Chapter 42 - Phone Tag (part 5)
Posted: Wed Sep 11, 2013 12:16 pm
Previous|Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4|Next Chapter
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She just laughs and retorts, “He loved Enzo like a brother—I'm sure he'd approve.”
Okay, maybe I just can't win...
Unwilling to give up, I abandon that approach and decide to try something more practical. “Y'know, he's running a nice restaurant, and we might not be able to get a table on short notice...”
“He'll let us in—he said I could stop by anytime,” she says, which makes me wonder how much I missed while Hisao was feeding me, then she smirks and adds, “We can go in through the kitchen—no crowd to face.”
“Why did I say anything about pizza...” I groan in defeat.
“Karma, Kitten,” she gloats, patting my knee sympathetically, “but you should be able to find some privacy in a dark corner of Olive Riso while we're there—Enzo might even let you use his office.”
“Now you're just trying to get rid of me.”
“Is it working?”
Sighing, I shrug and admit, “Probably...”
~^~
True to Mom's prediction, Uncle Enzo lets us in through the back way, which leads straight into his heavenly-smelling kitchen. The staff is a strange mix of native Japanese and some Italian imports, which I should have expected, all of whom defer to their employer as he leads us through, though a few seem more than interested in the two visitors—Mom mostly. While I follow, Enzo locks his arm around hers and they chat quietly, low enough that I can't understand what they're saying—I probably don't want to know. Seeing how closely they're walking, it's safe to assume that they've been in contact more than I know, which is something else I don't want to think about.
I might be happier if I were blissfully ignorant...
The path we follow leads into a stairwell and up above the restaurant proper. On the third floor, Uncle Enzo apparently has a rather large office along with a respectable cigar room complete with leather furnishings, a heavy mahogany bar, and dark wood paneling. On closer inspection, I notice a hallway leading off the north end of the room that seems to have a few more doors—this might actually be a complete apartment. That suspicion is confirmed as my eyes wander around at the homey space, which is dominated by seemingly hundreds of framed photos hanging all over the walls.
Smiling at recognizing a familiar face, I remark, “That's me.”
“Where?” Mom asks, scanning the wall.
Enzo looks on as I point out the black and white photo, which depicts a young version of myself with my hair in braided pigtails. “I was... four, maybe?” I guess, “I'm not sure when I had my hair like that...”
“Six, actually,” Mom corrects, nodding toward another picture, “You were closer to four there.”
In the picture stands Mom by the beach, wind whipping her thin sundress as she holds onto a baby in a blanket—an uncharacteristically quiet Midori, as I recall. Dad stands at her side, grinning from ear to ear, and a little version of me peeks out from around his leg, pouting dangerously.
“That's Midi in my blanket,” I surmise, “and Dad looks like the cat that caught the canary.”
“It was our first trip to Aki's beach house after Midi was born—he was beside himself,” she explains wistfully, then raises an eyebrow to add, “And then there's you, looking mad as hell that we're paying your sister any attention.”
“She stole my blanket!” I exclaim in mock protest. “That blanket and I had bonded. We were friends, and you just gave her away—I was righteously angry!”
Mom rolls her eyes and smirks while Enzo muses, “I'm glad to see you've never lost that righteous indignation.”
“It's a Navarro trait,” Mom claims, giving me a prideful smirk.
As I turn to retort there's a knock at the door, so I save it for later. Uncle Enzo answers, and a waiter from downstairs steps in carrying an artisan pizza on a silver platter. There was a part of me that dreaded coming along for this cooking class, but if there's food like this available afterward every time, I might consider asking to accompany Mom again—it definitely beats cafeteria slop. The rotund young man, whom I recognize faintly from our night out last week, sets the little dining area with a fresh cloth, flowers, and wine, which I'm sure isn't meant for me, but it's a nice touch.
Once we're seated, the waiter makes a gracious exit, and Enzo goes about cutting and serving while I watch Mom with increasing curiosity. This all seems totally normal for her, which makes me wonder whether she's spent time here previously. Logically, I know they probably kept in touch over the years, and I don't really have a problem with that, but she acted like they hadn't seen or heard from each other since he moved away. It's suspicious, and I'm almost curious enough to ask, but, like so many things, I think I want to retain at least some blissful ignorance.
While we dine on pizza-shaped ambrosia, Mom talks about her class mostly, while Enzo listens and says little. Happily, she keeps my role in the ordeal out of the discussion, which is either courtesy or because she doesn't want to hear me complain. When I've had my fill, they're still talking and I start to feel a little bored, so I ask to be excused. Mom gives me a little wink and agrees with a smile, then Enzo directs me to a guest room. Evidently he's living in this rather convenient apartment right above the restaurant by himself, which almost sounds awesome except that he doesn't seem particularly enthusiastic about that fact.
When I knew him years ago, Uncle Enzo always talked about running a restaurant and living life the way he wanted, which it seems he managed to accomplish. It's quite encouraging seeing someone of foreign descent come to Japan and make a living for themselves, though I think he regrets not having a family to share it with. Watching him with Mom, and seeing his face light up at her every word, I feel a lot less apprehensive about the whole dating thing. Even Dad wanted her to move on if she could, and that's what I'm trying to do as well, so I don't plan to stand in her way.
It's different, but not really...
Stepping into the guest room quietly, I walk across the hardwood floor and look out through a bay window on the west wall wedged between two huge bookshelves. The oversized sill is covered with pillows, and looks like an excellent place to curl up with a laptop, or a book—Hisao would probably love this room. There's a bed made up in fine white linens with a heavy wool canopy in the middle of the room, but it looks too perfect to disturb. For my purposes at the moment, the pillowed bay window looks like the perfect place to find some privacy for an overdue phone call.
Sitting down, I take my phone out and scan through the other messages—a little procrastination never hurt anyone. The one from Misha contains the date and time for their camping trip—next weekend from the looks of it—along with address information and Shizune's home phone number. While I technically haven't agreed to anything yet, I have to admit I'm cautiously curious about what kind of camping trip they have planned. There's still the issue of transportation to figure out, but Mom will probably be delighted to help with that if it gets me out of my cave for a while, so I decide to throw caution to the wind.
[I'll figure out how to get there—save me some marshmallows,] I reply, smirking as I press send.
I hear that's what you eat on a camping trip...
After saving the address information, I move on to the message from Yoko, which contains a simple four word phrase that makes me grin: [Love my new job!]
Taking a moment to consider my reply carefully, I type out a three word response that will probably make her roll her eyes: [Told ya so!]
Finally, I reach the end of the list, and take a deep breath as I reopen the message to read his plea once again.
[Are you mad at me?]
The words make my heart sink, but as I consider what Mom said about my reaction being misguided, I smile and close the message. Exiting to the main menu, I quickly flip through my contacts list and press send the second Hisao's name is highlighted. Shaking away the last of my nerves, I raise the phone to my ear and wait as it rings. Once, twice, three times the electronic ring sounds, and I hold my breath as I listen for the fourth. As the fourth ring ends, I furrow my brow, but then there's a click. While I'm getting ready to greet him, a scratchy voice—his voice—comes through the speaker.
“You've reached Hisao Nakai, but I'm currently engrossed in a book and can't be bothered with answering my phone—please leave a message and I'll give you a call between chapters.”
Is he kidding...?
When the beep sounds, I can't believe what I'm hearing so I hang up and immediately redial. After another four laborious rings, the same message plays and I hang up before it finishes. A third attempt barely gets past the first few words before I end the call and stand up to start pacing around in frustration. His message last night said to call him in the morning, which I wasn't able to do for a few reasons—some of which were out of my control. Now it's after noon and he's not answering, which either means he had plans that are keeping him busy, or he's just letting my calls go to voice mail—I'm not sure which possibility sounds worse.
A few more failed attempts leaves me sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding the phone against my forehead in contemplation. Even if he did have plans for the day, I don't know what could possibly distract him enough not to take a call from his girlfriend. It could be that his phone is broken, or the battery died and he doesn't know it yet, but he just sent me a message a few hours ago. The possibility remains that he could be ignoring my calls, but his last message seemed to indicate he realized something is wrong, so one would think he'd be waiting for a response with bated breath.
Unless he gave up on me already...
That thought brings with it some bitter tears, the kind I used to shed when I realized one of my so-called friends had given up on the awkward, half-deaf geek. Now it feels ten times worse, though, because it's someone who said he loves me, instead of just another selfish classmate who wants to fit in with the crowd. That hasn't happened since I arrived at Yamaku, but it's not something I can easily forget—or forgive, really. It occurs to me that I'm probably overreacting again, but I've been burned before—metaphorically, at least. The thought of that happening again is almost too much to bear.
Blubbering as I sit, somehow I manage not to draw attention from Mom or Enzo, but they're probably distracted with each other. Seeing them together probably wouldn't help at this point—I'm somewhat envious of their ability to meet so casually. That thought makes me consider jumping on a train using my own allowance to head straight for Hisao's door and demand an explanation, but that's just irrational—not to mention terrifying. Instead, I hit redial one more time and listen through his whole message until the beep, all the while trying to figure out what to say.
Deciding to wing it, I sniffle and remark, “Cute message, um...” I trail off and swallow hard before continuing, “I got your messages, and I'm not mad... but I'm wondering where you are...”
Mostly who you're with...
“If you get this, call me anytime...” I say, pausing for a long while before adding, “Love yo-”
My last word is interrupted by the ending tone, and I frown as the electronic voice asks whether I'd like to leave another message. Shaking my head slowly, I end the call and stare at my phone for a few minutes, trying to calm myself with some controlled breaths. It isn't particularly effective, but I feel well enough to stand and look for a bathroom so I can try to hide the fact that I was crying. Finding the hall empty, and hearing Mom laughing lightly from the dining room, I walk quietly toward the door at the end of the hall.
I hope her maternal sense isn't tingling...
The little marble bathroom is dark when I enter, and I don't want to risk being seen, so I close the door before I can find the light switch. The bright lights bring a slight headache, and my vision blurs as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, making it look less than real. Sighing, I lean against the sink and take a moment to look her over—my disheveled self—her eyes and cheeks red from the stress, hair matted to her forehead from sweat, and her shoulders bowed with emotional weight. Tear stains along her cheeks make her look like even more of a mess, and there's a discouraging downward curl to her lips.
I look awful...
Regardless of whatever Hisao is actually doing, I'm on the verge of a meltdown, but I have no intention of letting anyone know. As I wrestle with my hair, trying to organize it enough to wrap it in a bun, I can feel my hands and fingers trying to clench in anger. There may be a reasonable explanation for Hisao's disconnect, and the subsequent frustration I'm feeling, but as I look into the mirror at the frightened look on my face, I can't help wondering if the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe this is just a test of my fortitude, and perhaps I shouldn't let assumptions rule my reactions, but thinking that could just be another coping mechanism.
I have a long history of fooling myself...
Making myself look away, I run the cold water and let it fill my hands, then splash it against my face. It's shocking cold, and I can feel the icy water snaking down my neck, making me shiver, but, when I finally look into the mirror again, I see it's doing wonders for the redness. Taking another handful of icy water, I splash myself again, this time pulling it back through my hair, trying to make it look like I hadn't been sweating. The whole apartment is air conditioned, so I can't excuse my hair being wet, but I might be able to lie about food getting caught in it—it's a flimsy excuse, but totally reasonable.
As I stare at the girl in the mirror, trying furiously to hide the evidence from her emotional outburst, part of me wonders whether she'll have some insights, even if that means I'm losing my mind. Usually, I smile and scoff at my friends' observations, but the truth is that I really would spend all my time by myself if I could. However, recently I noted a paradigm shift where I'd like one addition to the room at all times, but that probably scares me more than anything. Along with everything else, Hisao has assumed a role I thought was gone after Dad died: the one man in my life who never lets me down.
A naïve notion, I know, but it helped me cope...
That's probably why his departure hit me so hard, and the subsequent evasive behavior has made me crazy; I'm expecting Hisao to be perfect, just like Dad. However, if I believe Mom, then the pedestal I put Dad on needs shortening, so that probably means I should expect less from my absent boyfriend. It pains me to think that way, and the jealousy probably won't just disappear, but the tired, two-toned stare I'm getting from the mirror tells me I should let some things slip—for her sanity's sake. Still, so help me, if he's really doing something illicit, I'm not sure he'll survive the eventual encounter.
I'm sure Amaya would help dispose of the body...
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Previous|Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4|Next Chapter
Telephones... Telephones...? Where are the telephones...?
I'm not going to make any comments about the Hisao problem.
It took nearly 400,000 words before I could slip Lilly into the story somehow--she and Hanako kind of exist too far outside Aiko's scope of acquaintances. That said, her appearance has more to do with Shizune than anything else--and not only because that's the source of the message. Going camping with Shizune is something I had in the early draft of the outline, and it got put in and taken out a few dozen times, but now I know it'll serve a purpose.
As always, all comments are welcome--sorry there's so much time between updates lately.
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She just laughs and retorts, “He loved Enzo like a brother—I'm sure he'd approve.”
Okay, maybe I just can't win...
Unwilling to give up, I abandon that approach and decide to try something more practical. “Y'know, he's running a nice restaurant, and we might not be able to get a table on short notice...”
“He'll let us in—he said I could stop by anytime,” she says, which makes me wonder how much I missed while Hisao was feeding me, then she smirks and adds, “We can go in through the kitchen—no crowd to face.”
“Why did I say anything about pizza...” I groan in defeat.
“Karma, Kitten,” she gloats, patting my knee sympathetically, “but you should be able to find some privacy in a dark corner of Olive Riso while we're there—Enzo might even let you use his office.”
“Now you're just trying to get rid of me.”
“Is it working?”
Sighing, I shrug and admit, “Probably...”
~^~
True to Mom's prediction, Uncle Enzo lets us in through the back way, which leads straight into his heavenly-smelling kitchen. The staff is a strange mix of native Japanese and some Italian imports, which I should have expected, all of whom defer to their employer as he leads us through, though a few seem more than interested in the two visitors—Mom mostly. While I follow, Enzo locks his arm around hers and they chat quietly, low enough that I can't understand what they're saying—I probably don't want to know. Seeing how closely they're walking, it's safe to assume that they've been in contact more than I know, which is something else I don't want to think about.
I might be happier if I were blissfully ignorant...
The path we follow leads into a stairwell and up above the restaurant proper. On the third floor, Uncle Enzo apparently has a rather large office along with a respectable cigar room complete with leather furnishings, a heavy mahogany bar, and dark wood paneling. On closer inspection, I notice a hallway leading off the north end of the room that seems to have a few more doors—this might actually be a complete apartment. That suspicion is confirmed as my eyes wander around at the homey space, which is dominated by seemingly hundreds of framed photos hanging all over the walls.
Smiling at recognizing a familiar face, I remark, “That's me.”
“Where?” Mom asks, scanning the wall.
Enzo looks on as I point out the black and white photo, which depicts a young version of myself with my hair in braided pigtails. “I was... four, maybe?” I guess, “I'm not sure when I had my hair like that...”
“Six, actually,” Mom corrects, nodding toward another picture, “You were closer to four there.”
In the picture stands Mom by the beach, wind whipping her thin sundress as she holds onto a baby in a blanket—an uncharacteristically quiet Midori, as I recall. Dad stands at her side, grinning from ear to ear, and a little version of me peeks out from around his leg, pouting dangerously.
“That's Midi in my blanket,” I surmise, “and Dad looks like the cat that caught the canary.”
“It was our first trip to Aki's beach house after Midi was born—he was beside himself,” she explains wistfully, then raises an eyebrow to add, “And then there's you, looking mad as hell that we're paying your sister any attention.”
“She stole my blanket!” I exclaim in mock protest. “That blanket and I had bonded. We were friends, and you just gave her away—I was righteously angry!”
Mom rolls her eyes and smirks while Enzo muses, “I'm glad to see you've never lost that righteous indignation.”
“It's a Navarro trait,” Mom claims, giving me a prideful smirk.
As I turn to retort there's a knock at the door, so I save it for later. Uncle Enzo answers, and a waiter from downstairs steps in carrying an artisan pizza on a silver platter. There was a part of me that dreaded coming along for this cooking class, but if there's food like this available afterward every time, I might consider asking to accompany Mom again—it definitely beats cafeteria slop. The rotund young man, whom I recognize faintly from our night out last week, sets the little dining area with a fresh cloth, flowers, and wine, which I'm sure isn't meant for me, but it's a nice touch.
Once we're seated, the waiter makes a gracious exit, and Enzo goes about cutting and serving while I watch Mom with increasing curiosity. This all seems totally normal for her, which makes me wonder whether she's spent time here previously. Logically, I know they probably kept in touch over the years, and I don't really have a problem with that, but she acted like they hadn't seen or heard from each other since he moved away. It's suspicious, and I'm almost curious enough to ask, but, like so many things, I think I want to retain at least some blissful ignorance.
While we dine on pizza-shaped ambrosia, Mom talks about her class mostly, while Enzo listens and says little. Happily, she keeps my role in the ordeal out of the discussion, which is either courtesy or because she doesn't want to hear me complain. When I've had my fill, they're still talking and I start to feel a little bored, so I ask to be excused. Mom gives me a little wink and agrees with a smile, then Enzo directs me to a guest room. Evidently he's living in this rather convenient apartment right above the restaurant by himself, which almost sounds awesome except that he doesn't seem particularly enthusiastic about that fact.
When I knew him years ago, Uncle Enzo always talked about running a restaurant and living life the way he wanted, which it seems he managed to accomplish. It's quite encouraging seeing someone of foreign descent come to Japan and make a living for themselves, though I think he regrets not having a family to share it with. Watching him with Mom, and seeing his face light up at her every word, I feel a lot less apprehensive about the whole dating thing. Even Dad wanted her to move on if she could, and that's what I'm trying to do as well, so I don't plan to stand in her way.
It's different, but not really...
Stepping into the guest room quietly, I walk across the hardwood floor and look out through a bay window on the west wall wedged between two huge bookshelves. The oversized sill is covered with pillows, and looks like an excellent place to curl up with a laptop, or a book—Hisao would probably love this room. There's a bed made up in fine white linens with a heavy wool canopy in the middle of the room, but it looks too perfect to disturb. For my purposes at the moment, the pillowed bay window looks like the perfect place to find some privacy for an overdue phone call.
Sitting down, I take my phone out and scan through the other messages—a little procrastination never hurt anyone. The one from Misha contains the date and time for their camping trip—next weekend from the looks of it—along with address information and Shizune's home phone number. While I technically haven't agreed to anything yet, I have to admit I'm cautiously curious about what kind of camping trip they have planned. There's still the issue of transportation to figure out, but Mom will probably be delighted to help with that if it gets me out of my cave for a while, so I decide to throw caution to the wind.
[I'll figure out how to get there—save me some marshmallows,] I reply, smirking as I press send.
I hear that's what you eat on a camping trip...
After saving the address information, I move on to the message from Yoko, which contains a simple four word phrase that makes me grin: [Love my new job!]
Taking a moment to consider my reply carefully, I type out a three word response that will probably make her roll her eyes: [Told ya so!]
Finally, I reach the end of the list, and take a deep breath as I reopen the message to read his plea once again.
[Are you mad at me?]
The words make my heart sink, but as I consider what Mom said about my reaction being misguided, I smile and close the message. Exiting to the main menu, I quickly flip through my contacts list and press send the second Hisao's name is highlighted. Shaking away the last of my nerves, I raise the phone to my ear and wait as it rings. Once, twice, three times the electronic ring sounds, and I hold my breath as I listen for the fourth. As the fourth ring ends, I furrow my brow, but then there's a click. While I'm getting ready to greet him, a scratchy voice—his voice—comes through the speaker.
“You've reached Hisao Nakai, but I'm currently engrossed in a book and can't be bothered with answering my phone—please leave a message and I'll give you a call between chapters.”
Is he kidding...?
When the beep sounds, I can't believe what I'm hearing so I hang up and immediately redial. After another four laborious rings, the same message plays and I hang up before it finishes. A third attempt barely gets past the first few words before I end the call and stand up to start pacing around in frustration. His message last night said to call him in the morning, which I wasn't able to do for a few reasons—some of which were out of my control. Now it's after noon and he's not answering, which either means he had plans that are keeping him busy, or he's just letting my calls go to voice mail—I'm not sure which possibility sounds worse.
A few more failed attempts leaves me sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding the phone against my forehead in contemplation. Even if he did have plans for the day, I don't know what could possibly distract him enough not to take a call from his girlfriend. It could be that his phone is broken, or the battery died and he doesn't know it yet, but he just sent me a message a few hours ago. The possibility remains that he could be ignoring my calls, but his last message seemed to indicate he realized something is wrong, so one would think he'd be waiting for a response with bated breath.
Unless he gave up on me already...
That thought brings with it some bitter tears, the kind I used to shed when I realized one of my so-called friends had given up on the awkward, half-deaf geek. Now it feels ten times worse, though, because it's someone who said he loves me, instead of just another selfish classmate who wants to fit in with the crowd. That hasn't happened since I arrived at Yamaku, but it's not something I can easily forget—or forgive, really. It occurs to me that I'm probably overreacting again, but I've been burned before—metaphorically, at least. The thought of that happening again is almost too much to bear.
Blubbering as I sit, somehow I manage not to draw attention from Mom or Enzo, but they're probably distracted with each other. Seeing them together probably wouldn't help at this point—I'm somewhat envious of their ability to meet so casually. That thought makes me consider jumping on a train using my own allowance to head straight for Hisao's door and demand an explanation, but that's just irrational—not to mention terrifying. Instead, I hit redial one more time and listen through his whole message until the beep, all the while trying to figure out what to say.
Deciding to wing it, I sniffle and remark, “Cute message, um...” I trail off and swallow hard before continuing, “I got your messages, and I'm not mad... but I'm wondering where you are...”
Mostly who you're with...
“If you get this, call me anytime...” I say, pausing for a long while before adding, “Love yo-”
My last word is interrupted by the ending tone, and I frown as the electronic voice asks whether I'd like to leave another message. Shaking my head slowly, I end the call and stare at my phone for a few minutes, trying to calm myself with some controlled breaths. It isn't particularly effective, but I feel well enough to stand and look for a bathroom so I can try to hide the fact that I was crying. Finding the hall empty, and hearing Mom laughing lightly from the dining room, I walk quietly toward the door at the end of the hall.
I hope her maternal sense isn't tingling...
The little marble bathroom is dark when I enter, and I don't want to risk being seen, so I close the door before I can find the light switch. The bright lights bring a slight headache, and my vision blurs as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, making it look less than real. Sighing, I lean against the sink and take a moment to look her over—my disheveled self—her eyes and cheeks red from the stress, hair matted to her forehead from sweat, and her shoulders bowed with emotional weight. Tear stains along her cheeks make her look like even more of a mess, and there's a discouraging downward curl to her lips.
I look awful...
Regardless of whatever Hisao is actually doing, I'm on the verge of a meltdown, but I have no intention of letting anyone know. As I wrestle with my hair, trying to organize it enough to wrap it in a bun, I can feel my hands and fingers trying to clench in anger. There may be a reasonable explanation for Hisao's disconnect, and the subsequent frustration I'm feeling, but as I look into the mirror at the frightened look on my face, I can't help wondering if the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe this is just a test of my fortitude, and perhaps I shouldn't let assumptions rule my reactions, but thinking that could just be another coping mechanism.
I have a long history of fooling myself...
Making myself look away, I run the cold water and let it fill my hands, then splash it against my face. It's shocking cold, and I can feel the icy water snaking down my neck, making me shiver, but, when I finally look into the mirror again, I see it's doing wonders for the redness. Taking another handful of icy water, I splash myself again, this time pulling it back through my hair, trying to make it look like I hadn't been sweating. The whole apartment is air conditioned, so I can't excuse my hair being wet, but I might be able to lie about food getting caught in it—it's a flimsy excuse, but totally reasonable.
As I stare at the girl in the mirror, trying furiously to hide the evidence from her emotional outburst, part of me wonders whether she'll have some insights, even if that means I'm losing my mind. Usually, I smile and scoff at my friends' observations, but the truth is that I really would spend all my time by myself if I could. However, recently I noted a paradigm shift where I'd like one addition to the room at all times, but that probably scares me more than anything. Along with everything else, Hisao has assumed a role I thought was gone after Dad died: the one man in my life who never lets me down.
A naïve notion, I know, but it helped me cope...
That's probably why his departure hit me so hard, and the subsequent evasive behavior has made me crazy; I'm expecting Hisao to be perfect, just like Dad. However, if I believe Mom, then the pedestal I put Dad on needs shortening, so that probably means I should expect less from my absent boyfriend. It pains me to think that way, and the jealousy probably won't just disappear, but the tired, two-toned stare I'm getting from the mirror tells me I should let some things slip—for her sanity's sake. Still, so help me, if he's really doing something illicit, I'm not sure he'll survive the eventual encounter.
I'm sure Amaya would help dispose of the body...
______________________________________________________
Previous|Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4|Next Chapter
Telephones... Telephones...? Where are the telephones...?
I'm not going to make any comments about the Hisao problem.
It took nearly 400,000 words before I could slip Lilly into the story somehow--she and Hanako kind of exist too far outside Aiko's scope of acquaintances. That said, her appearance has more to do with Shizune than anything else--and not only because that's the source of the message. Going camping with Shizune is something I had in the early draft of the outline, and it got put in and taken out a few dozen times, but now I know it'll serve a purpose.
As always, all comments are welcome--sorry there's so much time between updates lately.
More the merrier!!! Shicchan says hi. ^_^]
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