I couldn’t face anyone at the office. I drove home as fast as I could, crying the whole way. I flung myself on my bed and sobbed. I was immature, idolizing Owen and glamorizing Japan in my childish imagination, when really, I understood nothing about Owen or his country. How in the world had I let a silly crush and made-up construct about Japan drive me all the way to this Godforsaken island? What kind of provincial idiot decided to live in a foreign country after two semesters of studying it in books? I’d created and believed my own fantasy about what it would be like—glamourous, exotic, modern, romantic—and it was nothing like what I’d imagined. It was a gritty, dangerous, boiling hot hell hole. The man who yelled gaijin had recognized me for who I was.
And now the knowledge that Owen was gay. Hisashi had flung those words at me like daggers. “Owen is gay.” You idiot. How could you not have known? My thoughts were muddy, but a bolt of understanding shone through. Owen had been hot and cold to me in his fort because he was gay. He probably hated kissing me and that’s why he’d done it so awkwardly, holding my neck too tightly and then pushing me away. Why did he let me think he felt romantic toward me?
I quickly knew the answer to my question. Owen undoubtedly recognized my crush and didn’t want to hurt me. My infatuation had forced him to act in a way that he didn’t feel. He’d said several times that we were “friends,” and now I understood, he meant it. Friends. Not lovers. We could have never been lovers. Owen’s mix of affection and aggression toward me had been driven by his own internal conflict. I’d mistaken it for passion. So stupid.
“Sorry, Lu,” my father whispered in my ear, or was that Owen’s voice I heard in my mind? He’d tried to be a real friend. He taught me about haiku and tea ceremonies. He complimented me and told me I was beautiful. Just like a best friend would do. Only I was too blind to see the real Owen. He left Illinois knowing that I didn’t know him at all.
I cried until I had no more tears. I would leave Okinawa as soon as I could make the arrangements. I texted Rose and she called me.
“What are you talking about? You’re leaving?”
I told Rose the story. All of it. My love for Owen, his hot and cold treatment of me in his fort, my fascination with Japan that was spurred by Owen, my fantasy of finding him and being adults in love in Japan, of learning right before I moved that he’d tried to commit suicide in Aokigahara, and meeting his brother, my coworker, from a fancy Tokyo family and learning that Owen is gay. I heard Rose exhale.
“Wow. That’s some story. I can’t believe you never told me anything.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d think I was ridiculous.”
“It was a crush,” she said, gently, which made tears spring back into my eyes. “I know you thought it was more, that it felt like more.”
I had never thought of it as a crush. My feelings for Owen had been real. I had loved him. Even though I hadn’t known him for long, our moments together were locked in my memory, emotionally laden, more real than any other relationship I’d had.
“Owen is a near-perfect memory,” she pressed. “Nothing in the real world can compete. You’ll be disillusioned by everything and everyone. You have to let him go.” I didn’t know what to say. She continued. “Did you tell him you loved him?”
“Yes.” And there it was, the new emotional twist that had stabbed at my gut since I learned the truth. He knew I loved him and yet he still tried to kill himself. My love couldn’t have saved him.
“Having a crush is sweet, Lucy. You’re sweet. But you have to let him go,” she repeated.
I stared out my window at a careening seagull, floating up and around in circles. I inhaled several deep breaths. Then I promised Rose I would try to let Owen go. And I told her about all that had been going on, the upskirt assault, Hisashi’s disappointment in me after my courtroom outburst, the growing street protests and my chance to participate in a big, meaningful story.
“So, you’ll stay in Japan, then,” she said, more of a statement than a question.
“I was thinking of going to Suicide Forest. I just want to see the place.”
“So, you’re staying.”
Another thread fell loose from my heart. Right then I decided I would stay. I was a gaijin, a stranger in a foreign land, isolated and lonely and afraid. But I would stick it out, get through this terrible time, grow up and follow through with my commitments. It was my first adult decision ever, though I’d been playing at being an adult for years.
During the night I dreamed about the time Owen held my hand and kissed me so his mother would see. In my dream she was angry and ugly, some distorted version of the proud, loving mother I’d met. Owen’s father was in my dreams too, or maybe it was Ashimine-san, a small, dark figure with slumped shoulders, pointing a finger at me. I woke up in the morning with bleary eyes and a pounding heart.
I knew I had to go to work and face the music, whatever the fall-out would be from my outburst in court. Would local media really seize on a statement made by an American nobody in a small, unknown court case? Had there even been reporters present? I showered and tried to wash the stress and sadness out of my face. I dreaded facing Hisashi, prayed he wouldn’t be there.
I drove past the protestors and it was clear the size of the crowd had grown. They chanted and waved their signs and as I turned off of Kadena Gate Street, there he was, the rock-wielding teen I’d seen before. I recognized his black boots and his youthful face. He swiveled my direction. I wasn’t certain, but I thought he recognized me. He raised his arm and made a fist, shook it in my direction and I hurried on.
At work, I huddled at my desk and poked at my university story, avoided talking to anyone. Kei, Jed and CeCe came in and out, but didn’t try to start a conversation with me. The day went by in a blur, with me fighting off tears. Rumiko shot me a concerned look. Amista was oblivious to me, concentrating on the rape story. I went over to her desk to ask what had happened at the press conference. She was too preoccupied to notice my swollen eyes.
The lawyers had made a statement saying that Stone must be convicted and put in prison for his crime. They refused to answer questions. At one point a group of Americans had stood up and yelled from the back of the press conference, “Stone is innocent!” They yelled five times in a row before the cops yanked them out of the room. Amista showed me her screen, images of the press conference disruption were already posted. The headlines said, “Americans Protest Press Conference,” and “Ishikori Lawyers Call for Justice.”
As we gathered our belongings to go home for the day, Amista said, “In court did you see the guy?” She stood close and spoke quietly, so no one could hear.
“No. He wasn’t there, just his lawyer. Three of us had to identify our underwear and that was it.”
“Lucy made her own protest statement,” Hisashi said, from behind us. He spoke in that comfortable, known-me-forever way he’d had when we first met. I stiffened; sure that his friendliness was some kind of ruse. I had no faith in my ability to read anyone anymore. He had yelled at me the day before and told me about Owen, and now he was acting cordial.
“I was too hard on you. I’m sorry,” he said. “I realize things have been difficult for you. I don’t blame you for lashing out. And look, I don’t know what happened between you and Owen.”
“I didn’t know he was gay.” I bit my lip so I wouldn’t start crying again.
“He was well-practiced at hiding it,” Hisashi said.
Amista had been listening and now her brow was wrinkled in concern. She came over and stood between us, eyed us in turn. “Sounds like both of you could use a break. Come to dinner at our house,” she said. “Lester is barbequing shrimp. You,” she said to Hisashi, “pick her up and bring her.”