“Oh, I know. The hospital called a billion times. I was too busy to call back.”
“I organized a funeral.”
“I know, you called. But there’s more important matters at hand. Come on, kid,” he said in a thick voice. It was stuck inside my ear and wouldn’t leave. “You’re really gonna abandon your old man?”
I suddenly thought about genetics. This man’s genes were a part of me. This worthless man made me who I was. Was I also fated to become such a piece of shit?
My heart was raw, sanded down over and over as if someone had been taking an industrial metal file to it.
I couldn’t believe something so stupid made me feel so sad. I thought I had accepted that no one loved me.
Was that what my father’s love looked like? Did I want him to love me? Was I still holding out hope?
Now that my mom was dead, my father was the only person who should have loved me. There was a part of me that wanted to give up on him and hurl obscenities at him, but deep down, I wanted to see a scenario that I knew had only a sliver of a chance of being real.
It didn’t exist, so there was no point in holding on to hope.
What was love anyway? Was that love? What was love supposed to look like?
I could see it between Toyota and Suzuka, at least.
I wanted this man to experience guilt.
“Do you know what day it is today?” I asked.
“Today? No, should I?”
I didn’t want to tell him. No matter what I said, these feelings wouldn’t go away. It would only make me feel childish.
But unable to hold my emotions in, I heaved a long breath. I wanted to hang up, but my hand wouldn’t move. He called my name once more.
No one else would call me Fumihiro again.
“Did you ever really love mom and me?”
I asked the question, but I didn’t want to know the answer. I didn’t want a yes; I didn’t want a no.
No matter what he said, it wouldn’t amount to love.
I saw someone approaching. As I turned to look at them, they took my phone from my hand.
“Hey!” I barely got the word out before he stopped me. He smiled, cutting me to my core. From the way he smiled, he seemed actually angry. I stood, dumbstruck by this new side to him, while he did not hesitate to end the call.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sacchan.”
Handing me my phone, he smiled at me as though nothing had happened. The call screen was gone, the phone only displaying my wallpaper now.
“Let’s head back, shall we?”
I followed him into the common room. He’d already picked up my bag and was pushing it into my hands.
“Minami? What about your class?” he called out to Fujieda. His earlier anger was nowhere to be found.
“Canceled. Are you going home?”
“Yeah. We gotta stop at a pastry shop to pick up something I reserved.”
“Oh, right. I forgot, here.”
Fujieda offered me a box of Pocky. The words “Dear Sakata” were written on the red box in black marker. When I took it with some hesitation, Fujieda flashed a teasing grin at me.
“Happy birthday.”
The dinner he got for me that night was as lavish as what you’d have for Christmas. Hamburg steak, cream stew, and a whole cake just for the two of us.
We’d celebrated the same way last year.
I probably should have been grateful for all the effort he put into my birthday, but it only made me feel ill at ease. I found it far too excessive. Last year—or maybe it was two years ago—I’d told him that he didn’t need to go to such lengths for me and that it wasn’t worth it. He’d stared at me, mouth agape.
This must have been what a normal birthday looked like to him. Before I’d entered this world, most years I hadn’t received a single present.
Remembering this difference made me miserable, and today it was more intense than usual.
“Happy twentieth birthday, Sacchan.”
With an impossibly joyous smile, he handed me a small gift-wrapped box. Why did he look so happy when he wasn’t the one receiving it?
After I thanked him and opened it, I found an expensive-looking wallet in a fancy box.
“I know you’d never splurge on a nice one, Sacchan.”
Just as I had come to know him, he seemed to have a perfect grasp of me too. He was right—I’d never thought of buying a nice wallet. I didn’t understand the point of spending money on something that was supposed to hold it.
“...Thanks.”
Celebrating the day I was born never really made sense to me. Especially since it was supposed to be celebrated by the people who raised you.
“Today? No, should I?”
My father couldn’t be bothered to remember my birthday. He deserved to wade through guilt for that—for things turning out the way they did and for how he made me feel.
I wanted to spite him, wanted him to know it was all his fault, but all this amounted to hurting me in the end. Of course he wouldn’t remember my birthday. I was stupid for assuming he might.
He had called himself my “old man.” I was his only son. My mother had been his only wife. If I’d asked my mom whether she loved us, what would she have said? That she did, I’m sure.
I hated my birthday. It made me think about when I was born. Had that day ever been a source of happiness for my parents?
I had a hard time wrapping my head around the concept of love. Had my father really loved my mother? Had she really loved him?
Had anyone ever loved me?
Love wasn’t measured in words but by actions. Then didn’t that mean my father had never shown me and my mother any love?
Compared to my father’s broken, fictitious love, my “friend’s” incomprehensible words and actions both seemed much closer to what love was supposed to be. He always looked at me with the utmost joy, as he was doing right now. This was normal for him. Seeing him like that, I suddenly felt horrible.
I had let him get too close to such ugliness. He deserved only the most beautiful things in life.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said.
“What for?”
“I forced you to end my call.”
“Huh? No, no.” He shook his head. “I should be apologizing for taking your phone like that. But I had a hunch about who called you, and I didn’t like the look on your face, so I got a little mad.”
“You never get mad.”
We’d been living together for almost two years now. And yet, I’d never seen him get upset or raise his voice. Not until today.
“Of course I get mad. I’m upset at whatever upsets you. Like right now, you seem to be holding something back, and that’s rather frustrating.”
“I’m not holding stuff back.”
No, I was holding many things back. My anger, my sadness, my loneliness... I’d been bottling things up for my whole life. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to stop at this point. I was sure crying would have been the correct response.
Despite my rejection, he still wore that kind smile. I couldn’t believe he was actually upset. He always looked at me with such tenderness, I thought I might melt.