Page 25 of Make The Cut

“Why not?” Maybe once you’ve had sushi in Japan, every other place pales in comparison.

“It always reminds me of my dad.” He shrugs. “And that’s not a pleasant topic to consider.”

“Why not?” My heart speeds up. Is he about to tell me the secret behind his estrangement from his father?

“He, uh…” Naoya fiddles with the strap of his seat belt. “I found out he cheated on my mom.”

I suck in a deep breath, unsure of what to say. For all the drama encircling my siblings right now, at least I can say that none of it is probably the fault of our parents, who’ve had a cheesy, Hallmark-esque, loving, happy marriage for as long as I can remember. “I’m sorry.”

He scoffs. “It wasn’t your fault, Red. Unless you were a homewrecker twenty-some years ago.”

“Nope, maybe not, since I probably wasn’t even in utero then.” I try to keep my tone light, but I feel like he’s opening a door to a room that no one’s ever gotten to see before. Surely, that calls for something more than levity and joking. “I guess I’m sorry I brought it up, then.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

Silence percolates between us, brewing judgment and curiosity. Puzzle pieces, glimpses and snippets of his life that I’ve collected over the past seven years click into place. If his dad cheated on his mom, is that why he’s never been in a serious relationship? Is he too scared of getting hurt? I give him a sidelong glance, but his face betrays nothing.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly.

“Have I ever cheated on anyone?” I say, unsure of how to deal with this more vulnerable side of Naoya Sugawa, so unlike the flirty playboy I see regularly.

“No, I mean, what’s your family like?”

“Nothing special. My parents were high school sweethearts who got married when they were in their early twenties, had three kids, and stayed in their tiny hometown.” I’ve never spoken to him about family. We prefer to talk about the present: work, gossip, celebrity drama, even. Rarely about things that might puncture the carefree surface—that might touch our hearts.

“Sounds idyllic.” Is it just me, or do I catch a glimpse of wistfulness in his tone? “What do your parents do?”

“My dad runs a convenience store and my mom stayed at home to raise us. She always wanted to travel Europe and become an artist, but then she got pregnant with my oldest brother, River.” It’s a story I’ve heard countless times, but my mom has always told it with a sense of whimsy and adventure. Saying that life is never how one expects it to be. If that’s true, though, why does it feel like she gave up on something? On a part of herself, another life she could’ve had?

“River, Ryder, and Poppy,” Naoya muses aloud. “Why didn’t your parents name you Rebecca or something, to complete the trio ofRs?”

I snort at the question I’ve heard countless times. “My mom was having a Greek mythology kick and was going to give me the nameCalliopebut my dad bought her a bouquet of poppies the day she went into labour with me.”

“Poppies? That’s a unique bouquet.”

“They were all out of roses.” Poppies are never anyone’s first choice for a romantic floral gift.

Naoya drums his fingers on his thigh, his pinky brushing my knee. He seems unaware of the contact, but it sends a wave of goosebumps over my skin despite the L.A. heat. “Sometimes, the unconventional choice is the better one.”

Before I have time to parse his cryptic statement, the limo lurches to a stop and Naoya gets out. Just as I unbuckle my seat belt, he comes around and opens my car door for me. I try to respond gracefully, keeping my knees together and sliding to the edge of the seat, a trick I’ve perfected to keep from flashing passersby when I get out of the car.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” His carefree grin makes me second-guess the status of this not-date.

We’re being filmed, Poppy. Keep it together.

This is going to be a long dinner.

Chapter Thirteen: Naoya Sugawa

I escort Poppy into Sushi Teppan & Kitchen. The hostess offers to take our coats—I keep my denim jacket on—and escorts us to a square table surrounding a griddle, where our personal chef will grill shrimp and slices of rare meat in front of us. Other patrons are already laughing, chatting, and dining, having all consented to be filmed for the background of our YouTube series.

Kitschy Japanese-themed knick-knacks line glass shelves around the restaurant and silk-screened partitions with vaguely Asian paintings of women in kimonos separate the space into little sections. Each table has its own personal chef, some of them juggling wine bottles for the guests’ entertainment, others grilling the food as plumes of fire shoot up from the griddle. My stomach flip-flops as I wonder if we have the budget for all of this, especially when my conversations with my producer and my financial advisor hang heavy over my head.

This show can’t fail. Too much is riding on it.

I cast a sidelong glance at Poppy as she takes her seat. Her blue eyes are wide. Overwhelmed. And in way over her head.

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