A Complicated Crush

They say your first kiss tastes like lemon.

That's probably a lie. Mine tasted like coffee.

I even knew the brand—Georgia unsweetened, which she often drank—but strangely it tasted sweet during the kiss.

I was in the sixth grade when I had my first kiss. It was with my cousin, Aya—Ayane Nakado—who was four years older than me, and a high school freshman.

I could remember it vividly, even after four years.

I could remember the postcard on Aya's wall—Chagall's The Bridal Pair with The Eiffel Tower—held up with polka-dot tape.

I could remember how Aya's lips were slightly full and soft, how kissing her felt like sinking into a coffee-flavored cloud.

I could remember opening my eyes just a crack to see Aya with her eyes closed, her unusually long eyelashes and distinct double eyelids that seemed to curve outward, making her look like a sleeping princess from some fairy tale.

I could remember that Aya had a surprisingly developed chest compared to girls my age. That day she'd worn a worn-out white T-shirt, old and loose around the chest, which seemed strangely alluring to me. On top of that, she smelled wonderful.

While I was caught between happiness and bewilderment, Aya's lips pulled away.

I thought that was the end, but after a few seconds, Aya kissed me again. Since I was a sixth grader, I had no idea that kissing involved this gentle back-and-forth rhythm.

When our lips weren't touching, I wanted to cry like an abandoned baby. But when we were kissing, my whole body was filled with blissful warmth.

Depending on the angle of Aya's lips when they met mine, I felt waves of different emotions—incredible pleasure, unusual happiness, strange nostalgia, and odd sadness—and my chest swelled with feeling.

How much time had passed?

After what felt like forever but probably wasn't, Aya pulled her lips away.

Perhaps to break the awkward silence, Aya laughed.

Ahaha!

I could see her white teeth. I'd never seen a smile that made me so happy just by looking at it.

How was that?

How did I answer? The fact that I couldn't remember that part probably meant I said something embarrassing that I'd rather forget.

It was amazing.

Or maybe I said something like . . .

It was soft.

Or something like that.

We talked for a little while after that.

Suddenly Aya's expression grew serious, and her lips parted slightly.

Instead of saying Don't forget me, she said the opposite.

Miki, you have to forget about me. Someday, you absolutely have to forget.

Four years had passed since then, but I still haven't been able to do that.

* * *

I hadn't seen Aya since then.

That day was the last day of summer vacation, and it was the final tutoring session she'd arranged for me before my middle school entrance exams.

Our fmaily gatherings, which we'd called the Nakado Family Reunions, also stopped happening after than—the one where cousins, uncles, and aunts would gather twice a year during Obon and New Year's.

That was because my grandfather, Genichiro Nakado—who was caring toward his grandchildren, cool, and wealthy, though I never knew exactly what he did for work—had fallen ill.

Despite his constant chain-smoking and slathering of high-cholesterol butter on everything, Grandpa had been remarkably healthy. He seemed to overpower all health fads like jogging and healthy eating through sheer natural constitution, but he'd apparently finally succumbed to old age just before his hundredth birthday.

Usually, people wanted to be surrounded by their loved ones when they were sick.

But the opposite was true—grandpa cancelled the Nakado Family Reunions because he wanted us to remember him as the cool grandpa. Going out of his way to make sure we didn't see him in his weakened state was just like him.

He died last year. I wasn't told how he died since I was in middle school at the time, but the fact that they didn't tell me probably meant he died scandalously—a heart attack while in bed with a young mistress or something.

That dirty old man.

Once, while he was drunk he told me:

Mikitaka, you just say the word and I'll set you up with a total babe right away.

I was in fifth grade at the time. What an idiot.

But setting aside all the talk about Grandpa, that was when I stopped seeing Aya.

I knew her number. I could have contacted her, but I didn't.

You have to forget.

She had told me that, and I respected her wishes.

If I reached out randomly, it would be like admitting I hadn't forgotten about the kiss—which was exactly the truth.

But then again, what would be a normal way to get in touch with a cousin four years older than me? She was someone I never would've spoken to otherwise.

As a middle schooler, I didn't have the social skills to send some casual text message like Heeeey, long time no see! loaded with emojis like frosting on a cake.

I probably still don't.

During the time I spent thinking about it, Aya's number stopped working.

The number you are trying to reach is no longer available.

She probably got a new phone or something and got a new number—so I really couldn't contact her anymore.

That said, if I really wanted to contact her, I could have.

After all, she was my cousin. I could have just called her mom and gotten through right away. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

It wasn't that I'd lost interest in Aya.

On the contrary, the memory of that kiss kept growing stronger in my head.

What would have happened if I had pushed Aya down onto that fluffy bed while we were kissing?

If I had kept in touch with her after that, could I have seen Aya again in about a month, and would she have kissed me again?

Did Aya actually like me?

I was thinking things like that.

But Aya probably just kissed me on a whim, and maybe she'd already forgotten about that day entirely. Yet here I was, still clinging to that memory. I was such an incredibly pathetic guy. I wanted to die. Die and come back to life without any sense of shame.

The more I thought about how embarrassing I was, the less I wanted to see Aya. I didn't want her to know what a mess I was.

So I made up my mind: I wouldn't contact Aya.

When I got to my first year of high school, I decided I was going to date someone from my class.

Wanting to wasn't enough to make that happen, but I was going to try anyway.

Maybe part of it was wanting to forget about Aya, but I wasn't sure. Either way, having a girlfriend was part of being young, and there was no reason a fifteen-year-old guy shouldn't give it a shot.

And so I found a girl who I thought would be perfect for me.

But at the same time, I reunited with Aya. She's a college sophomore now.

I was interested in this girl in my class. Nagika Mitake.

She had this dreamy, ethereal quality about her. That was because she was on the tennis club and had morning practice; she was always tired and slept through most of her morning classes. But if you really looked at her, she had pretty striking features.

There was something vulnerable about her. She always had this adorable bedhead whenever she woke up, which she would always fix in the bathroom during lunch.

Her seat was in the front row, second from the right. Our class had one seating change since April, but by sheer luck of the draw, she ended up in the same spot both times.

Because of that, I'd been walking past Nagika's seat every morning since school started to get to my own seat. Her desk always smelled faintly of floral deodorant from her morning practice, and more than anything else, that scent made me feel like the day was really starting. Boys and girls just smelled different.

It was April of our freshman year. There were plenty of people trying hard to establish themselves in the class hierarchy, but she wasn't trying to impress anyone.

Most of the ones who don't try so hard are Tokyo natives—the type who probably know about all kinds of pop culture stuff that a countryside kid like me (Omiya born and raised) wouldn't know a thing about. In other words, they knew they were already at the top of the social ladder without having to prove it.

But Nagika apparently came from the countryside, too. She was from Kagoshima, so she wasn't used to Tokyo's social dynamics either—she was just someone who could make friends naturally and easily.

Her social status was somewhere in the middle, and she seemed to fill a kind of funny girl role among the girls.

But she wasn't forced into that role. It was probably just that her unfamiliarity with Tokyo made her seem a bit naïve and endearing.

And that kind of thing probably just developed into normal friendships.

I first became attracted to Nagika during a long homeroom in mid-April.

Long homeroom was a weekly seventh-period class where we'd play games together to develop class rapport.

During our first long homeroom, our class representative asked what we should play.

Everyone wrote down an idea on paper, we put them all in a box, shuffled them up, and drew one slip to decide the activity.

It was an arm wrestling tournament.

I didn't get what was so fun about having to arm wrestle in front of everyone when we'd only been in high school for two weeks.

We split up into boys' and girls' divisions.

Somehow, the boys' division turned into a complete testosterone fest. Myself included.

I made it to the finals. My opponent was this giant from the basketball team—he was confident in himself because he was so much bigger than me, but what he didn't know was that I'd come from an all-boys middle school where sometimes we got so bored we'd develop completely useless arm wrestling techniques that served no purpose in real life.

His hand slammed down with a thwack.

Huh? I dunno, I just can't get into it.

He said stupidly, and sensing the moment, I struck back.

Yesss!

I celebrated and all that, but realizing this victory came from three years at an all-boys school made me feel conflicted.

Next came the girls' division.

Unlike the heated boys' matches, the girls were clearly not that into it.

Well, being the strongest arm wrestler wasn't exactly cute.

Plus, with all the uncertain social dynamics right after enrollment, things could have gotten awkward fast if someone got hurt.

So it turned into this polite little concession contest.

Ridiculous.

In that kind of scenario, the ones who make it through are either the girls with lower social status who don't care much about what guys think, or the athletic girls who figure it's fine character-wise to beat their opponents.

Nagika fell into the latter category, and since she approached arm wrestling like any other sport, she made it to the finals.

Her opponent in the finals was Kito, a giant who did judo.

Just looking at the matchup, you could tell how it would go. The difference in their builds was enormous. Kito was bigger than me—a guy—and probably weighed close to eighty kilograms. Nagika played tennis, but she was pretty average height and weight for a girl. The odds just weren't in her favor.

I thought she'd get crushed in an instant and play it off with something like Oh no, I lost! But something unexpected happened.

Nagika gained the advantage.

Kito must have been careless. Her grip gradually moved toward the back of Kito's hand, nearly touching the teacher's desk they were using as a table. Kito somehow managed to hold her ground. Even the girls who had looked indifferent until now were watching with interest.

Ah!

They gasped as Kito pushed back to the center, and they reached a stalemate.

What was making this match so even despite their difference in size?

Nagika's willpower.

Exactly. Nagika was taking even this ridiculous arm wrestling match seriously.

Winning wouldn't get her anything. If anything, she'd probably get teased as some kind of super freak. Yet there she was, staring at Kito with her face bright red and such an intense expression that beads of sweat looked ready to roll down her forehead.

I get pretty competitive when it comes to games . . .

She told me her mindset later, looking a bit embarrassed.

Seeing the usually laid-back Nagika getting serious was so rare that it probably added to the excitement.

Sometimes, a person getting serious can change the mood of an entire room.

One of the upbeat guys was caught up in the excitement.

Whoa!

He let out a shout, and from there it turned into a wrestling arena with jeers and cheers flying back and forth.

More people were cheering for Nagika. To be honest, it was probably because Nagika was cuter. Everyone loved an underdog story.

But I figured that in stalemates like those, pure muscle strength would make the difference.

Just as I predicted, Nagika gradually started losing ground. Slowly, the back of Nagika's hand approached the desk.

But Nagika always defied my expectations.

Kito's fist slammed against the desk with a loud slap.

It happened in a split second, so fast that nobody could react immediately.

Whoa!

A cheer erupted.

What happened?

Kito muttered under her breath.

I slipped. My elbow slipped and I couldn't get it back up.

But of course no one was buying her excuses.

Maybe that is what actually happened, I thought later.

There was probably a tiny opening that only the contestants could sense. Nagika must have picked up on it and thrown all her energy into that moment.

Competitions were sometimes decided not by raw ability but by that kind of killer instinct. Like when the Cubs won the World Series after a hundred year drought.

It ended with an upset result that would have been about twenty-to-one odds.

That was Nagika's victory.

At that point, being a girl who was good at arm wrestling had turned into a straight-up positive trait. I remembered the girls who lost early on were acting pretty blasé, but all that just melted away in the face of Nagika's refreshing smile.

So then people started suggesting things like: should the male and female winners compete to decide the strongest in the class?

Back then, I was more worried about whether or not it was okay to hold a girl's hand tightly in front of everyone.

As a guy, Nagika's hand looked so delicate and pale, and just imagining myself taking it in mine made my heart race and broke me out in a cold sweat.

Well, the conclusion was that boys versus girls probably wasn't the right approach. I couldn't say whether I felt relieved or disappointed.

Anyway, the conversation shifted to at least having an award ceremony.

Nagika and I were made to stand at the front of the classroom.

The popular kids started making demands.

Teacher, please give the winners some kind of prize!

While their half-hearted demands were entertaining in their own way, Nagika and I were left standing there, completely ignored.

We suddenly had nothing to do.

Maybe that was why Nagika suddenly took my hand.

Mikitaka, your hands are so big.

Really?

Inside, my mind was racing with thoughts about Nagika touching my hand.

Our hands were positioned in the shadow of the teacher's desk, invisible to everyone else in the classroom.

Nagika's hand was so soft and smooth that it was hard to believe it had just defeated Kito. Her skin felt like silk slipping pleasantly through my fingers.

I don't know how accurate my knowledge was, but I'd heard that the better you get at tennis, the less unnecessary force you put into your racket hand, so you don't develop calluses . . . anyway, Nagika's hand was exactly like that.

Nagika pinched my finger with her index finger and thumb like she was examining it.

Boys' hands really are big, aren't they? Or is it just because it's you, Mikitaka?

There was a slight bit of sweat remaining on her hand, and my hand was a little sweaty too, and I had the strange thought of whether it was okay to be sharing sweat with someone like this.

I'm not sure . . .

What should I say to that?

Before I knew it, the popular kids and teacher had decided there wouldn't be any prizes, so we quickly let go of each other's hands.

Only we knew that we had touched hands, and it was so brief it felt like it might have been a dream.

But every morning when I passed by Nagika's seat and caught that faint scent of her deodorant, I remembered that moment.

Sometimes she spoke to me.

Good morning.

Good morning.

* * *

After something like that, of course I was interested in Nagika.

Though I wouldn't have put it as wanting to date her, I did start wondering what kind of person she was.

During field trips, when other girls brought expensive-looking sweets from Ginza or Yurakucho to show off, I noticed she was playing with those color-changing candy kits instead.

At lunch she'd put a straw in a convenience store carton of Lipton iced tea, and I'd think that in some ways she was just like any other kid.

The second time we talked was in late April.

That day there was a karaoke party organized by the popular kids that the whole class was supposed to attend.

Even though it was supposedly for everyone, about twenty percent of those apparently invited didn't bother to show up. Whether they had other plans, didn't get the memo, or if the popular kids just didn't even know they existed, I don't know.

I didn't know the song the popular kid in front of me was singing, either. But the call-and-response parts were easy to follow even for first-time listeners. In that sense it was probably a well-made song. It wasn't interesting at all, but deliberately rebelling against it would be more uncool than just going along. So I pretended to be having fun, too.

Hey, hey!

I joined in with the call-and-response parts.

When I went to the drink bar, I bumped into Nagika. Maybe because we were in a neutral space, we started talking naturally.

I'm not really built for this kinda thing.

That's surprising.

Really?

You seem pretty good at reading the room, Nagika, so I'm surprised you'd say that to me.

I mean, you're not really having fun, either, are you, Makino?

That part was true. Maybe I wasn't fitting in as well as I thought I was. But I didn't remember being left out by anyone because of that, so whatever.

Makino . . . um, where was it you said you were from during introductions? You weren't from Tokyo, right?

I'm from Omiya. It's in Saitama.

Are you really living alone?

Yeah. You said you're from Kagoshima, right, Mitake?

Uh huh. I moved here with my family, though—

At that point in our conversation, the sound from the karaoke room became particularly loud.

I didn't know the song, but it must have been a crowd-pleaser for the popular kids. The commotion sounded exactly like what you'd hear if you threw bananas into a monkey cage at a zoo, and the zookeeper would probably be grinning from ear to ear.

I thought it was getting a bit hard to talk. More importantly, if someone came to get drinks, our conversation would be interrupted.

Want to step outside for a bit?

The two of us went down to the bank of the Sumida River behind the karaoke place.

* * *

Since Nagika asked, I told her about how I came to live alone.

The inheritance my grandfather, Genichiro Nakado, left behind was enormous.

So enormous that it was difficult to even calculate everything, and since he hadn't written a proper will before he died, a bitter inheritance dispute erupted among my uncles and aunts after his death.

I never knew the details about the fight. In fact, I intentionally avoided learning about it. My parents were also involved in that conflict, and nobody wanted to see that side of their parents.

I was sure that Grandpa not leaving a proper will was his way of spiting his sons and daughters, who never got along but often came around begging for money . . . or maybe he just thought it'd be too much trouble to think about children he didn't even like.

Well, the root cause of the family discord was that Grandpa had relationships with too many women and fathered too many children without properly raising them, so it was hard to say who really was to blame.

But he was indulgent toward his grandchildren. He only ever made clear decisions about our inheritance.

At twenty-five you get this, at thirty you get that . . . the inheritance was structured in stages, with a butler Grandpa trusted designated as the executor.

Rather than inheriting a large amount all at once, he made it gradual because of his philosophy about young people and money.

Nothing good comes from having it easy while you're young.

That perfectly reflected Grandpa's values as someone born in the 1920s.

Or perhaps he was reflecting on how some of his own sons and daughters had been corrupted by money and turned into worthless people.

Anyway, there was one thing that all the grandchildren inherited immediately after his death: a condo unit in central Tokyo.

Built about fifteen years ago, it was clean but not new, too big for one person to live in but a bit too small for a family.

Given Grandpa's assets, he could have given us more expensive condos, but I think this too reflected his values.

Tokyo is good, come to Tokyo.

That was Grandpa's catchphrase. So I think he was giving us the option to go to Tokyo.

That's when I begged my parents to let me live alone there.

I pulled out all the stops—crying one moment, making logical arguments the next, getting emotional on purpose, then innocently begging—until I finally wore them down enough for them to agree.

My reasons for wanting to live alone were simple enough. First, I was bored out of my mind after exhausting all the entertainment Omiya had to offer.

Second, I'd already been accepted to a high school that was quite far from Omiya but happened to be perfectly close to Grandpa's condo—which I'd obviously calculated when choosing that school.

Third, despite all my complaints about Grandpa, I'd always thought my parents were pathetic for repeatedly starting new businesses only to fail and having to grovel to Grandpa each time. With the inheritance dispute dragging on, I wanted some distance from all that.

And finally, Grandpa's death had left me feeling sentimental.

Tokyo is good, come to Tokyo.

I wanted to try putting that message into practice.

* * *

We were leaning against the fence along the Sumida River bank when we had that conversation.

Wow. Your family's like something out of a manga.

I'm used to it as this point, so I don't really see it that way.

Hmm . . . Was I being insensitive?

No, I think of it as material I can use, so think of it as interesting as you'd like.

Then I'll say it—that was really interesting. Thanks for telling me about it.

I didn't know if everyone from unusual family situations felt that way, but I genuinely thought my family environment was interesting.

People were free to think it was weird or low-class or pitiful, but anyone who said that to my face would just be a piece of shit. After all, people could only save themselves by accepting the environment they were placed in. In that sense, Nagika's reaction was perfect.

Mitake, you—

Oh, don't call me that.

Huh?

I'd been calling her that up until now, so having her tell me not to caught me off guard.

Mitake sounds so fierce and warrior-like, doesn't it? If there was a guy named Demon Lord Mitake, he'd definitely be the strongest soldier in the world. He could even take on Lu Bu.

Wouldn't the Demon Lord part be more responsible for that than the Mitake part?

Okay, then, Nagika.

That was the first time I'd ever called a girl by her first name since elementary school. It was a bit embarrassing.

Right . . . Should I keep calling you Makino, then?

She probably thought it was weird for us to be using different levels of formality.

Mikitaka.

Mikitaka, right.

Well, my cousin calls me Miki, but I don't want you to call me that.

Miki . . . that's way too cute. It doesn't suit you at all.

Nagika giggled.

Shut up.

I joked.

The person who won the arm wrestling tournament couldn't be a guy called Miki. I wasn't exactly muscular, but I was pretty well-built.

Miki.

Nagika repeated, laughing.

Cut it out.

If Demon Lord Mitake fought Demon Lord Miki, I'd probably win.

Even a hundred of me couldn't beat you.

We kept on chatting about silly things like that. Nagika's laughter was uninhibited and refreshing. It was like sunflowers blooming.

. . . You know, Mikitaka, you have this way of naturally getting close to girls.

Really?

Do you have sisters, or a girlfriend?

Neither.

The sisters part might be close, but I'd never had a girlfriend.

Actually, I thought Nagika who the one who was good at getting close to me.

I wonder.

What do you mean, "I wonder"?

You even held my hand . . .

She gazed at the shimmering surface of the Sumida River.

There was something different about her expression than usual. But I couldn't tell what was different about it. Girls' expressions were hard to read.

Anyway, I was happy that Nagika had also noticed that day. It was an important moment for me, too.

It's not like I like holding people's hands or anything.

Yeah, I figured.

I'm not some freaky hand guy, either.

I know.

A freaky hand guy with freaky guy hands . . .

That's why I can't figure out why I did that. It's like I was drawn to you, Mikitaka.

Well, I mean, I'm nothing special—

Did that sound cheesy? I figured I'd rather say that than let things get awkward.

Maybe we're on the same wavelength.

Maybe.

Nagika readily agreed, without any of the hesitation I'd felt.

Bathed in the gentle spring sunlight, the Sumida River before us sparkled pure white, its waves creating dark green curves before disappearing. Navy blue ripples formed nearby, leaving diamond-shaped patterns behind. The design seemed regular yet irregular, so I never grew tired of watching it. It was a rather warm day in April, so the river breeze felt pleasant against my skin, and Nagika's hair shimmered beautifully in the reflected sunlight.

There was about ten seconds of silence. Nagika pointed to the path along the river and said:

That path looks like a nice place for a walk.

Yeah, it does.

I answered sincerely.

The night view is supposed to be even more amazing. Have you ever heard of that old drama . . . I think it's called Tokyo Love Story? I'm pretty sure it was filmed here.

After she spoke, Nagika suddenly remembered something and checked the time on her phone.

We should head back soon.

I agreed. I didn't want weird rumors about us sneaking out of karaoke together either. After all, we both wanted peaceful high school lives.

On the way up the embankment stairs, I worked up a little courage and asked:

Can I text you?

Nagika blinked, then looked somewhat happy and clasped her fingers together.

Sure. You want my number?

I'll find you through the class group chat.

I'll be waiting then.

Nagika said that so casually. When we got back to the karaoke entrance, she said it again with emphasis:

I'll be waiting.

* * *

After that, Nagika and I didn't talk much in class, but we started texting each other.

We talked about our favorite YouTube channels, phone games, anime, manga, how cool factory night views were . . . just normal stuff.

Our conversations never got romantic. How do you even make conversations romantic? Or maybe they already were romantic and I just didn't realize it?

While writing messages, I wondered if I should suggest the Sumida River cruise that Nagika had said looked like fun.

But if we met up alone, that would technically be a date, right?

Was it okay to casually ask someone on a date?

I didn't know. I needed someone to please tell me if it was okay or not. Before physics or geography, fifteen-year-old high school students needed romance classes.

Come to think of it, I hadn't even asked if Nagika had a boyfriend. There was also the possibility that she just thought of me as a guy friend.

What was the difference between friends and lovers anyway?

I googled it but couldn't figure it out. I doubted anyone actually knew for sure. All I found were people who don't know and people who think they knew. The internet was always like that.

* * *

April proved to be a smooth month in my high school life, and our Golden Week holiday ended in May. I spent every day of the break at my family's house.

Since I was basically forcing them to let me live alone, it was important to use breaks like those to spend time with family. I figured if I could reassure them even just a little bit, they'd give me more space.

I really wanted to try asking Nagika on a date, but she was at her grandparents' house in Kagoshima the whole time, so it wasn't as though I was missing out on an opportunity . . . or, at least, that was what I told myself.

The classroom after Golden Week was buzzing with excitement.

It was because of rumors that had been circulating for a while—apparently some new transfer students were coming to our class.

Transfer students arriving in May of freshman year was weird. Our school was private and supposedly accepted transfer entrance exams year-round, but if they were going to start in May, they should have just started in April—that's was what everyone thought.

There were two transfer students. Word had somehow gotten out that they were apparently twins.

And they were girls. Maybe that was why the boys' enthusiasm about the transfer students was running so high.

Normally I would have joined in and made some casual comment, but I played it cool and kept my excitement to myself because Nagika was watching.

While we were all exitedly chattering, the bell rang.

Our homeroom teacher came in and introduced the transfer student to my class, Class 1-A. One of the twins would be in Class A, and the other would be in Class D.

When I saw that girl, I was genuinely surprised.

In the art world, there are apparently mysterious paintings where your eyes seem to meet theirs no matter where you look at them from.

Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa is the most famous example, which is why this phenomenon was called the Mona Lisa Effect, and it was never just one's imagination—it had been proven.

It was kind of like that. Those bright, large eyes seemed to be making eye contact with every single student simultaneously.

But she was much cuter than a painting from hundreds of years ago, and looked more like a beautiful young celebrity you'd see on TV. Her eyes were bright and large, but they came with a natural smile that seemed completely genuine. Though her makeup was natural, her eyelashes were impressively long. Her lips had a vivid color and looked soft enough for fingertips to sink into.

But what surprised me most wasn't that the transfer student was beautiful.

My name is Io Manabe.

It was that she was my cousin.