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Back This Time Will Be Different Save as PDF
Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part I
  6. 3
  7. The History of My Beef with Brynn Foer-Preston
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part I
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part I
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part II
  20. 13
  21. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part II
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. The Complicated History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Imaginary Relationship with Her Nonexistent Dad
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part III
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. A Brief, Backward History of the McAllister Family, as Paraphrased from the San Jose Mercury News
  37. 26
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. A Quick and Eerily Relevant History of Asians in America
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. 34
  47. 35
  48. 36
  49. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part IV
  50. 37
  51. 38
  52. 39
  53. 40
  54. 41
  55. 42
  56. 43
  57. 44
  58. A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part II (Or Maybe It’s a Prequel)
  59. 45
  60. 46
  61. 47
  62. 48
  63. 49
  64. 50
  65. 51
  66. 52
  67. 53
  68. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part III
  69. 54
  70. A Note from the Author
  71. Index of Flowers and their Meanings
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. About the Author
  74. Praise for This Time Will Be Different
  75. Books by Misa Sugiura
  76. Back Ad
  77. About the Publisher

Stop it. Just stop it right now. I’m clearly delirious with gratitude for the ramen. I close my eyes and concentrate on the taste of the rich, salty pork broth and the chewy-crunchy texture of the bamboo shoots in my mouth.

And the buzz of my phone in my pocket.

Hey, wyd?

It’s Shane, texting from somewhere down south. That training camp thing starts tomorrow.

CJ: Eating takeout ramen at work after filling the world with hearts and flowers lol

Wbu?

S: Eating leftover Olive Garden pasta in a hotel room with my mom while she watches old movies on her iPad image

CJ: Sounds romantic image

S: Ya

Wish I was with you instead image

I sneak a glance at Owen, who’s busy draining the broth out of his ramen bowl. I don’t need to feel weird about texting with Shane in front of Owen. Owen and I are not a thing. Shane and I are not a thing, not really. I start texting a reply: So do I, then delete it, and type it, and delete it again.

“Who’re you texting?” Owen’s finished guzzling his broth and has evidently been watching me type, delete, type, delete. He leans over to see my phone, and I turn it off so he can’t see the screen. “Is it Emily? What’d she say?”

“No, it’s not Emily.”

“Then who is it?”

I start to say that it’s none of his business, but his nosiness irks me. As if he has any right, after being so secretive about what he, Emily, Sabrina, and Brynn did last weekend without me. Which reminds me that Emily is not here tonight, having offered the gossamer excuse that she “just felt like staying at home for some reason,” which I can’t help thinking means, “I don’t feel like hanging with you for some reason.” The resentment springs back to life, and I feel the need to spread it around. So I tell him, because I know it will bug him. “Shane.”

“Morgan?” I can hear a tiny splinter of annoyance in his voice. Score one for me.

“The one and only.”

Hannah knows about Shane, she’s made no secret of the fact that she still massively ships me and Owen. She doesn’t say anything or even look over at me, but I swear to God I can actually see her romance radar turn on, as if little invisible antennae have sprouted from her skull. She’s so alert with curiosity, she’s practically vibrating.

“What’d he say?”

I shrug. “Nothing worth talking about.”

“What’d you say?”

“Seriously?”

“It—”

“Oh my god, Owen, why do you care? Why the third degree?”

“Whoa, easy there, killer! I was just making conversation. No need to get defensive.” He’s smiling, but it’s fake, and I don’t even feel a little bit sorry. Now he knows how it feels to be curious, upset, and denied.