Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [85]
There was, however, food. She found her sister’s favorite restaurant, not much more than a diner, and ordered miso soup and oyakudon. Her mother was right about one thing, she had to get it together. The longer she stayed inside and moped the worse things got. And even Ben & Jerry’s wasn’t doing it for her.
She wandered through the neighborhood, past the Otani Hotel, through the Zen garden. It didn’t feel like Tokyo—there wasn’t the buzz, the energy. There wasn’t Reno.
And God knows what she was looking for. She needed to look forward, not into the past. She needed to get over it, get back to school, start a new life.
She glanced up at the replica of the old Japanese fire tower. She’d spent a fair amount of time in Little Tokyo with Summer when she was growing up, but everything looked and felt different now. Later, after a lot of time had passed, she was going to have to go back to Japan, get outside the city, see things. She’d come back with the impression of noise and light and blood. And sex.
There had to be a lot more to it. There had to be some kind of Zen serenity if she looked for it.
It was getting dark, and the evening rush-hour traffic had picked up. It was going to take her forever to get home, assuming that was where she wanted to go. She stood patiently at the intersection with a crowd of people, waiting for the light to change, when someone bumped into her. Hard. Hard enough to make her lose her balance, and she went sprawling forward, directly in front of the rush of traffic.
She heard someone scream, and she tried to scramble to her feet as the headlights bore down on her, and then there was the slam of brakes, horns honking, as someone dragged her out of the road, onto the sidewalk, and she half expected to look up and see Reno.
“You should be more careful, miss,” the tired-looking man said. “You could have been killed.”
“Thank you,” she said shakily, rising to her feet. The light had changed, and people were moving forward, though there were a few curious glances in her direction. She followed them, heading for the parking lot, her hands and knees scraped from her fall.
It wasn’t until she got back in her car that reaction set in. She was shaking, badly, and she leaned back, closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths.
It had almost felt as if someone had shoved her. But that was impossible—it had to be post-traumatic stress or something ridiculous like that. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d done it on her own, unconsciously.
No, that was ridiculous. She was over him, completely, and she wasn’t going to go wandering out in traffic like some pathetic loser. She was getting on with her life.
She pulled out into the evening traffic, heading up toward the Hollywood Hills. Maybe her mother was right, maybe she needed Paris. Someplace where she wouldn’t keep looking for Reno around every corner, where she wouldn’t imagine his eyes on her wherever she went.
She wiped the tears off her face as she sped up. She’d never been one to cry—it wasn’t her style. She’d grown up tough and calm and capable. When your own mother was a spoiled child, someone had to be the grown-up—and when Summer wasn’t around, the task had fallen to her.
If Lianne was joking about Paris, which she might very well be, then she could go to England, visit Peter and Genevieve Madsen. The countryside in Wiltshire was a good place to heal. She’d watched her sister make peace with her life there—she could probably do the same.
But her sister had had a happy ending. Taka had come for her in the end. That wasn’t going to happen with Reno. No one was coming for her. There was no happy ending.
The truck came out of nowhere. It slammed into her lightweight Honda, pushing her toward the side of the road, to the edge of the overpass. She stomped on the brakes, trying desperately to steer, but the car was still moving, and she knew she was going to die. Her car was going to tumble over the bridge and land on