If he'd had to search the ends of the Earth for her, Baljeet knows he would have found her.
Because she's Ginger and he's Baljeet and that's just how they work.
He's on a shore somewhere along a lake in Japan and damned if he knows which one. All he can figure out is that it's deserted (probably), it's peaceful (sorta), and it's beautiful (well, of course, it is Japan). The only sounds he can hear are the crackling of fires blazing inside paper lanterns along the shore and soft waves crashing gently onto the sand and winds twisting through the air.
It's almost like Mother Nature herself is sleeping – oh, but he knows that's not true, because she's sitting there (and isn't she supposed to be in hiding or something?), palms braced on the sand, head tilted up towards the moon and the stars, and she's possibly the most radiant thing he's ever seen and –
Oh, right. He had something to do here.
"What are you doing here, Ginger?" he asks once he's within hearing distance, his voice low and soft, not wanting to disturb the peace.
Ginger jumps, brown eyes wide as she turns to face him. For a second, she smiles and it lights up her face, but then it's gone, as quickly as the wind breezes through the beach. "Baljeet! What are you doing here?"
Baljeet grins. "I asked you first," he retorts.
Ginger giggles. "I'm waiting for the stars to die."
He raises an eyebrow. "You might be the only girl who says that instead of 'watching the sun rise'."
She shrugs. "It's Japan. I'm feeling the urge to wax poetic. I think it's your turn to answer."
"Right." Baljeet runs a hand through his curly black hair. "I'm looking for you."
Brown eyes, brighter than the ocean, glance sidelong at him. "Found me."
Her voice is light and innocent and teasing, as if she hadn't run away from home, as if her family wasn't scouring the US for her, as if she hadn't caused him days of worry and panic, as if she hadn't just made him want to kiss her senseless, and, oh, this is not good because she's one of hisclose friends and this kind of stuff only happens in movies or fairytales or –
"My turn." Ginger turns away from the ocean waves and crosses her legs. "Are you going to force me home?"
Baljeet swallows, knowing instinctively that his eyes are already softening under her – because Ginger just has this shine about her that brings out the worst (or is that the best?) in him.
"Not if you do not want me to."
She smiles, the expression easy and sweet, much more little-girl than the pretty and admired beauty she (part-Japanese and part-Uruguayan, extremely attractive, in the top of her class, remember?) was supposed to be in high school. "Your turn, then."
"Oh, are we playing a game, then?" He doesn't find it strange at all that they're falling back into their high school patterns, of tentatively naïve games and innocence. That's just them, if you did not know.
"I suppose so," Ginger answers, and behind her, ripples move against to the shore. He wonders if she has any idea what she does to him.
"Why did you run away from home?" he fires off, inciting a sigh from her.
"You tell me," she answers, leaning back, ebony strands flowing down her back like a regal queen – oh, but she's not, is she? "Maybe it was because I went to the Memorial Gala for my father this year and nobody wished me a happy birthday. Maybe it was because everyone expects me to become a scientist, like Dad was. Maybe it's because my mom expects me to ace my MCATs in my sleep. Maybe it's because you stopped replying to my messages years ago. Maybe it's because you became another one of the big names from Danville's "golden generation." Maybe it's because you left, Baljeet, you left and you went journeying the world with your childhood friend and exotic food and other exotic girls and, really, Baljeet, what was I supposed to do?"
There's something lodged in his throat.
All he seems to be capable of doing is staring at her, at this pretty little girl who was supposed to be just that – a pretty little girl – and somehow, over fifteen years, became his best friend, who even with four years of distance between them somehow knew him better than he knew himself, a girl he can't live without, a girl he'll go crazy without, a girl who he might be possiblykindofmightbe in love with. Perhaps Isabella was right, the Nile was really more than just a river in Egypt.
"Ginger," he whispers, the words sandpaper in his throat. "Ginger, please come home."
Ginger looks away, determination blazing in those ocean-blue eyes of hers. "I can't. Not until I figure out who the hell I am and where I fit in this crazy world."
"That—that's not fair," Baljeet stammers. "We miss you, we love you, I miss you, I—"
No dice.
The words are stuck in his throat – Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou – but she's not listening and this damned country seems like a terrible thing now, stealing her attention, her love, Ginger from him, and he's never hated a country before, but he thinks he might want to start.
"Aunt Asami and Uncle Izuru said I could stay with them as long as I need to," Ginger replies, voice soft, words harsh. "They're working on the paperwork to transfer me to Todai. I can sit my MCATs here and finish out school in London and—"
"No," Baljeet whispers, the word torn from his throat. "Please. Ginger, please don't do that. We all want you to come home."
He can almost see her control snapping.
"Come home and do what?" she demands, exploding like a firework, dazzlingly bright against the backdrop of seas and midnight. "Come home and try to be the perfect daughter, pretty little meek Ginger, who always studies, who always follows her friends, always gets exceptional grades and never gets the boy? Come home and be ignored on my birthday just because some idiot decided to murder my father outside his own office before I was even born? Come home and be told I'm selfish for wanting a cake and 'Happy Birthday' sung to me when I should be honoring the dead?"
She stops to catch her breath, and he thinks she's never looked prettier than she does right now.
"Come home and try to hide all my flaws because that's what everyone expects, Baljeet?" Her voice is softer now, and the light in her amber eyes is dimming. "I can't do that. I'm sorry. I'm tired of being some picture-perfect doll. I'm not. I'm human. And most people don't want to realize that because they just want people to only see their problems. Nobody pays atten—"
Without a second thought, Baljeet leans over and kisses her.
Her rant fades, but her light reignites, and the taste of peppermint fills his mouth with a rush. She's light in his arms, molding to his body as if they were made for each other (and he's not normally one to speak in clichés, but this is an exception), and her touch sends butterflies blazing in his insides and fire searing up his body. There's fireworks and magic and dreams coming true and, oh, it's everything he's ever imagined, exhilarating and burning and magical.
She draws back, blue eyes full of ocean dreams. "Baljeet, I—"
"I won't leave you again," he promises fiercely, hugging her like he's wanted to. "Come home, Ginger. Please. Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg or something?"
For the first time in what seems like forever, a genuine smile graces her face. "That would be nice."
Baljeet laughs and leans down to kiss her again, and maybe it's not enough – she's got problems and he's got problems and they still need to sort them all out, because they're human and that's just what they do, after all.
But they're also GingerandBaljeet and maybe this – them by the ocean under stars waiting to die – really is enough.