Bryan Washington

A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR A GOOD MORNING AMERICA BOOK CLUB PICK Named a Best Book of the Year by The New York Times, The Washington Post, TIME, NPR, Entertainment Weekly, Vanity Fair, O, the Oprah Magazine, Esquire, Marie Claire, Harper's Bazaar, Good Housekeeping, Refinery29, Real Simple, Kirkus Reviews, Electric Literature, and Lit Hub "A masterpiece." --NPR "No other novel this year captures so gracefully the full palette of America." --The Washington Post "Wryly funny, gently devastating." --Entertainment Weekly A funny and profound story about family in all its strange forms, joyful and hard-won vulnerability, becoming who you're supposed to be, and the limits of love. Benson and Mike are two young guys who live together in Houston. Mike is a Japanese American chef at a Mexican restaurant and Benson's a Black day care teacher, and they've been together for a few years--good years--but now they're not sure why they're still a couple. There's the sex, sure, and the meals Mike cooks for Benson, and, well, they love each other. But when Mike finds out his estranged father is dying in Osaka just as his acerbic Japanese mother, Mitsuko, arrives in Texas for a visit, Mike picks up and flies across the world to say goodbye. In Japan he undergoes an extraordinary transformation, discovering the truth about his family and his past. Back home, Mitsuko and Benson are stuck living together as unconventional roommates, an absurd domestic situation that ends up meaning more to each of them than they ever could have predicted. Without Mike's immediate pull, Benson begins to push outwards, realizing he might just know what he wants out of life and have the goods to get it. Both men will change in ways that will either make them stronger together, or fracture everything they've ever known. And just maybe they'll all be okay in the end.

A Novel

Memorial

Storm

That loving a person means letting them change when they need to. And letting them go when they need to. And that doesn't make them any less of a home. Just maybe not one for you. Or only for a season or two. But that doesn't diminish the love. It just changes forms.

Laura Wilson

And I start to thank her, but then the kids start yelling, and the dog starts barking, and my mother's husband calls her name, and everything on her end dissolves into noise.

I promise, he says, and that's what I take to sleep with me.

Mike's never promised me anything. Only delivered or didn't. He always said that promises were only words, and words only meant what you made them.

I dreamt about my father back when I was a kid, snuggled beside Ma, when I couldn't sleep by myself for the first year after he left. 

I dreamt about my father while I slept beside who knows how many fuckers.

Memorial quotes

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