Almost Completely
Copyright© 2026 by Komiko Yakamura
Chapter 13: What We’re Building
He found her on a Saturday morning in March.
Not at the step — he texted first this time. Can we talk. Properly. Just us.
She came out in her coat with her hair up and looked at him and understood from his face that this was not a morning walk conversation. This was the kind of conversation that needed to be sat down for.
“The hill?” she said.
“The hill.”
They walked up through the Douglas fir without talking much. The March air was cold and clean and the harbor below was doing something silver in the morning light. They found the bench and sat and he didn’t pour tea or make a preamble. He just turned to face her the way he did when he meant business.
“I want to talk about us,” he said. “Not today and not next month. I mean what we’re actually building.”
She held his gaze. “Okay.”
“My father’s smokehouse isn’t going to run itself. My grandmother has knowledge that dies with her if nobody carries it. The language — four people, Amara. Four.” He looked at the water briefly. “I’m staying. That was never a question for me. But I need it to not be a question between us either.”
“It’s not a question for me.”
“You had plans.”
“I had an escape hatch,” she said. “That’s different from a plan.” She looked at her hands. “I’ve been thinking about this since my birthday. Since before that honestly.” She looked up. “You know what this town didn’t have before my mother opened that store?”
“A reason for people to drive two hours.”
“Us,” she said. “It didn’t have us. Someone who knows what dawadawa is and why the first salmon gets thanked. Someone whose children will grow up knowing both.” She paused. “I don’t want to go to Chicago and become someone whose heritage is something she visits on holidays. I watched that happen to people in Houston. I’m not doing that.”
He looked at her steadily. “This isn’t about me.”
“No,” she said. “It’s about everything. You’re part of everything.”
The harbor moved below them. A fishing boat was coming in early, cutting a white line through the silver water.
“There’s more,” he said.
“Tell me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at the water the way he did when he was assembling words carefully.
“My father and I have talked about expanding. Not big — a retail space attached to the smokehouse. Sell direct instead of wholesale. My grandmother’s recipes, properly documented, jars with the family name on them.” He paused. “Your mother’s store and our smokehouse are two doors apart. We’ve been acting like that’s coincidence.”
She stared at him.
“It’s not coincidence,” she said slowly.
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