Page 54 of Waters that Drown Us
“Remember the place with the sweet chili tofu?” I ask, my stomach growling as if on cue. The corner of Emily’s mouth lifts as she puts the car in gear.
“You got it.”
She navigates through the heavy traffic as I people-watch through the window. As much as the noise of a big city is overwhelming, I’ve loved observing the world around me in a new way. Instead of looking for my father or Ilya in a crowd, I let myself soak in everything I’ve missed before. The outfits people wear, the advertisements on the train, the neon lights of signs and displays. It’s likely because I know there’s someone—or quite a few someones, an entire network of someones—protecting me. But for the first time in half a decade, I don’t feel like I’m on alert. I justlive.
“Good lesson today?” Emily asks, the same question she’s posed after my last two. I tap my fingernails against my viola case, tucked between my feet.
“Harder today, but that’s a good thing,” I reply, recalling the uncomfortable but rewarding feeling of being pushed, of Nobuko demanding more of me, and meeting that challenge. The helium fills my chest again.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” she whispers, and I know she means it. She was worried that playing again would be too difficult for me, or that I’d have a reaction similar to when I firstsaw the viola in the window of the pawn shop. I was, too. But after the initial shock waned, all I could feel was an unending desire to play more, to be better, to remember. I practice far more diligently than I ever did as a girl.
The drive is quiet, like it often is, and it’s almost an hour before we get back to the neighborhood my temporary home is in. Emily parks in a small lot behind the restaurant I now recognize, and is out of the car and opening my door for me before I can even get my seatbelt off.
She doesn’t hold my hand, because I haven’t asked her to. She doesn’t touch me unless I initiate it, even platonically. She’s kept her promise to let me choose, whenever choice is possible.
“Same thing as last time?” Emily asks when we’re seated in a low-lit booth at the back of the restaurant. The waiter responded to most of our questions in English, regardless of the language we asked them in, smiling kindly and placing transcribed menus in front of us. Neither of us are fluent in Japanese, and mine is certainly worse than Emily’s, but Bea has given us some basic lessons the few times I’ve seen her. Like when she magically turned up at the apartment with everything I left behind in Oregon, plus some new clothes and toiletries. Or the evening when she showed up to ask me about whales.
“I think so, but I liked the eggplant you got too,” I ruminate, flipping the menu over and scanning my options. Emily will likely order both for me, and then tell me it’s better left over anyway, and demand I take the to-go boxes home.
It’s odd, knowing some parts of a person so well, while completely in the dark about others.
When the waiter returns to take our order, Emily wordlessly confirms she can order for me before requesting a small feast of options.
She’s trying. Every day, I can see it. Little moments and big ones where she defers to me, asks for my opinion, prioritizes my feelings.
I forgave her a while ago. Probably the moment I realized she was wholeheartedly planning on abdicating The Syndicate for me. But the opportunity to build this quiet little world of trust and gentleness between us, when we’re surrounded by endless chaos and violence, has been too good to give up.
The restaurant is fairly empty, and a few of the patrons seem familiar. Probably the Syndicate spies contracted to keep tabs on me. Still, I know better than most that eyes and ears live in the shadows.
Which is why I lean in close, my chest pressed against the thick wood of the table.
“I would like to know more.”
Emily’s eyes scan my face, centimeter by centimeter. She does this a lot, and I’m not always sure what she’s looking for. Sometimes I think she may be looking at me for the hell of it.
“How much more?” she asks, taking a careful sip of her water. I place my hands beneath my knees so I won’t drum my fingers nervously.
“More than you can tell me, probably.”
Three weeks doesn’t seem long, but in a world like Emily’s, I know time moves quickly. I’ve cooperated with Clara and the rest of her family’s inquisition so far, but I know that’s only the beginning.
During one of her late-night visits, Bea explained my options. I knew too much about The Syndicate to ever fully be free of them. But I could decide I didn’t want to walk their path of vengeance toward my father. They would set me up somewhere with a normal job in a normal city, and while I’d forever be under their surveillance, I would barely notice their existence. I’d be protected, but separated. Safe, but alone.
Or, I could join them. When I asked Bea what that entailed, she had been purposefully and infuriatingly vague.I think that’s up to you, she had mused, eating the last of my crackers and leaving crumbs on my counter.You, and perhaps Emily.
“There are…” she trails off, her eyes darting through the shadows of the restaurant. “There are degrees to this, in a way. Depending on how involved you want to be. How much you trust us.”
She saysus, but I know she meansme. Her expression is filled with such trepidation. Hope and caution in equal measure swim in her eyes as she places her hands flat on the table, palms down. Like she’s searching for stability.
Emily lied to me, many times. But she did it for the people she loves. And when I lay in my bed at night and wonder if her lies are too much to overcome, I think about the moment Ilya dragged her limp, battered body in front of me. How I lied through my teeth to save her, telling him she was no one, a researcher who meant nothing to me, in the slimmest hope that he would spare her.
And I imagine far worse things I would say and do for her. For the only person I love.
“What do Gwen and Deniz know?” I ask, phrasing the question like one of the deadpan comments we used to trade on our early days on the research boat. Clara can’t hide the shock that flashes across her face before she composes herself. Still, even in that laid back, ultra-confident demeanor I’ve come to love so much, it’s clear how much my words mean to her.
“I imagine just about everything Charlie and Clara do,” she replies, picking up her glass and sliding her leg against mine so my calf rests on her shin. Without a second thought, I pop my legs up under the table, crossing my ankles over her knee and leaning back against the padded booth.
“Then let’s start with everythingyouknow.”