond cookies for her to snack on while she studied, and sneaking away the bits of fish from her plate when Helen wasn’t looking so she wouldn’t have to eat them.
“Teach me how to make them like me,” said Kenji. “I promise, I’m a good student.”
She lowered her gaze to their hands, resting atop each other on the gear shift. Marigold no longer wore her gloves when they were alone together. She liked touching Kenji. He’d grown familiar to her, and the sparks he raised rarely hurt. She’d even told him about them. Kenji used them as an excuse not to let her go.
“If your sparks come at first contact,” he’d reasoned, “then we’ll stay touching.”
And so he held her hand as they circled the Legion of Honor in search of a place to park.
“First of all, no green hats.” Marigold took off his green Oakland A’s cap. “It means your girlfriend’s cheating on you. There’s a legend of a merchant whose wife asked him to wear a green hat whenever he went away on business. She said it was for good luck, but it was really to signal to her lover—who’d see him strolling about town—that it was safe to meet.”
“So Stanford hats are okay?” He laughed when she glared. “Just kidding. What else?”
“Always compliment my mom’s cooking.”
“That’s a given.”
