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“Hey? Is everything okay?” My fingertips go under his chin to read his expression.
“I just want things to go good today.” Enzo moves his face away from my hold. “They have to go good.” I don’t know if I have ever seen Enzo this frustrated. Except if we count the time we met and he had a horrible argument with his ex-girlfriend.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
Enzo smiles at me from the side, but he doesn’t answer the question.
The car drops us off at the curb, and I step onto the sidewalk. His childhood home is covered in red brick and white-trimmed windows. The neighborhood is alive, and I welcome the noise as a warm greeting. I wait for Enzo to lead the way; I don’t try to engage in any further conversation with him under distress.
We stand in front of the door for two minutes before he knocks. I slip my hands onto his waist and relax into him. My boyfriend takes one hand and covers one of mine. He turns his head over as I lift my head.
“I love you.” I swear he says it like he needs me to understand everything he can’t say. “Please remember that.” Enzo rubs my hand, and before I can respond, his fist is banging on the door.
Another guy who looks like Enzo, shorter with a darker complexion, opens the door.
“Why are you banging on the door like the S.W.A.T. team about to bust in on our ass?”
“Kage, nice to see you are still a little shit.” Enzo’s voice changes to rough confidence.
“Kenzo, glad to know you are still a prick.” Enzo’s brother walks away before I can come out of hiding.
The door is left open, and yet we still stand outside of the townhouse.
“There is still time to leave. We still have a chance to escape.” Enzo speaks it under his breath, but I don’t think he was saying it to me. He is struggling with arriving and leaving all in the exact second. I wonder why we came if he didn’t want to be here.
“ZoZo is home!” I hear the woman’s voice, and I know this is why he came, why his feet won’t allow him to leave. I see his short, sweet mother come to greet us.
I watch her small figure pulling down Enzo’s tall frame to hug him.
“Hi, Mama.” Enzo kisses her cheek, and I bet there is a smile on his face, just made for her.
“I was wondering when you would get here. I started the food an hour ago; I didn’t want it to get cold.” Food, thank the heavens, my stomach is grumbling for some homecooked meals. This trip is starting off great. “Have you ever had homemade gyoza before, Phoebe?”
Enzo moves to the side as I dip under his arm to show myself.
She knows my name; Enzo’s mother knows who I am. I shouldn’t be shocked by this we have been together for four years. But still, I am amazed.
“No, ma’am.”
“Why did your mother not make you any?” Enzo’s mother waits, confused why a Japanese woman like myself, no matter half or full, has not ever had the pleasure of eating Japanese homecooked meals. Like no matter the excuse, it will never justify why I haven’t taken it upon myself to educate my tastebuds.
“My mother is white, ma’am.” It is a piece of spinach stuck in my teeth most of the time when I tell people. An ugly reminder of who I was raised by.
Enzo’s mom nods her head, thinking about whether I am good enough for her son or not. Status update, I am not.
“Why,ma’am? Noma’amhere. Call me Mama or Kumiko.” She waves off my mother’s lineage as she moves to the side to let us inside the house before the heat gets better.
Two sisters come into the kitchen to hug their brother as we gather around the counter.
“Where is Dad?” Enzo asks his mom, and his mother turns her head to the side and points to the other room. Enzo nods back at her. “I’ll be back in a second, Phoebe. Are you okay to stay here with them?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” I sit on a barstool next to the food-covered plates.
“Where are you from?” Kumiko dips her hands in a small dish of egg and water mixture.
“Washington, Texas. Everywhere, all over.” I watch Enzo’s sisters put their heads down as they follow the pattern of their mother’s routine.
Dip the fingers, spread the liquid on the gyoza skin, fold the sides over the small ball of meat, and crimp the edges to ensure closure.
