Free Bound by Tradition by Roxy Harte Page B

as one of his nude models, just me and him and a few dozen onlookers. I imagined myself screaming in orgasm.
    I have lost my mind.
    Maybe I had, because the peace that descended on my brain in the desert returned tenfold. I could hear the seconds ticking by on a clock a room away. It matched my heartbeat, and Shiro’s breath. If there were others still in the room, they faded into the walls, no longer a distraction.
    I felt my feet leave the ground as he pulled me into an arching backbend. I was flying—several feet off the ground at any rate—feet and head high, my belly sagging. He tied my ponytail into the configuration of knots so that my face couldn’t drop forward even if I wanted to hide. Maybe that was the idea. My back felt the first twinge of ache, as did my shoulders, elbows, and ankles. I might have been a flexible pretzel girl, but this was a new sensation, and my body wasn’t 100 percent sure it was happy about it. My muscles burned, a screaming heat, but when he asked me if the position felt okay, I answered, “Yes.”
    Do I feel okay?
    How long could I comfortably stay this way? I didn’t know. I wasn’t so sure I was comfortable then, but I wasn’t complaining. It was no worse than hundreds of push-ups.
    I should be at karate.
    I felt horrible knowing my father was watching the clock, counting down the minutes until I was late, counting down the minutes until I was so unacceptably late I was no longer welcome under his roof.
    Funny, before the weekend of enlightenment—that’s how I’d come to look at my moment in the desert—I’d thought of the house I’d grown up in as my home, but now I see it was always his house, his rules, and though I’d always jokingly acknowledged both, I never really felt like I didn’t have a home. I felt that now. A home should be a sanctuary away from the people who make you feel like crap during your day, away from all the demands and judgments.
    I felt sorry for my dad, not guilty.
    I knew if he had his way, I would be so guilt- and remorse-filled I would be racing home this instant to beg forgiveness. I’d been conditioned to only be happy if he was happy. He’d always wrapped his love for me in conditions, bound to traditions and rules that weren’t even based on his own legacy, but forged in the philosophy of others whom he hoped to emulate. I wondered if he was still trying to win Rumiko’s love, thinking if he could just be Japanese enough? Or whether that was just my own imagination, filling in the gaps about that which I knew little.
    Or was he just a bully, using words like tradition and honor and commitment as excuses.
    The clock ticked with my heartbeat, until my heartbeat started moving faster than the clock. What was I thinking? If I didn’t go to karate, I couldn’t go home tonight. Where in the hell am I going to go if I don’t go home? I feel like I am going to hyperventilate. Ohgodohgodohgod!
    “Breathe!” Shiro commanded. I thought I was.
    He spun me in a circle so that I was facing away from the crowd, looking solely at him. He was still the same. Patient. Kind. Happy.
    I want to be happy.
    “Allow yourself to be happy,” he said, and I thought, did I say that out loud?
    “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said in a whispered rush. “I can’t go home.”
    “Sure you can. This session won’t last past your bedtime.”
    “No, when I left, he said not to come back. Where will I sleep tonight?”
    Shiro didn’t ask for details; he only asked, “Where do you want to sleep?”
    I knew his voice was hushed, but I wondered if the old couple in the front row could hear everything.
    “I’d like to sleep with you tonight.”
    He cradled my face in his hands and kissed me. “Then you sleep with me tonight. Fill your heart with joy, little bird, and fly free.”
    Little bird? Oh hell, he’s killing me with the pet names. At least he didn’t call me grasshopper…
    He walked away from me and started addressing the class.