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“Ronin?”
He blinked and then turned his head to her. “Sorry. What?”
“These treats…” She picked one up and held it for him to see.
“Mochi.” His voice sounded somewhere far away. He lifted his gaze over her head. “It’s a rice cake. They’re good. Um, I’ll be right back.”
He took off in the direction they’d come from, leaving Naia standing, mouth agape.
What the…?
Naia shoveled a spoonful of shaved ice into her mouth and weaved through the oncoming traffic to tail him. Not that he checked behind him to even see if she followed. His frame was easy to track—tall with his long black strands tied back, and the only person traveling against the current of the side of the street they were on.
To her surprise, he dipped off the trail into the forest line overgrown with tropical flora.
Naia tossed her bowl into a trash can as she passed by—the act killing her a little on the inside to not have finished the delicious dessert. She wiped her sticky hands on the front of her dress and stepped into a lush grove of tropical fern, entering deeper into the forest. The pillow of the trees drowned out some of the sound of the festival the further she ventured.
She found the mortal slumped down on the trunk of a breadfruit tree in a crouching position, his head hanging between his knees.
“Do you realize how rude it is to take off like that? Because of you, I didn’t even have the chance to try the mochi?—”
Ronin lifted his head. His pupils were flared, and anguish burdened his features.
Naia’s expression softened, along with her voice. “Are you okay?”
It was the first time she had inquired about him.
“I’m fine. Just…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh. His shoulder slumped with the motion. “The shaved ice stand was a bit too much.”
She walked over and took a seat beside him. Quietly, she tucked her knees into her chest and peered through the trees ahead. He appeared unenthusiastic about the festival to begin with, and she had assumed he wasn’t the type to enjoy overcrowded events. But now, she got the sense it was something to do with his departed father.
“Is it a precious memory of him?” Naia asked delicately.
Ronin dropped his head back down. Loose pieces of his hair hung around his cheeks, and Naia had to resist the urge to push them back behind his ears.
“I was eight the first time my dad took me to the stand. It was right after I had a fight with my mom. I was pissed and in no mood to eat.” He ran his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip. “Dad swore it would make me feel better, so we sat together and ate. It was so damn good. I couldn’t stop raving about it and Dad couldn’t stop laughing. By the end, I had completely forgotten about the fight with my mom.”
“That sounds delightful.”
“He loved that stand. Always told me of all the times he went to it as a boy after he moved onto the island.” He gave a small, nostalgic laugh, his eyes glistening.
Grief was a heavy burden without a cure. His story moved pieces of her heart.
“After my father’s absence,” she said, picking at the grass around her feet, “I threw out all the flowers in my bedroom because I couldn’t bear to look at them for the same reason.”
Naia couldn’t recall the last time she spoke of her father to anyone besides Finnian. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do so with Ronin. Just that he might benefit from hearing her words.
Ronin peeked up at her. “He grew you flowers?”
“Dahlias.” She smiled at the memory of the floral fragrance filling the walls of her bedchamber. “They were my favorite.”
“Some grow near my apartment. I look at them every day when I’m headed out the door. They’re pretty.”
“What color?”
“Purple.”
“The red ones are the prettiest.”
