Page 5

FIVE

CHARLOTTE

“Are you even listening to me?” Theo asks through a mouthful of food. It’s a wonder he can talk, since he’s shoveling eggs into his mouth like it’s a competition.

“No.” I rub my eyes, careful not to ruin my makeup. “As I’ve already told you, I need more coffee before I can listen to you.”

Lucas looks up from his phone and chuckles but leaves it at that. It’s too early for conversation for everyone but Theo. It took a plane, a train, and an automobile to get to the race in Japan, and jet lag is kicking my arse. Considering I can barely form a coherent thought, let alone sentence, I have no idea how they’ll handle being interviewed in less than an hour.

“I thought you were being sarcastic.” He forks another bite of his omelet. It’s so loaded with veggies that it could probably qualify as a garden. Access to a private chef—who makes preapproved meals for the drivers, each one meticulously planned out by their performance coaches—is a major perk and one that I’m definitely taking advantage of.

I swallow back most of my crankiness. “I don’t joke about coffee. ”

Especially not at six fucking a.m .

He shrugs. “What are you doing today?”

“Sightseeing,” I say vaguely with a dismissive wave. “Touristy things.”

“Wow. Spare me the details, why dontcha?”

I take another sip of my coffee. “You know me, Theodore. I’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, because that’s worked out so well for you in the past,” he teases.

Regardless of the lighthearted tone, the words still bring my insecurities to the surface. Making and following a plan has never been my forte. Hell, I changed majors three times and took nearly five years to graduate from college. I’m rarely obstinate or contrary. Planning has just never been one of my strengths.

“I’m jealous,” Lucas says, his voice raspy from sleep. “I swear every minute of our day is planned for us. It’s got to be nice to explore without any agenda.”

“To each their own, I guess,” Theo says to his friend before zeroing in on me. “Will you share your location with me so I know where you are?”

Oh, hell no . There is no way I’ll allow Theo access to my whereabouts at all times. He already takes “big brother” way too far. Being nine years older than me, he already thinks he has a say in what I do, even though we haven’t lived in the same city, let alone house, full time since I was five years old.

“You had my location, but not hers?” Lucas straightens, his lips pressing into a white slash. “What the fuck, Walker?”

“Why did you say had instead of have ?” Theo gasps and drops his fork. “Did you remove me as a follower?”

“Yup,” Lucas replies, head high and unremorseful. “I have no interest in listening to your thoughts on where and how I spend my time.”

Sipping my coffee, I study both men. Lucas usually has the patience of a saint when it comes to my brother, so watching them bicker is pure entertainment for me. They go back and forth for another minute before I step in and say, “Mum has my location. You don’t need it, too, Theodore.”

“What’s Mum going to do if there’s a dire emergency? She’s a ten-hour flight away.”

He has a point. Not that I’ll admit it. That’ll only fuel the flames. My brother’s overprotective intentions may come from a good place, but fuck if they aren’t intrusive at times.

An idea forms in my mind, and nerves skitter through me. Bouncing my legs beneath the table, I blurt out, “Um… I’ll share my location with Lucas.”

The second the words are out, I wish I could suck them back in. Talk about intrusive. Damn . Why would Lucas want my location? He may like me, but in the grand scheme of things, I’m just Theo’s younger sister, a fact his manager aptly pointed out. I open my mouth, scrambling to come up with a way to backtrack, but before I can, Lucas simply shrugs.

“Sure,” he agrees. “That way if Theo needs to know where you are, he can ask me rather than stalk you.”

“I wasn’t stalking you, Adler,” Theo says with what I’m sure he thinks is an intimidating scowl. “Sorry for being a caring friend who wants what’s best for you.”

Usually, I’d be nosy as hell and try to get to the bottom of their little bromantic lovers’ quarrel, but it’s too early for sleuthing, and it’s better that I leave while Theo’s attention is set on something other than me.

Standing, I swallow the final dregs of my coffee, savoring the bittersweet flavor. “It’s been lovely, gentleman, but I’m off. People to see, things to do, and all that.”

“You’re not going to wish us luck at practice?” Lucas asks with a playful smirk, fingers drumming against the table.

Shaking my head, I wink. “That implies I think you need it. ”

I explore Suzuka for a grand total of forty-three minutes before I end up on a train to Osaka. I blame the tourists I met in line at a local café. Yes, I headed straight from breakfast to a nearby café. One cup of coffee wasn’t going to cut it. I was simply minding my own business, waiting to order, when I overheard the couple behind me chatting about their recent day trip. It’s not eavesdropping if they’re talking that loudly . I shifted so I could hear better, and as I did, I caught sight of the woman’s pants. I gasped like Taylor Swift had dropped an Easter egg about her next album because the pants were to die for. Not literally, but I’d consider selling a kidney for them. I only need one kidney to survive, right? The cargo pants embroidered with blooming cherry blossoms were a piece of art. So, coffee in hand, I headed for the train station, and before I arrived, I already knew how I wanted to style them.

The train ride to Osaka gives me ample time to research the top need-to-see attractions for tourists, so by the time I arrive, I have a general idea of how I want to spend the day.

Throughout the labyrinth of alleyways outside the station, vendors sell their wares from colorful stalls. Brightly decorated bicycles weave through the crowds, and tourists gawk and take photos of the vibrant street art that adorns every available surface. The air is alive with the savory aroma of street food—something a vendor calls takoyaki . Octopus isn’t my favorite type of seafood, but fried in a dumpling and covered in sauce? I can get behind that.

My first stop is obviously the boutique where the woman at the coffee shop purchased her pants. As I enter, I’m greeted with a wave of soft sandalwood incense and upbeat music. The interior is a study in contrast. Rustic wooden shelves adorned with handcrafted ceramics and pottery line the walls, along with a curated selection of contemporary streetwear brands .

It only takes a moment to spot the linen cherry blossom pants—and about ten other pieces I’d love to add to my closet (or suitcase, whatever). I waste no time loading my arms with potential purchases. I’ve never been good with numbers, but if what I know about the exchange rate from a Japanese yen to an Australian dollar is correct, these are a damn good deal.

Adjacent to the modern fashion section is an alcove housing a collection of silk kimonos in rich jewel tones. They hang delicately from wooden stands to highlight the intricate patterns and embroidery so there’s no mistaking the artistry that went into each one. These aren’t mass-produced fast-fashion kimonos, but individually handcrafted. Drawn to them, I brush my fingers against the rustle of the silk. It’s incredible. This kind of work is tedious and time-consuming. I have a few rough spots on my fingers from the needle pricks I accumulated when I learned how to sew, thanks to my habit of losing thimbles.

I leave the store with the pants I came for, two kimonos, a new skirt, and directions to a local vintage store. As I stroll along the street, taking in the sights and smells, my phone rings in my purse. When I pull it out and see that it’s my mum, I can’t help but smile. The flight time between Australia and Japan may be long, but the time difference itself is only an hour.

“Hi, Mum,” I answer, eager to tell her about my finds. “You’ll never guess what I just bought. Okay, maybe you can, but I’m impatient, so don’t bother. I found these beautiful handcrafted kimonos in a store in Osaka, so I bought one for each of us. Yours is emerald, with patchwork designs and embroidered butterflies that represent hope. I think. It may be good luck. I’ll have to look it up later. The shopkeeper told me about this vintage shop nearby, and I’m headed there now.”

“Well, hello to you, too, Charlotte,” she says, her tone amused. While Theo’s always called me Lottie, my mom never has. “Did you say you were in Osaka?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t the race in Suzuka?”

“Also yes.”

A brief moment of silence passes before she bursts out laughing. My mom has one of those ridiculously contagious laughs that has me grinning like an idiot as I continue my trek. “You always did have an adventurous spirit.”

I snort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Thank you for thinking of me, honey. I’m sure the kimono is beautiful,” she says, her voice warming me from thousands of miles away. “Where are you off to now?”

“A vintage store.”

“Oh,” she practically squeals. “I’m sure that’ll be a treasure trove. I still wear that jumper you reworked for me and get compliments on it all the time.”

“Mum, no,” I groan, a wave of embarrassment washing over me. “It should be illegal for you to leave the house in that.”

Growing up, I constantly had bolts of fabric, sketches, and sewing equipment cluttered around the house. I’ve always loved taking vintage clothing items and accessories and turning them into new and unique pieces.Over the years, I’ve had many hobbies, from scrapbooking to gardening to photography, but fashion design has always been my true passion. I planned to study it at university, but then my dad passed, and I chose to stay close to home, attending a university where the nearest fashion-adjacent degree was photography.

The jumper my mum’s referring to—if it can even be called that—was one of the first things I upcycled, and it shows. The stitching on the thrifted dress I reworked into a cardigan is lopsided, the pattern atrocious. It resembles a garment created from spare linens sometime in the 1800s .

“It’s beautiful,” she argues in a tone that brooks no argument. “I’m allowed to be proud of you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

It’s both endearing and exasperating, how she sees the value in the smallest aspects of my life. “Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But don’t be surprised if someone asks you to churn their butter the next time you wear it.”

We catch up for the rest of my walk, and I end the call with a promise to send her a photo of the kimono when I’m back in my hotel room. If I hadn’t been looking for the vintage shop, I probably would have passed right by it. The storefront is plain, and the wooden door opens with the faint jingle of a bell.

Grinning, I take in the highly curated shelves and racks. I love a good treasure hunt, but the lack of disorganized piles of clothing and bins filled with nondescript items is a relief. As I spot a pair of pre-loved vintage Chanel trousers, I know I need to check the train times again because I won’t be leaving anytime soon.