“She was enrolled in an early childhood education program at vocational school and has already earned college credit for the fall,” Avery says. “Tori is basically the official island babysitter, and those of us with kids are going to be up shit creek without a paddle when she leaves for Bowling Green.”
“I’ve never really had to think about childcare because I’ve always relied on my mom,” I say. “And I didn’t feel comfortable asking Mason.”
Avery nods knowingly, and I get the impression she might be one of the few people on the island who knows his secrets.
She assigns me a green yoga mat between Ruth, an elderly woman in a wheelchair, and Walt, a middle-aged man with a bushy beard, wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. He’s the only man in the class, but as we begin, it’s clear he’s a lot more flexible than I am. I use all the accessories available—block, strap, and modified poses that are easier for a beginner to maintain—and yoga still kicks my ass. I thought I was in moderately good shape, but as we finish in relaxation pose, I nearly fall asleep. I’m exhausted and sweaty. But I also feel an internal quiet that I’ve never experienced.
“I’m guessing it’s not a permanent thing; otherwise, everyone would be doing yoga,” I say when I share with Avery after class. “But it makes me want to come back next week.”
“It can be a permanent thing, and everyone should be doing yoga,” she says. “Just give me a heads-up next time and Daniel will take both kids.”
“Are you sure?”
Avery waves me off. “Please. He goes to his parents’ house and watches sports on TV with his dad while his mom spoils Leo rotten. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind adding Maisie to the mix.”
* * *
The Thursday morning of book club, Maisie wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. She cries because she wants to wear yellow socks, but after they’re on her feet, she cries because they’re not purple. She refuses to brush her teeth, then cries when I do it for her. And she cries more when Yōkai darts under the bed to avoid being cuddled by a cranky toddler. As I carry her down the back steps, I’m relieved Mason won’t have to be party to any of Maisie’s nonsense. I stop short when we reach the kitchen and he’s there, pouring spring water from a gallon bottle into a stainless-steel teakettle.
He’s dressed in a pair of threadbare Levi’s and a flannel in varying shades of brown, sleeves rolled up, and hanging open over a T-shirt that’s faded to a soft red. He usually wears a variation of this outfit every day, but the weather has been warm enough lately that he usually sheds the shirt by midday. I hate that I know this, but whether it’s a coping mechanism or an idiosyncrasy, Mason Brown is a creature of habit.
“I thought you’d be at the brewhouse already,” I say. “We’ll just grab some Pop-Tarts for the road.”
“You, um—you don’t have to rush on my account.” He turns a knob on the stove and a blue flame springs to life under the kettle. “You live here.”
For the past month, our arrangement has worked out well. Mason is typically still at the brewery when Maisie and I eat dinner, and by the time he comes home, we’re upstairs for the night. I’ve run into him a couple of times in the kitchen when I’ve come down for a late-night snack, but usually we only see each other at work.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods. “Rough morning?”
“You heard?”
“Kinda hard to miss.”
“Sorry.”
“I remember those days.” There’s a wistful note in his voice, then he clears his throat as if he can swallow the memories. He crosses to a cupboard and takes out the blue teapot, along with a matching bowl that has a tiny spout. Up close, the edges of the bowl are uneven, like they were handmade, and the color graduates from robin’s-egg blue at the top to midnight blue at the bottom.
I place Maisie on a counter stool and go to the fridge for a carton of blueberry yogurt. Like in the pantry, Mason cleared space in the refrigerator. When I turn around, he’s popping the top on an airtight metal cannister.
“What are you doing?” Maisie asks.
“I’m making tea,” he says to her, before looking over at me. “I spent a lot of my youth rejecting Japanese culture because I didn’t want to be different from my friends. My mom is thrilled I’ve been making up for lost time.”
He shifts the kettle on the stove, as if that will make it boil faster. “Last Christmas, she had this houhin tea set made for me and bought a packet of gyokuro green tea to go with it. I’ve never been much of a tea drinker, but there’s a whole process to gyokuro that appeals to me as a brewer, and now I kind of just enjoy the routine.”
“I have to confess: my only experience with green tea is Arizona iced green,” I say as I hand Maisie the yogurt and a spoon. “I practically lived on the stuff back home.”
“My mom would consider that an abomination, but on a hot day … I get it.” He gives me a tiny half grin and my stomach dips.
“Is your dad Japanese too?”
“He’ll tell you he’s German, Scottish, and Irish,” Mason says. “But he was born and raised in Cleveland.”
The teakettle whistles, and he pours the boiling water into the teapot but doesn’t add any tea.
“It’s time-consuming,” he explains. “You don’t want to steep the leaves in boiling water, so you start the cooling process in the teapot, transferring it first to the yuzamashi bowl, and then to the teacups until the water is nearly lukewarm. After, it’s back to the teapot, at which point you add the leaves to steep.”
“What do you do while the water is cooling?”
Mason shrugs. “Wait.”
“In my world, when the kettle whistles, you dump the water into a mug and dunk a tea bag until the water turns brown,” I say. “I had no idea tea could be so complicated.”
“I didn’t either,” he says. “But at my first sign of wanting to engage more with my culture, my mom got very carried away. She spammed me recipes and boxes of ingredients started showing up in the mail, and every couple of weeks we have a Skype conversation strictly in Japanese. I dropped out of language school when I was twelve, so I’m struggling with level three on Duolingo and it’s … not pretty struggling for words I used to know.”
“That’s really sweet, though.”
Mason doesn’t say anything, but I can almost see him trying to decide on a response. Before he can answer, Maisie asks, “Can I see the tea?”
He reaches into the metal container and brings out a few leaves. They’re long and needle shaped. Even though it’s a disruption to his ritual, he pours a bit of water from the teapot into the bowl, explaining that the water softens the leaves until they unfurl.
“What’s unfurl?” Maisie asks.
“It means ‘open up.’”
Their heads nearly touch as they watch together, her yogurt forgotten, and I get an airy feeling in my chest. Despite his reluctance, Mason is very good with Maisie.
He touches his hand to the side of the teapot, testing the temperature. “Now we’ll put the water into the yuzamashi bowl so it can cool more. While we wait, you can eat your yogurt, okay?”