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“And about what happened with Charlotte.”

March seemed to be relieved for a brief moment, as if he had been expecting more, but soon his lips thinned. “And what are your thoughts on all this?”

My stomach twisted into knots. I wanted this little interrogation game to stop,
now
. “March, I’m sorry, I know this was none of my business, and I shouldn’t have listened to these stories. I’m sure you had a good reason to leave those guys, and Charlotte—” My voice broke. “She . . . I can only imagine how you felt, how you still feel about what you had to do. It doesn’t change anything for me. I don’t think you’re gonna kill me or anything like that.”

I had no idea what Charlotte might have looked like when she had been alive. All I could picture when I thought of her was a charred body. The same charred body that I pictured when I thought of my mother
in our burning car. I wanted to be stronger than this and bear with his questions until he grew tired of tormenting me, but I couldn’t.

One tear, two tears.

Before I could stop myself, they were rolling freely down my cheeks, pooling at the tip of my nose like heavy pearls. There was a salty taste on my lips, and I wanted it all to be over. “I-I’m s-sorry!”

The cold mask that had been etched on his features for the past five minutes vanished, leaving an expression I had never seen on March’s face before—a combination of sadness, guilt, and worry that made him look almost vulnerable.

He rose and moved to kneel by my side, resting one of his forearms on my seat’s right armrest while his free hand touched my cheeks tentatively, wiping the tears there. He spoke in a soft voice. “Island, I’m a rather private person. I live alone, I don’t have many friends, and there’s nothing particularly glorious about my life, as you probably gathered from Kalahari’s stories.

“I don’t like being exposed, and I’ll make sure she understands that. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you; I apologize.”

“But you’ll stay friends with her, right?” I sniffed.

“Of course. Kalahari and I will have a frank discussion, and payback is on its way, but I know her. I know she meant well, and I suppose it won’t be the end of the world.” He smiled.

“Payback?”

“Do you know how long she’s been waiting for that crocodile bag Ilan ordered for her from Hermès?”

I shook my head in response.

“Seven months. Do you know when it will be completed and delivered?”

I shook my head again.

“Never. Some ‘asshat,’ as you would put it, had his PA inform the boutique that the order was canceled.” Now those eyes seemed positively
evil
.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at their antics. March was pissed, but not
too
pissed, and I felt damn relieved. Reflecting on what had happened, I took his hand without thinking. “Again, I’m sorry. You’re pretty strange, but you deserve to find someone who’ll make you happy, March, and I’m sure that will happen. That being said, I stand by my words: you’re an arrogant ass most of the time.”

His thumb wiped one last tear that had been outlining my jaw, and I shivered at the feeling of his fingers trailing across my skin, lingering one, maybe two seconds longer than needed.

“I used to think about Charlotte all the time, used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking of her . . . but I realize I no longer do,” March said wistfully.

I had no idea what to reply to such an intimate confession. In fact, I almost felt like I shouldn’t have heard it. He had, after all, said that he was a private person and didn’t like for people to pry into his life. Hoping to drop the issue, I got up from my seat with a weak smile. “I-I’ll go get myself something to drink.”

March moved, allowing me to reach the galley, and followed me, perhaps to get a glass for himself as well. Now, I think that at this point, I should mention that I don’t believe in fate, predestination, or whatever: I have my own theory, which involves trollish subatomic particles ganging up to push you into awkward situations. In any case, those particles did their job—or maybe it was just air pockets. As I grabbed a bottle of mineral water in the mini fridge, the plane started to shake and undulate on the dark clouds, up and down like a fairground ride. I stumbled backward in a fit of panic, my shoulders hitting the galley’s plywood wall, and March lunged to steady me.

There was that feeling of the plane swaying, the water bottle rolling on the gray carpet a few feet away from us, and I could no longer think. March’s body was pressed against mine, flattening me against the wall, and he had bent a little, his face inches from mine. I could smell him,
the mints, his faint laundry scent, and I didn’t dare to look up because his chin was brushing against my forehead.

He remained silent.

I listened to his peaceful breathing and squeezed the sleeves of his shirt with trembling hands, as if he had been the only thing that kept me steady.

He shifted, and on my temple, the rough touch of the stubble on his chin was replaced by a much softer one, that of his lips.

That damn bottle was still rolling around, the water inside hitting the plastic walls with faint sloshing sounds, and my head was spinning in tune with its movements. When his fingers tilted my chin upward, I had no choice but to look him in the eyes; their dark, mesmerizing blue reminded me a lot of what had happened in the car. Gone was the calm confidence: all I could read was confusion, as if he himself wasn’t certain what was happening.

Okay, this was definitely like in the car.

March’s lips brushed mine for the first time since we had met, one of his hands pulling me closer while the other steadied me against the wall.

The kiss itself wasn’t wild—I gathered from Kalahari’s flowery confessions that he wasn’t exactly the volcano type, regardless of how worked up he was—and he seemed a little hesitant at first. Once he had found his bearings, though, he proved to be a smooth criminal, patiently waiting for an opportunity to make it past the enemy lines.

I’m afraid my own performance was probably underwhelming, but I prefer to remember it as some super passionate and sensual demonstration. I mean, I didn’t turn my head away when I felt his tongue dart at my lips, which made for considerable progress. I just closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and let March take the lead, allowing him to conduct a meticulous exploration of recesses usually reserved for toothbrushes and chocolate cake. I did try to kiss him back a little, but my timing never seemed to be quite right, so when our teeth collided for the second time, I gave up on that and simply held on to him for dear life.

I almost wished I had been in a state to formulate rational thinking, because there was so much to learn and file from that first proper French kiss: the strange, mineral taste of saliva, the flavor of the mints, and so many improbable nerve connections I had never heard about. Was it even normal to feel it all the way down to your breasts when someone tickled the roof of your mouth?

March eventually slowed down on the whole tonguing business—perhaps to breathe—but it took him a little while to fully let go of my lower lip. Not that it made much of a difference: I was in such a state of daze that I actually forgot to close my mouth. I stood there, still pressed against him, my fingers gripping his arms, lips parted in a silent O. His right hand cupped my cheek, and with a tender smile, March delicately brought my jaw up, manually closing my mouth after that complete system breakdown.

When the magnitude of the incident finally registered in my neurons, it took thirty more seconds of frantic blinking before I was able to form a complete sentence.

“You kissed me.”

Nobel Prize–level scientific conclusions, people!

“I did.”

“Isn’t that kind of a big deal?” My voice broke, and I must have sounded a little distressed by this turn of events, but in truth, I was more unnerved by his apparent cool. I pushed him away weakly, my arms and legs little more than sticks of jelly. I could no longer meet his eyes, so I focused on a fascinating point on the carpet.

Above me, he sighed. “This is going too fast.”

My gaze jerked back to March. That had been no question, rather an affirmation. He still had that same peaceful expression, and there was a knowing glint in his eyes, which almost made me want to contradict him for the sake of it. But he was right. It was too early for me to put words on whatever twisted bond was forming between us, and March was quickly filling my chart with things I wasn’t entirely certain I was ready for.

Outside, the sky was almost dark on one side of the plane, while on the other side, a fiery sunset painted the clouds with vivid orange and pink hues. We were chasing daylight. The plane would land in Tokyo in late morning, and if I didn’t sleep during the flight, I’d spend the day like a zombie.

“Maybe I’ll try . . . to get some rest before we land.”

“Excellent idea.” He nodded, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as we returned to our seats. “We have a long day ahead of us, and if I recall, well, I still owe you a romance-book date.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Perhaps this is where we should start.”

I looked up at him as I sat back and reclined my seat until it was in sleep position, trying to figure the appropriate response. Was there even an official term for the stage of March’s and my . . . proceedings?

Curling to my side, I watched him leave to retrieve a cover from one the galley’s closets. He came back and draped it over me with a smile that made my chest tingle. As he moved to return to his own seat, I grabbed his hand, holding him back. “March . . . how does it work? Do we trust each other now?” I whispered.

There was the same blend of tenderness and confusion in his voice that I had witnessed in his eyes before. “I’m afraid so, Island.”

TWENTY-THREE

The Ice Coffee

“
Love is all-powerful, limitless, blind,
Roger thought. Yes, his love was blind to the fact that Bernadette was, in fact, a man and his long-lost half brother, Bernard.”

—Dany Butters,
Last Tango in Louisville

If you don’t mind, the official version will be that I landed the jet in Chōfu Airport, which is almost true. Ekaterina let me sit in the empty seat on her right and pull the landing gear lever—a decision March expressed considerable concern over. Don’t worry, the gear worked fine, and my story doesn’t end with a gruesome plane crash on the tarmac of a small regional airport in Japan.

Even though we didn’t get arrested or anything, I doubted I’d ever get used to showing people a fake passport, and I wondered how March could be so relaxed about the whole thing. The huge black case drew some attention to us as we crossed the lobby, and I was extremely relieved when he retrieved the keys for a brown Honda SUV from some high-end car rental counter. After a brief struggle with yet another scumbag foldable backseat—I thought it was me, but that day,
I discovered that foldable backseats truly fear no one, not even guys like March—both black mystery cases had been stored in the back. In no time we were driving down the Chūō Expressway in the direction of Tokyo, under a heavy rain.

I hadn’t traveled to Japan since my last year in Columbia. Back then I had spent six months interning for a big French bank’s local branch to develop an intranet application for HR as my end degree project. So, first post-Fukushima visit, you could say. Not much had changed—in Tokyo anyway—and as I looked at the dense traffic and ad-covered buildings through my window, I was filled with a pleasant sense of familiarity.

We were entering Minami-Shinjuku, in the west of Tokyo, when March’s phone started buzzing in his pocket. The slight twitch in his jaw was self-explanatory. He had forgotten to install the hands-free kit—proof he was terribly distracted—and had qualms about taking a phone call while driving.

“Do you want me to pick up and plug in your headphone?” I offered, though I didn’t expect him to accept.

“Yes, thank you.”

I was pretty surprised, to say the least, but I collected myself and pulled the phone and a pair of tiny earplugs out of his inner pocket, careful not to touch his arms, or the wheel. “It’s . . . ‘0’,” I informed him, looking at the single number displayed on the screen in guise of a contact name.

He nodded for me to pick it up.

“Mr. May’s office, how may I help you?” I announced.

A sultry female voice answered me with a laugh. “Oh my, have I been replaced? I liked this job!”

“Oh my God! You’re Phyllis!” I chirped.

Next to me, I heard him cough. “Oh, yeah, sorry! Seems like I don’t have the right to talk to you. I’ll just pass you to March.”

“Thank you, Miss Chaptal. I look forward to hearing more of you when the circumstances will allow it.”

I was tempted to tell her that it was unlikely, but I didn’t want to hijack March’s call, so I plugged in the headphones and placed one in his ear. I know it’s silly, but the brief proximity we experienced as I touched his ear and the soft chestnut hair surrounding it gave me a pleasant little chill.

He made sure nearly nothing transpired of their exchange. All I learned was that she was the one who had arranged the car rental, as well as a hotel in Roppongi Hills. I could tell she had said something else, though, because at some point during the conversation he listened to her in complete silence for almost a whole minute, his brow knitted in an expression of displeasure before answering her. “I thought so. I’ve already taken additional measures.”