Page 164 of Gates of Tartarus

“Yeah?” I reply cautiously.

“You know what day it is?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll see you in a bit.”

I have decisions to make.

???

The hotel where we’re staying temporarily is a cold, sanitized luxury which I’m unused to. Everything is open and barren, long, marble rectangles of emptiness. Even the dining room is angular, squares and stones and unfilled spaces. The emotionless architecture is echoed in the vacant faces of the patrons mindlessly scrolling through their phones and drinking lukewarm coffee.

I don’t even need to scan the dining room to know where he is. There is a funeral sadness, bleak and cold, in the far corner. I walk over and place a sundae in front of Hideo, who looks up in surprise. Sitting across from him, I perch uncomfortably on the edge of the seat, unable to relax.

“It’s your birthday,” I begin awkwardly, shrugging slightly. “Tradition.”

He stares down at the ice cream in front of him like it holds a question, or an answer, and he can’t tell which but is afraid to ask. He settles on reaching forward and nervously adjusting the dish and spoon, looking for something to do with his hands.

“I didn’t think we were doing it this year,” he says quietly. “I had assumed we weren’t. Given the... given what’s happened.”

I sigh deeply, looking anywhere but at Hideo directly. The year we met, the first year we were partners, I’d baked him a set of small cakes, really went all out. He had had to take off a couple of weeks to get his mom moved to a care home – she’d developed Alzheimer’s a few years before, and they’d waited as long as possible to move her, Deo paying for a nurse during the day, then taking care of her at night. She was his only living parent, and I remember being impressed by the care and dedication he showed her. He’d cracked a little when he put her in the home, feeling, I think, like he had failed her, but she needed more help than he could give. It was just cruel fate that it had happened days before his birthday. The day she went to the care facility was also the last day she remembered Deo completely – and he always felt guilty about that. Like sending her had erased his memory from her mind. After that point she’d had brief points of recognizing him, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t what it had been.

He’d told me, in a quiet moment at work when we were waiting for something or other at the courthouse, that this would be the first year his mom hadn’t made him cakes – every year since he’d been born, she made him the same small four manju cakes with red bean, matcha, orange, and yuzu fillings. He was so sad when he said it – it was a passing thought, but a powerful one, like he knew that his childhood was gone, completely. So on the way home that night I’d stopped at an Asian market and picked up the kudzu, the rice, the flour, and the fillings. I’d struggled over the unfamiliar recipe – they were neat little bun cakes that needed to be steamed, and since I’d never had one and had no idea how they were supposed to taste, it had taken several tries to get it right. But by his birthday I had four perfect little cakes, had even put the little manju cake character on top. I was ridiculously proud of myself and really eager to give them to Deo.

When we’d sat down for lunch that day I’d presented him immediately with the box, shining with excitement, but when he’d opened it, a strange, funny expression crossed his face.

“These... didyoumake these?” he’d asked.

Nodding, I said, “Yes. And I don’t mind telling you they took me for-freaking-ever, but I think they’re right?” I looked at him anxiously, and he smiled at me then, such a perfect, beautiful smile, full of such a symphony of emotion it was impossible to pick just one out.Everythingwas in that smile. And he’d picked up and eaten every single cake, nodding in appreciation. “The matcha is just like Mom made it,” he said, eyes glossy. “The yuzu is so sharp. The red beans are exactly like a traditional manju. The orange just like I grew up with.”

When he’d finished, he’d looked at me with such considering eyes, then reached forward and taken my hands in his. “Thank you, Kailani,” he said, so sweetly, so truly grateful for my gesture.

But I, who had watched him take every bite through the eyes of someone falling in love, had noticed something as he’d eaten. “Hideo,” I asked. “Do you evenlikemanju?”

He jerked slightly, an adorable, guilty look crossing his face, clearly looking for the correct answer, and said cautiously, “Yeeees. I just feel bad about your going through so much effort. You don’t have to do that again.”

“Hideo…” I said warningly.

He threw his hands up in the air and groaned, clearly coming to a decision. “No, Kai. I’m so sorry. Ihatemanju. I’m so sorry. I really appreciate the gesture, and I’m so touched, but… how did you know?”

“I watched you eat them and every time you took a bite it was like you were steeling yourself for battle. Plus, I ate some last night and I’m sorry, I just don’t get the appeal. Why did you eat them?” I asked, half laughing.

“They reminded me of Mom. I hated eating them every year, but she thought I loved them – I don’t know how she’d gotten that into her head – she wouldn’t let anyone else eat any of them. ‘I only make them once a year’ she’d say, ‘leave them for my Hideo; they’re his favorite.’ And then I’d have to eat them all. I couldn’t tell her. I just couldn’t. She loved to do that for me. So I kind of looked at it like I was proving my love for my Mom. I’d tell myself eating those cakes was a sign of how much I loved her. I loved her even more than I hated manju, and even if she never knew,Iknew. I’d eat the manju, she’d be happy, and I’d dream of American ice-cream sundaes. Not mochi or anything, but real American ice cream with all the stuff on it. My parents would never let us have it for some reason. I was never sure why, but all the sweets in our house were always Japanese or Brazilian. I think their palates just never adjusted to the American desserts.”

“Why didn’t youtellme?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Christ, you probably thought this year you’d finally escape the manju.” The hilarity of the situation struck me suddenly, and I started laughing, loud, rolling laughter, with tears running down my face, breath catching as I tried to speak. “Oh my God, Deo,” I’d barely gotten out, “your face… when you opened the box…”

He grinned, which quickly turned to laughter, the rare, musical sound washing over me, lighting me up from the inside.

“Why on earth did youeatthem, Deo?” I roared with laughter, trying to calm down as people walking by us shot strange looks in our direction. “I mean, I get it with your mom, but why didn’t you just... not eat them with me?”

He looked at me, eyes crinkled at the corners, sharp mouth wide, and his laughter settled, though his smile remained. “I guess... I guess I wanted to prove something to myself this time, too.”

The air stilled between us, laughter falling away to silence, and we both stared down at the little box in front of him, now empty, neither of us knowing quite what to say.

“Come on,” I’d said finally, grabbing his hand, “we’re going for ice cream.”

Half an hour later both of us had magnificent, ridiculously enormous sundaes withallthe toppings in front of us. He’d tried to protest at first, saying he really only wanted a plain hot fudge, but I leveled a look at him and he went all out. A proper banana-split sundae the size of my head was in front of him, with three different types of ice cream and three different sauces, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. Mine was slightly more simple – a Pink Elephant – which was a peppermint ice-cream sundae with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry. I immediately popped the cherry in my mouth and smiled, and Deo smiled with me, through his first bite of ice cream.

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