He was almost as tall as his father, who stood at six foot three and possessed a languid stride. His father had been an outfielder known for his speed and range, often catching low-angle pop-ups and tossing them back to the infield to force out runners on base. As a coach, he directed his team and staff with a sunny smile that softened his ambitions to win the leagues his teams played in. With his good looks and sporty charisma, he had no lack of admirers on and off the pitch. To those who readily followed his instructions, he rewarded them with the attention and guidance he had gained during his playing years as a regular starter for the Chiba Lotte Marines.

  When Eizo was born, his father’s pace had begun to decline. He was soon dropped to a pinch hitter, but even his swings couldn’t restore his former glory. To save face, he retired and turned to coaching, clocking a string of successes that led him to Waseda.

  A love of baseball had once tied Eizo closely to his father. Now that he was done with it, there wasn’t much holding them together anymore. Their last conversation, if it could be called one, was in June. It went like this:

  Congrats on your graduation.

  Thanks, Dad.

  In the Waseda dugout, within the space of minutes, he had said the same, if not more, to the players who had equalized after their captain hit a two-base run.

  Congrats.

  You’ve done well.

  You guys are great. You’re doing fantastic.

  My boys.

  Congrats!

  Cheers erupted around the ballpark. It should be Waseda’s turn at bat. Someone probably got on base. Likely second, from the volume of the cheers. Not that Eizo cared. He was about to leave the stadium when he remembered he had promised Roku he’d get food.

  Eizo was queuing at a popular chicken cutlet stall when he saw a familiar face approaching him. Pale. Tall nose. Strong dark brows framing deep-set eyes that relentlessly tore into you.

  Miyamoto Ran.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  A younger woman, likely in her mid-to-late twenties, accompanied him, her wavy light brown hair bouncing about her shoulders as she motioned animatedly at something. Her choice of footwear caught his attention—her platform shoes must be at least three inches high. Even so, she only reached up to Ran’s chin. Sparkly butterflies adorned her red patent shoes. This was Ran’s type? Eizo watched as she tugged at Ran’s arm several times. If Eizo did the same, he’d have died many times over.

  It might be mid-October, but the afternoons were warmer than usual, especially in Meiji Jingu ballpark, which had no roof. Most match-goers wore short-sleeved tops, some with rash guards to shield their arms and legs from the full brunt of the sun. Ran wore a green long-sleeved t-shirt, with what seemed like a full-sleeved black undershirt beneath it. What a strange outfit to wear in this weather, Eizo thought. Was the grump impervious to heat?

  The woman was smiling, chattering about something. Next to her, Ran’s usual gloomy self was magnified to an almost comedic level.

  They stopped at a drink stall next to where he was standing. Eizo turned the other way. How awkward it was to run into Ran outside of Oakwood and Suigetsu. Surely, the editor wouldn’t approach him. He was probably out on a date and didn’t want to be disturbed. Eizo felt nothing but sympathy for the poor woman who hadn’t figured out Ran’s true colors. If only she knew the vulgar personality behind his face.

  Eizo snickered to himself. So caught up was he in his imagination that he failed to hear someone calling out to him—a former baseman with a thunderous voice that rang around the stadium. Eizo’s head snapped up, turning toward the voice. At once, his eyes met Ran’s. A look of astonishment. Then realization. Then nothing.

  Eizo tugged at his cap and averted his glance, hoping to give the impression that he was merely staring into the distance. Thankfully, Ran didn’t approach him. He didn’t even look his way when Eizo passed by as he returned to his seat. It was wiser to separate personal and business matters. Eizo had crossed that line when he had let his ego get the better of him. He wouldn’t do it again. He had wasted too much time and effort on meaningless things.

  Now that he had his notes back, he must focus on pushing out chapters for Suigetsu’s acceptance before he would think about the rest. He needed to prepare himself well, for his mother was returning at the end of the month. After all, he had learned a long time ago that he could only count on himself.

  26

  Keio lost 2-5 to Waseda, giving up a three-run home run in the dying seconds of the game.

  As with tradition, Coach Ito invited all past and present members to a post-game dinner and debrief. Coach had benefited from a tight-knit culture from his school days and wanted to continue the practice for the new generation of players. Eizo declined the invitation, promising Coach he would grab a meal with him to catch up. Roku stayed behind. Eizo imagined his friend cajoling everyone to visit his restaurant when they had time.

  It was evening when Eizo left Jingu Stadium. Fatigue overwhelmed him, and he dozed off on the train before trudging off at Kichijoji Station, his mind in a fog as he briefly wondered where he was. His stomach growled nonstop. He wished he hadn’t turned down the food Roku had offered to share with him, but he had no appetite then, and forcing food down his throat made him sick, even if he needed to eat.

  By the time he returned to Oakwood, he was too tired to do anything but shower and change into his pajamas. A well-worn yellow t-shirt with a plate of gyoza and a bottle of chili oil at the back—his favorite, out of the few things he ever bought for himself—and shorts with an overstretched waistband. He thought about ordering food, but the hassle of waiting and opening the door to the deliveryman was too much, so he drank a jug of water to fill his stomach. All he wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep until the next day.

  For two hours, he tossed and turned in his futon, desperate to sleep but unable to. He stared at the ceiling, trying to clear his mind. He wound up thinking about many things that made little sense to him.

  Was Ran having dinner with the mystery lady now? Have they gone for drinks at an upscale bar? Would Ran kick the underside of her chair as a farewell? Did Goro know? Or worse, did he set this up for Ran too?

  Eizo felt a little miffed at that, but his mind continued spinning faster than he could manage.

  Was Goro moonlighting as the city’s matchmaker on top of his day job? Did he have too much time on his hands? Did Ran look marginally pleased as he walked with the mystery lady? Heck, had he been smiling for a second there?

  Eizo turned away and stared at the duckling-yellow walls instead. When he was in elementary school, he had told everyone yellow was his favorite color and resolved to collect as many clothes in that color as possible. Yellow made him look brighter, happier, like a child drowning in his parents’ love. These days, his clothes, or what few he purchased using his own money, were mainly white or shades of blue. Had he grown up? Or had he finally realized that the colors he wore could never repaint reality in his desired coat?

  He sat up and kicked off the futon, resting his legs on the hardwood floor instead. Did fall nights always feel so warm? Restlessly, he scratched his forearms, his feet, his back. The cold water he’d doused himself in did nothing to stop the heat from spreading everywhere. He shuffled in front of the floor fan to cool off. Moments passed before he leaned back on the floor, trying to sleep again. His spine hurt after a while, so he shifted himself to the sofa instead. Even in the dark, he could see the manila envelope on the coffee table.

  He didn’t want to look at it. And yet, like all things he refused to see, his gaze inadvertently wandered over—first, to the Waseda dugout, and now to the item his mother had left for him in the penthouse.

  Unwinding the string, he opened the envelope and took out the document. A legal contract regarding the issuance of shares with voting rights for the company that his mother was forming. He knew what it really meant: this was the beginning of all that she promised him if he stayed by her side. Typed up by her lawyers, the document asserted Eizo would hold an initial five percent stake. The structure of the shares gave the owners and initial investors ten times the voting rights of ordinary shares if the company went public.

  They would talk once she returned to Tokyo. For the first time in two years, they would converse in person. She needed him to decide his future and be assured that he would comply and follow her lead. But it was her future for him, the Eizo that existed in the shape she needed him to be. His inevitable transformation into her. The woman who stood tall among men. A path meant for a woman like her. Not him—he wouldn’t understand any of it. She could give him another ten years, and he still wouldn’t get it.

  If she asked, “Why can’t you transform? You’re my son, my flesh and blood.”

  Could he then reply, “Don’t look at me. I have no powers.”

  * * *

  Eizo changed into his joggers and headed to the nearest Family Mart, midway between Oakwood Apartments and Kichijoji Station.

  He bought two Sapporo miso cup ramen with braised eggs and a bottle of green tea, and sat at the dining counter facing the station. Perhaps the store lights—harsh white against sterile beige floors—and the plain white furniture, which looked as colorless as the tightly packed shelves, could flush his thoughts out and scrub them until they turned dull.

  It was going well until he saw Ran walking toward him from the station. Their eyes met, so he couldn’t repeat the events of the afternoon and pretend to look elsewhere. If he didn’t acknowledge Ran, the editor would certainly give him a hard time.

  He raised a hand and waved it loosely at Ran. It said: Shoo, be on your way and leave me alone. To Ran, it probably seemed like a sign of welcome. Why else would the persistent grump enter the store and approach him, take a long look at his ramen, and then ask if he wanted a beer and some finger food?

  “If you’re buying,” Eizo said nonchalantly.

  Ran returned with a six-pack and a tray of every fried food available in the hot section. If that was what Ran called finger food, then he must have had ten more hands hiding somewhere. It was wild to see this much grease. Coach Ito would never have allowed them to eat so carelessly.

  Eizo pulled out a chair for him, and Ran slumped into it almost immediately. Before Ran could say a word, Eizo popped a chicken nugget into his mouth, and then another, followed by one more. The faster he finished the food, the sooner he could leave.

  “Look,” Eizo gurgled between bites. “We’re feasting like kids at a midnight party.”

  “You’re the kid. I’m the chaperone.”

  Ran snapped open a can of beer and downed it in a massive swig. Eizo had never seen someone drink that fast before. In the blink of an eye, Ran set the empty can down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Fought with your girlfriend?” Eizo asked.

  Ran snorted. “So that was really you at Jingu ballpark.”

  “Did I see something not meant for my eyes?”

  “That’s Aiko you saw. Aiko, who fought with Shin,” Ran said, as though he was rattling off the alphabet. “Aiko’s the girlfriend of Shin, who’s the boyfriend of Aiko, in case you need a fucking glossary.”

  “Are you the third party?” Eizo couldn’t help but ask. He certainly wasn’t interested in Ran’s messy love life, and he sure didn’t foresee Ran crackling out a sequence of monosyllabic sounds.

  Was he laughing?

  Eizo turned to look at Ran, who by then had resumed his usual stoic expression. With a slight difference, however. The corners of his mouth were tugging upwards with the remnants of what had been a smile.

  “I was their matchmaker.” A hint of pride lined Ran’s words. “Shin and I rented a flat in college. He met Aiko when she came to visit and fell for her.”

  “You match-made them?” Eizo gobbled up a piece of chicken. “You? The sourpuss from hell?”

  “Calm your tits, fuckface.” The corners of Ran’s mouth properly curved into a smile. He looked pleased with both his insult and his crowning achievement of bringing two people together. Eizo stared for a while before he returned to his senses. Ran had insulted him again, and he wasn’t letting it slide.

  “My tits were raging until they saw you,” Eizo retorted.

  Ran was about to reach for a nugget when he stopped and angled his entire body to look at Eizo. His smile widened, not in a friendly way, but not in that sadistic manner that Eizo never wanted to see again. The twist of his lips felt more like when a predator sensed something worthy of his attention and stalked his object of interest silently. His hair, swept back like a yakuza from the eighties, likely just his default way of combing it after a shower, made him look even fiercer.

  A shiver ran down Eizo’s back. He grabbed a can of beer and pulled back the ring.

  “Enlighten me in your matchmaking ways.”

  “Since you asked.” Ran continued to look pleased with himself. “Aiko told me to get out of the flat on weekends.”

  “So she could get chummy with Shin?”

  Ran nodded and chomped down the remaining nuggets, to Eizo’s dismay. He’d wanted to eat more, but since Ran had paid for them, he couldn’t complain.

  “That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that more than enough? They kicked me out every weekend. It looked like I was paying the rent for them to do God knows what.”

  Eizo chuckled at Ran’s indignation.

  The editor nibbled on a handful of popcorn chicken as he continued. “Every other month, I wondered if Aiko was going to tell me she was pregnant. She was barely in college when they started dating. It was a fucking stressful time.”

  “Why didn’t you stay at home and chaperone them? Parental safety and all.”

  Ran’s eyebrows arched so high that they nearly shot out of his face. “You want me to stay and watch?”

  Eizo bit down on his lip. Was this the true Ran? He shook his head. Miyamoto Ran was not to be associated with anything fun or lighthearted.

  “How did you know Aiko?”

  “We grew up together.”

  “Here?”

  “Up north. Utsunomiya.”

  Eizo recalled the brief and tense exchange they’d had about Ran’s hometown. Whatever Ran felt about his place of birth probably varied little from what Eizo thought of his.

  “You are childhood sweethearts,” Eizo continued. “You must have been heartbroken when she chose the newcomer over you.”

  “We grew up in an orphanage. I was there first. She came sometime later.”

  “Oh,” Eizo managed after a while.

  He thought about the snide remarks he’d been peppering throughout their conversation. It was good manners to apologize. No, it was basic human decency to apologize. But Ran did not appreciate even the slightest pity. He sounded as if he were reporting the weekend’s baseball results. Nothing to unpack here—the editor simply stated a fact recorded in time. That was all there was to it. How very Raymond Carver of him.

  “Don’t.” Ran’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Whatever you’re thinking of, don’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  They continued to eat their food while the midnight radio broadcast played overhead. Eizo caught Ran staring at his hands. Feeling self-conscious, he removed them from the table and placed them on his lap.

  “What brought you to Jingu? Were you there to watch someone play?”

  “This kid called Yuta,” Ran said. “Keio freshman. Slugger.”

  Eizo had heard of him when Coach Ito, in passing, mentioned a group of promising rookies during the summer camp. “Kashiwara Yuta?”

  “You’re really from Keio⁠—”

  “—Yuta’s from the group home too?”

  Their voices crossed.

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you still play?” Ran looked at him. “Baseball, I mean.”

  Eizo wrapped his hands around the beer can. He should have known the conversation would come to this. For every morsel Ran offered of himself, he expected an equal amount from Eizo in return. He hadn’t planned on revealing his playing days to people who didn’t know. What happened in the past should stay in the past. It wasn’t as though he could play at a professional level. He was one of the many who stopped playing, knowing that he stood no chance of being drafted into the professional league. Some played for their company or semi-pro teams backed by corporate sponsors. But for Eizo, he was done.

  “Used to,” said Eizo.

  “Position?”

  “Shortstop.”

  “Same as Yuta.”

  “It’s rare for shortstops to double as sluggers. Sounds like he has a unique trait Coach could use.”

  “Maybe. If I hadn’t seen you with the Keio players, I would have pegged you as one of Waseda’s.”

  That was the first time anyone had said that to him.

  “I don’t know whether I should feel flattered or insulted.”

  Ran scoffed. “I’m complimenting you, shithead. Many writers hail from Waseda. But Keio? Those are Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags. Don’t you guys have the largest university endowment fund?”

  “I guess.” Eizo shrugged. “Are you from Waseda?”

  “Tokyo Tech.”

  “You went there to study literature?”

  “Are you doing this on purpose?”

  Eizo grinned. “Thought I was being stealthy.”

  “Heard you coming from a mile away.” Ran leaned back in his chair. “Guess my major.”

  “Engineering.”

  “Which branch?”

  “Since you like shit so much, civil engineering?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Which? Your major or your interest?”

  “Two things can be right at the same time.”

  Eizo burst out laughing.

  Ran slid a second can of beer to him. “Your reward.”

  Eizo eyed it suspiciously. His personal best was a Sapporo Black that he had downed at their post-league victory celebrations. Roku had to send him back to the Keio dorms because he’d dozed off at the table and refused to wake up. A second can would spell trouble.