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protective
outer layer. The same is true with family. They’re an outer layer,
a protection from the world. At least that’s what they’re supposed
to be.” He paused. “Think about what happens when you screw with an
animal that has one of those hard shells. What does he
do?”
    “ He goes into
it.”
    “ Right. He retreats.” He
thumbed the shell thoughtfully. “Now imagine if you were to rip the
shell off a turtle and expose him. What do you think you’d
find?”
    Deena cringed. “Something
soft and hurting.
    “ And dead, if not close to
it. So, our hypothetical turtle, who’s able to stand our shell
transplant for the sake of comparison, needs another shell, another
form of protection. And so do you.” Tak handed the grooved and
sand-polished subject to Deena. She looked down at it.
    “ So, how’ve I been
surviving all this time then? What’s my shell?”
    Tak grinned.
    “ Tell you what. I’ll let
you know when I crack it.”
    He plucked the shell from
her hands and tossed it in the waters. The two stopped, ocean
rushing their feet, saturating then receding.
    “ Who the hell told you to
take my shell?” Deena demanded. She would’ve sounded more
incredulous if she could’ve kept from smiling.
    “ Your shell? I’m the one
who bent and plucked it. All you did was stand there with your hand
out.”
    Deena giggled. And before
she knew it, she’d shoved him. Never had she pushed someone before.
But the feeling it gave her, watching him stumble just a tad, was
enough to make her squeal in mischief. She darted off, hoping he
would follow.
    He did.
    Through the sand they
dashed, laughing as their footprints grew closer and closer before
merging with her capture.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    When Deena went to work for
Daichi Tanaka as an intern four years ago, she was shoved into a
cubicle with the breadth and gloss of a sterilized broom closet.
Her desk back then was a flimsy white contraption, held steady by
the half dozen texts she memorized as per Daichi Tanaka’s
request.
    Of the twenty interns Daichi
took on each year, Deena had been the first he’d ever offered
employment. With the vote of confidence, Deena’s workspace moved
from a broom closet cubicle to an office on the third floor. It had
a single window, bare white walls and a drab gray carpet. But it
was hers.
    Her desk as an intern and
the one she had now, had both been adorned with a single potted
plant—a bonsai named Hope.
    Hope was a forgiving bloom,
hacked in inexperience, frustration and anger. Ever lending a
patient ear, she listened as Deena prattled about her apprehensions
and fears, and forgave for skipped feedings and sunlight. Hope
flourished no matter her treatment, almost as if aware of how much
Deena needed her to.
    Deena’s reliance on Hope was
beginning to wane. These days, she found it much more rewarding to
seek out a certain guy with an easy smile and a tender touch when
she wanted to talk. She hoped the bonsai didn’t mind.
    Despite the shimmering
sunlight of an early spring day, Deena was behind her desk. Her
workspace was a streamlined one because a cluttered mind led to
cluttered work. She had only her M.I.T. degree on the wall, hung
with a single nail. A drafting table, L-shaped desk and charcoal
gray swivel chair sat in the center of the room. On one side was a
bookshelf crammed with must-have references, on another a
high-backed guest chair, and in the center of it all, was
Hope.
    It was the sort of day when
the sky was a silky seamless blue, when the ocean shimmered as if
buffed to a high gloss and sunshine glistened like melting honey.
It was the kind of day that emptied out the Tanaka Firm like a fire
drill. Daichi’s employs found countless ways to get out of the
office—lunch with a client, site evaluations, scouting potential
construction locations—anything, really. But not Deena, Deena was
business without fail.
    She spent the morning
working on the plans to remodel a