I itch to take the globe he holds, set it back on the shelf. “I prefer original. They were all I wanted, for birthdays, Easter, Christmas.”

“Why?”

I don’t know. “Just a weird kid thing.” Thomas returns the globe. I reach out, adjusting it so it matches the others.

Thomas asks, “Why’d you tell Hana I’m your boyfriend?”

“She might not have let you in otherwise. Mom isn’t a fan of the fake news. Obviously, you’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Obviously. Your mom is Japanese.”

I smile. “Obviously.”

“Your dad?”

“White as snow. They can tell you their love story over dinner. It’s more of a merger.”

“Are you okay?”

He’s pretty good at acting like he cares. “Why wouldn’t I be? My parents lost their influence on my life a long time ago.”

“How’s it feel to be here?”

“Like a snake trying to fit into the skin I shed years ago.”

His eyes pin mine. “She lied about the plane crash.”

Acid pools inside my gut. When was the last time I took an antacid? “She has no reason to lie.”

Thomas asks, “If she did, do you want to know why?”

The color of Thomas’s eyes reminds me of the hungry wave, castle, and mysterious treasure.

“Sylvie? Do you want to know?” Thomas presses.

I tell the truth. “I’m not sure.”

SEVENTEEN

Thomas

Downstairs a deep male voice calls, “Hon?”

Hana replies, “In the kitchen.”

“I guess we should go down. See him,” Sylvie says. She runs a hand through her hair, twists it into a bun, pulls it down, pinches color into her cheeks, then blows out a few times, like she’s psyching herself up for a race. “C’mon, boyfriend. If you thought tea was fun, this’ll be a riot.”

She looks so uncomfortable that I almost feel sorry for her. I suggest, “Let’s leave Chris in the room so she isn’t hit by shrapnel.”

“Good idea.” Sylvie sets a large, yellow-striped pillow with tassels on the window seat. “At least she can look out the window.”

“I didn’t choose to make her an indoor cat.” Why would I care that she knows that?

Sylvie asks, “Who did?”

“We lived in a city—lots of cars—but my mom really had her declawed to protect the furniture, even though it was always covered.” I place Chris on the pillow. She’s lighter than she should be, a collection of bones covered in fur. She hasn’t eaten since last night and can’t afford to lose any more weight.

“We’ll bring her rice with lots of butter,” Sylvie says.

It’s not like she read my mind—obviously I’m worried. I almost tell her that Chris won’t eat it, but instead hope she’s right. “Do I . . . am I wearing the right clothes?” I’m in jeans, a red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, and Blundstone boots.

Sylvie looks me up and down. “You look good, boyfriend. Let’s go meet Dad. Word of warning, don’t ask for my hand in marriage until he’s had a few beers.”