Page 93 of The Dragon 1
“I believe you’re correct.”
I let that thought linger between us, the kind of raw truth that asked not to be fixed but simply seen.
The shamisen’s mournful notes drifted around us like silk, softening the edges of our pain.
We were two children of strong fathers and silenced mothers, trying to decide what kind of adults we wanted to be.
My fingers brushed the rim of my sake cup. “Thank you for telling me that. There aren’t many people who would.”
“I don’t usually talk about my mother,” she admitted.
“Then, I feel special. Thank you even more.” I picked up my cup of sake and lifted it between us. “To music and memory.”
She mirrored me. “And to mothers.”
Stunned, I smiled. “Yes, and to mothers.”
We drank.
For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to drink with her every night. To tell her things I’d never shared with anyone else. To let her sit across from me for the rest of my life, fire in her eyes and strength in her bones.
The shamisen shifted tempo and his hands danced faster along the strings making the sound rise within the wind and along the blossoms.
I watched Nyomi watch him. Her mouth slightly parted. Her expression soft and thoughtful.
She didn’t understand how devastating she was.
That’s what undid me the most.
Not just her beauty.
But herunawarenessof her power over me.
The purity of her confidence.
The way she walked into this garden like she didn’t know she would wreck me for other women.
Maybe she didn’t.
But I did.
She lifted her cup and took another sip of the sake. Her throat moved with a quiet grace that made my hands twitch. Then, she set the cup down, leaned slightly closer, and for a breathless second, the scent of plum intensified—warm, ripe, and devastating.
I told myself not to move.
I didn’t listen.
I reached my hand out and my fingers found hers on the table—just a brush, the faintest graze of knuckle to knuckle.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
So I kept going.
I let my fingertips trail along the back of her hand—slow. . .as if I were tracing a path across something sacred.
Her skin was warm silk.
