Crimson Footprints lll: The Finale (17 page)

Chapter Forty

Tak slipped into the billiards room with a game of pool on his mind. Any distraction would help. Anything to clear his mind.

He was glad to find Tyson behind the bar, already preparing two drinks.

“Hey,” he said when Tak entered. “Hope you don’t mind my jumping back here. I kind of figured you could do with a pick-me-up after all that’s been going on.”

Tak waved a hand dismissively, before retrieving the pool balls for racking. He picked out a cue stick and plucked his drink from the counter. Scotch straight up. Just the way he took it.

“You must have heard us” Tak said and took a sip of his drink.

Tyson grabbed his own and joined him at the pool table.

“I did, but don’t feel bad. I’m military, remember? I know everything.”

Military, huh? Military hadn’t known Tak’s wife was getting molested.

“What’s wrong?” Tyson said. He watched Tak pull a coin from his pocket.

“Heads or tails?” Tak asked instead of answering.

Tyson hesitated. “Tails.”

Tak flipped his quarter and flashed the results. Tails had it. He left Tyson to break the rack.

Tyson leaned forward, cue in hand, and connected with the balls in a swift slight of hand. With a clean run of it, balls scrambled in every direction, hitting the walls of the table before coming to a stop.

Tak weighed the cue stick in his hand.

“You never told me what was wrong,” Tyson said.

Tak went for his shot. A smooth one, he pocketed two balls, both from his suit.

“I never said anything was wrong.”

Tyson took his time with his, weighing and studying, but sunk nothing all the same. When he stood upright, it was with his cue stick as a crutch, gaze sweeping over Tak.

“I can tell something’s bothering you. You’re like Ash, that way, it paints your face.”

Tak went for the table again, sinking another ball from his suit. He stood and realized that he wore a scowl.

“You must think I’m an asshole,” Tak said. “Here you are trying to check on me and I…” He shook his head. “Tell you what. Come visit me in Miami sometime. That’s a standing invitation. I promise you it won’t be half as crazy as it is here. We could go to a game. Do some deep sea fishing, whatever. Maybe then, you’ll get it all out of me.”

Tyson’s gaze softened.

“I’d like that,” he said. “Although, it is possible to get away here, too. No need to wait for Miami.”

He had a point: were the rain to take a permanent vacation, Tak could charter a boat and sail, clear his mind for a spell. He said as much to Tyson. Silence followed, and in it, Tak had the feeling of being watched.

“What?”

“Nothing. Only,” Tyson cleared his throat. “It still bothers me sometime. Losing Ash.”

Tak exhaled and in his mind, the word “asshole” appeared his mind like a puff of smoke. Here was a man in mourning after losing his best friend. Nothing he was going through compared to that, none of it even came close.

And to his horror, he looked up to find Tyson teary eyed.

Tak set the pool cue down.

“Hey, listen man. I—I know what it’s like to lose someone,” he said, groping for the right words. “It feels like the pain will never get better, but I swear, one day it does.”

Tyson wiped at his face with the back of his hands, embarrassment plain in his smile.

“I’m sorry. I just—”

Tak clapped him on the back. He thought better of it and went in for an embrace. After all, this was a fellow human being. The least he could was act like one, too.

Only, something went wrong. Something went horribly wrong, as Tyson turned into him and Tak jerked from his mouth.

“Hey! What the—”

He fell back, edge of the pool table in his spine, as he escaped what might have been a kiss, what looked like a kiss. Meanwhile, Tyson looked as if he’d just been spat on.

“Tak, please,” he said. “I know it feels strange. I was the same way with Ash. But after seeing what you’re going through, I know I can make you happier. If you’ll just…give it a try—”

“Give what a try?”

Tyson reached for him. Tak jerked wild, scrambling up onto the table.

“Please,” Tyson said, desperation edging his voice. “I can make you so happy. I understand you so much better than her. If you just—”

He dropped a hand on Tak’s knee. Tak flung it and scrambled from the room.

Chapter Forty-One

Tyson stormed into the bedroom and closed out the world with a shove of the door. Heart wild in his chest, he grasped for the calm just beyond deep breaths and found it slow in coming. He cursed, closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He saw Tak’s bare chest, rippling and dripping with pool water. And that lazy smile, as if he knew he needn’t bother to try for more. Damn him and that body. Damn him and those lips.

Tyson opened his eyes to see Crystal staring back at him.

“You alright?” she said.

He brushed past her for the bathroom, not because he needed it, but because it gave him a semblance of privacy. Once inside, he locked the door and ran cold water, splashing his face with the hopes of getting his brain in gear.

All the signs. All the words. The inadvertent touches. Had he really read it all wrong? Was it possible? They’d connected, right from the start, from the very first second, and Tyson had felt that here, in this house, was where he’d find what he needed. It had been so long since Ash, so long since he’d felt anything. And for Tak to come along and—

“Tyson? Tyson are you okay?”

She tried the door. He struck out in blind panic.

“Get the hell away! Leave me alone, why don’t you?”

Crystal said nothing. Silent Crystal, with those eyes always watching.

“Is this about Ash?”

She knew Ash, of course, knew him as Tyson’s best friend and the guy who’d had his back in service. When he’d moved from Austin to Daytona Beach, just to be closer—just to die—

“It wasn’t your fault, Tyson. What happened to Ash—”

Except it was his fault. His fault that Ash moved to Florida and his fault that he was where he was, picking up a six pack for Tyson, when a punk decided that he could kill him for spare change. And the worst part was that there’d been beer in the fridge, just not the kind Tyson liked.

Crystal talked, trying her hand at comforting with empty words. Sweet, sweet Crystal; she was the girl he’d marry. Not because there was some profound romantic love—but because they were perfect for each other, in the most pragmatic way possible. Tyson cared for her, loved her even, in the best way he could, but even he knew that that love was familial more than anything.

He’d come there believing he’d made peace with the loss of Ash. He’d come there ready to propose to Crystal in the presence of her family. But what he hadn’t counted on was Tak: Tak turning his head and waking his heart so completely. Ash was the only man he’d ever been with and there’d been a few women before Crystal. Over time, he became convinced that his relationship with Ash had been a chance quirk of fate, love sprouting between two without regard to whom or what they were. He wasn’t gay and with Ash their roles had always reflected that. It meant that Tyson gave and Ash received, always without variation. But then Ash died and time moved on, committing their time together to memories. He came to Aruba next, where he met Tak, and Tyson found his heart turning yet again. He found his old rules melting away. He wanted Tak’s touch, Tak’s love, and he didn’t care how it came. Tyson realized it: he wanted Tak completely.

He’d thought Tak wanted that too. They talked and drank and spent time and Tyson thought, Tyson knew, that this man, this man that he wanted so desperately, wanted him too.

Except Tak didn’t and the thought of it repulsed him, sending him careening across the table like a spider, breaking things in his panic to get free.

“Tyson? Is there something I can get you?” Crystal said.

He flung open the door in response.

“Space,” Tyson spat. “You can give me space.”

She stared at him, her eyes transformed to two shimmering, full moons.

“Is this about—”

Tyson rushed for the exit, eager to slam the door on her question.

Chapter Forty-Two

Deena sat with her father-in-law as the rain ran torrential. What a horrible Christmas Eve, she thought and got a streak of lightening in response.

“I’m retiring,” Daichi said. “And leaving the company to you. I’ll begin the transition as soon as we return.”

He said it as if it were nothing, as if he hadn’t spent his whole life dreaming about, then creating, the firm. She stared at him before breaking into a knowing smile.

“You’re absurd. Leaving the firm? To go where? To do what exactly?”

Daichi picked up his mimosa and sipped before crossing rain splashed legs pricked in dark hair.

“To do pleasurable things, Deena. Surely, you remember those.”

Fire lit her cheeks. The first retort on her lips was an admission that she knew pleasure well, thanks to his son. But she buried it for the crass thought it was.

“You’re serious,” Deena said, with dawning realization.

The idea of him leaving that monster of a firm to her was stomach clenching. Even if she had prayed for it ad nauseam.

“You’re a god to most people,” she said. “And I’m the daughter you dragged to the top.”

Both knew that wasn’t the half of it. Both knew that Daichi paved the hardest paths for those he cared the most about.

Plaques covered the wall in Deena’s office. A nearly top-level suite with a panoramic view of Biscayne Bay on three sides. Young Architect of the Year. Innovator of the Year. The Conscientious Designer Award—twice. But they were puffs of smoke to the Picasso of their day. He left no path for her in making her his successor, she could only disappoint others.

“If you are so determined to fail, sell the firm, break it up. I don’t care,” Daichi said in that slicing, no nonsense clip of his. “Buy an island, if you want. It’s none of my concern.”

Deena stared. For twenty years he talked of leaving his life’s work in the hands of another Tanaka. He’d tried to push Tak into architecture and failed. He’d pushed Kenji into architecture only to find that art without love led to disaster. Through Deena, his dream had been realized: Tanaka to Tanaka for the next generation.

Never had they talked of selling.

Then she realized it. He’d tipped his hand. Obviously, this was a joke. She said as much.

“Musuko, listen to me,” Daichi said. “My wife is ill. She’s in the throes of addiction. We are not young. Therefore, it is time I tend to private concerns. You understand that, don’t you?”

In the throes of addiction. She knew it from Lizzie, who’d once used cocaine and heroin. To pry an addict from her fix was to pry fingernails from fingers. After eight years of attempting to force sobriety on her kid sister, Deena had thought it impossible. Then along came a certain Tanaka whose love was the shove she needed. Maybe, Daichi could be the same for his wife. Maybe.

“You can’t cure her,” Deena said. “No matter how you wish it.”

Daichi studied her. As usual, he saw what simmered beneath.

“She’s not Elizabeth.”

“And you’re not Kenji,” Deena snapped.

Daichi pressed his fingers together and brought them, as a steeple to his lips.

“Is that what you believe? That the power of love is what cured your sister?” Mockery dripped like venom.

“No,” Deena said.

“Then your Jesus?”

She shook her head.

“Not Him, either.”

Daichi splayed his hands.

“Then I’m fresh out of options, I’m afraid.”

Deena lifted his drink and drank it, earning a smile from him. Only when it was empty did she return it to the table.

“I wait for the day,” she admitted. “When Kenji calls me. When Kenji calls and says he found her shooting up, he found her snorting coke. It hangs over me like a promise, like a prison sentence, certain to come down.”

“And yet it’s been so long.”

“Not long enough,” Deena said. “Forever couldn’t be long enough.”

Her father-in-law turned his gaze to the ocean, absorbing crashing waves till their blue reflected in the dark pools of his eyes.

“You and your husband are having problems. You disagree so much now. On childrearing, on issues of trust, on what modicum of truth can be offered.”

Deena looked at him. Really looked at him.

“What does it mean?”

Unlike most kids, her parents were parted through murder, not divorce. Without friends growing up, there’d been no buddies caught in a custody battle to comfort, no personal experiences with divorce.

Was this what it looked like? All nasty arguments with sweet moments between, until the nasty and the sweet bled together, infecting good times with bad?

“You’re unhappy. Both of you,” he said.

And it was true. Misery found them more often, pulled up a chair and stayed longer each time. Perhaps one day, it would never leave.

“This is how marriages end,” Deena said.

It was never just the other woman or the slap across the face that did it, but the thousand little cuts—every unwitting encouragement, every scathing remark. So many had passed between them already.

“Yes,” Daichi said. “But he would never leave you. Even if he no longer loved you. You realize that, don’t you?”

Some part of Deena, the fatherless and impoverished part still buried deep, had found Tak’s belief in the infallibility of marriage anchoring. She held on to that belief for the stability she needed early on, back when her marriage was so new she didn’t know if she was doing it right. Even now, that voice hung in the back of her head. No matter what she said, no matter what she did, he’d never leave her.

But he could stop loving her. He could fold into himself and into his work, leaving her outside the warmth of his existence. They could become Ken and Asami, with him taking on a mistress and another life, one preferred to the one that kept him tethered. Or maybe he would break tradition and leave her. She was living proof he didn’t prescribe to everything his father insisted upon.

“He could leave,” Deena said. “If Aubree Daniels…”

She dared not say more. She dared not say that the name of Aubree Daniels sat in her stomach like the burning embers of jealousy, never quite content to peter out.

Daichi looked at her.

“Your question is not one of Aubree Daniels or not. It’s of Deena Tanaka or not, isn’t it?”

She didn’t know how he expected her to answer. With some confession of hidden inadequacies? With a sobbing declaration that meant she couldn’t survive without her husband?

She wouldn’t.

Because neither was true.

Deena, like any other person, had shortcomings. But a hard life had shown them in sharp relief: a need for acceptance, love, to belong. Deena had once yearned for acceptance in that painful way another required food after a hunger strike. It made her do stupid things, banal things, things born of cowardice, in the hopes of finding her place among the Hammonds.

But then she gave up on that. And she’d been just fine.

That had been her greatest secret among all things. Not just that she’d moved on from needing a place in a family that thrived on dysfunction, but that she had moved on and been just fine. In a world that had claimed her mother, father, brother, and in many ways, her sister, Deena had survived nonetheless. Maybe this, the world’s eventual claiming of her happiness, was the one thing she’d actually anticipated.

Deena looked up to find a short sprite of a housekeeper in her cleaning whites, powering toward them with a scowl of deliberateness, Mrs. Jimenez on her heels. When she reached their table, she took in a deep breath.

“Mrs. Tanaka, we must start preparing for the storm.”

“Storm?” Deena said.

“Yes, ma’am. The city’s preparing for a hurricane that’s changed course and is barreling in our direction. They’d said it would land due north of here, all the way near the Bahamas, but its changed and picked up speed at that. We’re going to get the brunt of it.”

“When?” Daichi said.

The girl looked as if she wanted to keep the words in her mouth. It escaped anyway.

“Tonight.”

An emergency siren howled in the distance.