Page 66 of Faking the Goal

Maybe they're downstairs.

At the café.

The thought lands hard enough that I'm already turning for the door before I can second-guess it. Of course. If mom got restless and insisted on getting out of bed, Therese would've taken her to her favorite spot. The Sakura Cafe.

When we moved here almost five years ago, she fell in love with this building before we'd even finished the tour. Two stories, big windows, enough space upstairs for us to live and enough room downstairs for her to build the kind of manga café she'd always dreamed about—something warm and quiet and unmistakably Japanese, like a little pocket of home tucked into the middle of Florida. She bought the whole building almost immediately with part of the divorce settlement, then spent months transforming the first floor into exactly what she wanted: low lighting, wood slat dividers, shelves packed tight with manga, soft music, paper lanterns, reading pods and tatami corners and enough cherry blossom decor to make the whole place feel like it had been plucked straight out of a quiet Tokyo side street.

It became hers in every sense of the word.

And mine too, if I'm being honest.

I spent half my childhood with my nose buried in manga because of her. I'm pretty sure my love of it came straight from her.

I head back out of the apartment and start down the stairs, my pulse thudding harder with every step.

The café is exactly what it always is at this hour—open, lit, and quietly alive, warm light spilling across the polished floors and wooden shelves the second I step through the private side entrance. Even this late, it's busy enough that the place hums with quiet life. Most of the reading pods are occupied, which doesn't surprise me. People always gravitate toward the pods over the couches. They're tucked away just enough to feel private, cozy enough that readers can curl up with a stack of volumes and disappear for hours.

Connie is behind the counter ringing up a customer, dark curls piled on top of her head and an apron tied around her waist. One of our regular night staff. Usually she and Sheila work the late shift together until three or four in the morning, but I don't see Sheila anywhere. She's probably in the back doing inventory or reorganizing the shelves again because apparently the woman relaxes by alphabetizing things.

Connie looks up when she sees me. "Hey, Kentaro."

"Have you seen my mom?"

She doesn't even have to think about it. She just jerks her chin toward the far end of the lounge, toward the last row of pods along the wall. "Bottom pod. She's been there for a while."

I exhale, some of the tension loosening from my shoulders. "Thanks."

I'm already moving before the word's fully out of my mouth.

I'm halfway ready to lecture her.

Not a full lecture. Just enough to make the point.

Something about how it's past ten and she should be upstairs in bed instead of downstairs marathoning manga like she's a sleep-deprived college student with no self-preservation instincts.

But when I reach the pod, the words die in my throat.

She's asleep.

Curled on her side in the lower pod, one arm tucked under a throw pillow, head tilted against it at an angle that's guaranteed to leave her neck stiff in the morning. An open manga rests in her lap, her place lost somewhere in the middle of the page. There's a neat stack of finished volumes on the low table beside her—five of them, all from the same series.

I stare at the stack, then at her, and can't help the quiet huff of laughter that escapes me.

Unbelievable.

At her age, she can still tear through half a manga series in one sitting like it's nothing.

The exhaustion must've finally caught up to her mid-chapter. She probably hadn't even realized she was drifting off.

My annoyance melts so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

I just stand there for a second, looking at her.

At the silk bandana tied over her head.

At the soft lines of her face, finally peaceful in sleep.

At the manga still spread across her lap because of course she'd gone down reading instead of putting it away like a normal person.