by Jackie Lau
I sob around a bite of taro ice cream, and Chloe squeezes my shoulders.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to love someone else the way I love Josh. Not anytime soon, though. I can’t bear the thought of being with anyone but Josh Yu right now.
At least now I know that a relationship isn’t something I have to avoid. It doesn’t have to stop me from my dreams. And yes, opening myself up to someone and letting them into my life was scary, and yes, I got hurt, but it showed me that love is worth it.
We finish the bottle of wine, and Chloe jumps up to get another. I tell her which cupboard to look in, and in addition to the wine, she pulls out a box of Lucky Charms—yes, I keep my wine next to my cereal—and a Ziploc bag of Lucky Charms marshmallows.
Oh.
Oh.
“Why are there marshmallows in a separate bag?” she asks.
“I, um, bought a box, meticulously took out all the rainbows and unicorns and other marshmallows, and replaced them with...something else.” My cheeks flame. “Then I swapped that ‘special’ box with the one in Josh’s cupboard.”
“What did you replace them with?” Valerie asks.
I tell my friends, and they burst into laughter.
For the first time since Pi Day, I really, truly laugh, too.
It’ll take a while—probably a long, long while—but somehow, I’m going to be okay.
Chapter 25
Josh
Something hits me in the head.
Blearily, I open my eyes and lift my head from my desk. There’s a Hazelnut Tech pen next to my hand and Amrita is standing at the door.
I check the clock. 6:15 pm. How long was I out?
“I can’t believe you fell asleep at work,” she says. “Tsk, tsk, setting such a poor example for your employees.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well lately.” Last night, I managed four hours, and that was much better than the night before.
Amrita strides into the room and puts her hands on her hips. “You’ve been in a funk ever since the party, but the party went well. What aren’t you telling me?”
“My dad isn’t talking to me again.”
“I thought things were better?”
“We had a heart-to-heart talk on Friday morning, but then Sarah came downstairs. He flipped out that I had a girl over and refused to believe she was my girlfriend and...” I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about this, but I have to tell Amrita at some point. She’s my closest friend. “And I broke up with Sarah.”
“You broke up with Sarah?”
“Stop screaming. My head hurts.”
“Why on earth did you break up with her?”
I gesture vaguely. “Because it’ll never work out, and it’s easier to end it now.”
Though it’s been far from easy. I was a mess all weekend, moping around my house, looking at pi napkins and pi tablecloths as I thought of her.
I didn’t expect it would be anywhere near this bad, but in the past few weeks, Sarah has become an important part of my life. When we got a big client at work today, she was the person I most wanted to tell. But I didn’t.
Amrita rolls her eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“She told me she loved me,” I say morosely.
“Uh-huh. That scared the shit out of you?”
“Well, it was a bit soon.”
“Do you love her back?”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “Why does that matter?”
“I don’t know what else matters.”
“It can’t work, like I said.”
“Why not?”
I sigh. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I didn’t either, but then I met Holly.” Amrita holds up her ring with a smile. “It just took the right person, and I think Sarah might be the right person for you.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
I expect her to laugh, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she walks over to me and grasps my shoulders. “If you don’t get your head out of your ass, I’m going to deliberately pour hot ramen all over your crotch.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Why, Josh? Why don’t you think it will last?”
“Because love doesn’t last for me.”
“You had one relationship before Sarah came along, and that was in high school, and... Oh. I get it. This is about your daddy issues, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have daddy issues,” I protest.
“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say.”
“You’re infuriating when you use that tone, did you know that?”
She just stands there, arms crossed. “Mm-hmm. Whatever you say.”
“Amrita!”
“You think your father doesn’t love you—and I understand why, given his actions—so you don’t see how anyone else could keep loving you, either, and you still haven’t forgiven yourself for what happened when you were a teenager. But the giant rift between you and your father is on him, not you. I’ve seen how hard you try to make him proud, your efforts to talk to him. You threw a goddamn Pi Day party to entice him to come to Toronto.” She takes a deep breath. “You need to let this go. It’s frustrating to see how your self-worth and your ability to accept love is tied to your father, and he’s shown over and over that he’s not worthy of you.”
“But he’s my father, and he’s a decent person. Really, he is. If Sarah hadn’t slept over...”
“You’re thirty-three years old. There is nothing wrong with having your girlfriend sleep in your own house.”
“Except my parents were there. And they didn’t know she was my girlfriend.”
Amrita sighs. “You have to stop letting him have so much of an invisible presence in your life. You need to make room for other people. Beneath the easy confidence you project much of the time, you’re vulnerable.”
“You sound like Sarah.”
“Because we’re both smart women.”
I pick up the pen Amrita threw at me and toss it at her. She catches it easily.
“Let’s go out for beers,” she says.
“Now you’re talking.”
“And you can help me plan my wedding.”
“Um...”
“Just kidding! Man, you should see the look on your face. Will you be in the wedding party, though? Plan me a nice bachelorette party?”
“Of course,” I say with a smile.
I will absolutely do that for Amrita.
* * *
It’s Tuesday after work, and a pot of beef stew is simmering on the stove. I made it to give me some connection to Sarah, to remind me of the night I cooked for her.
I miss her so much.
But this will go away soon, won’t it?
It can’t last much longer, right?
Unfortunately, I’m starting to fear that might not be true.
It doesn’t have to be like this! says a voice inside my head, which sounds suspiciously like Amrita.
I don’t know. Amrita is just high on love because she recently got engaged.
There are a couple of reports I need to read, a few e-mails to respond to, so I pick up my laptop as I wait for the stew to cook.
Ten minutes later, I give up. I can’t concentrate and I have zero motivation, which isn’t like me at all. I’m usually driven. That’s how I got where I am in life.
How much did that have to do with trying to make my father proud? Would Hazelnut Tech have been as successful if I hadn’t been determined to mend the rift with my father?
I’m not sure, but I’m happy with my professional life. I don’t wish I’d done things differently.
I close the laptop. Perhaps I need a vacation. Sitting on a beach in the Caribbean with Sarah—now that would be a good way to spend a week.
Except I broke up with Sarah, and that’s the reason I’m down in the dumps. Also my father, but in truth, it’s her more than anything.
I miss her so much, but this is the way it has to be
.
The doorbell rings four times in a row.
Goddammit, I heard you the first time.
I stalk to the door, ready to give the person who’s trying to sell me duct or window cleaning a piece of my mind.
But when I thrust open the door, I’m too stunned to speak.
My mother is standing on my front porch, her purse in one hand, the handle of a rolling suitcase clutched in the other. Her expression is blazing.
Great. Just what I need. Another woman who’s pissed off at me.
Still, I instinctively flip into Good Son mode and grab her suitcase and usher her inside. “Did you drive all the way from Ottawa?” I can’t imagine it. My mother hates driving long distances.
She shakes her head. “I took the train.”
“With Dad?”
“That idiot? No!” She utters some choice words in Cantonese about my father.
My eyes bug out of my head. I’ve never heard her speak like this before.
She takes off her boots, marches into the living room, and plants herself on my sofa. “I’m staying with you now.” She doesn’t ask; she just says it’s happening.
“For how long?”
“Until he apologizes!”
“For what?” I’m vibrating with rage. What did Dad do to her?
“Don’t be stupid. You know what for. Until he talks to you again.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. That’s all it is. Good. “I think you’ll be waiting a while.”
“I don’t care. I refuse to go back until that donkey-brained numbskull treats you with respect!”
I attempt to suppress a laugh, but it sneaks out anyway.
“Joshua!”
“I’m sorry. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d call anyone—least of all Dad—a donkey-brained numbskull.”
“Well, it’s the new me.”
I admit, I’m a bit terrified.
“He treats me like a delicate blossom, always saying I shouldn’t trouble myself with this or that or I’ll make myself sicker, but I’ve been cancer-free for over a decade. I will not put up with this stupid coddling any longer. I will not ignore the way he’s treating you. I should have put my foot down a long time ago.” She stomps her foot to emphasize her point.
I’m not sure what to say. A part of me is glad she’s taken my side so decisively, but I’m afraid I will now have my mother living with me for the rest of her life, and that isn’t something I was quite prepared for, not at this point in time.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I made beef stew.” I gesture for her to follow me into the kitchen, where I ladle out two bowls of stew and cut some of the baguette I bought on the way home.
“So fancy! Like you knew I was coming.” Her gaze is caught by something on the fridge. “Melinda is getting married? And she invited you?”
Ugh. I’d left the invitation on the fridge to remind me to ask Sarah if she’d be my date.
Well, that’s not happening now.
“I saw her on the news the other day,” Mom says, “talking about the changes to the sex-ed curriculum. She is so well-spoken. I used to think maybe you would get back together and marry her one day.”
“I don’t feel that way about Melinda anymore. I haven’t for a long time.” It’s hard to believe my mother actually wanted that to happen. Dad would have been furious—a reminder of what happened when I was a teenager.
“I know, I know. You have Sarah now!”
I start to protest, but she continues talking before I can get a word in.
“I think we failed you in some ways,” she says. “Focusing on school, going to a good university. We did not think about the reality of high school. Drugs, sex, rock ’n’ roll.”
“Um...”
“We should have had proper talks with you about these things.”
“About rock music?”
“Ah, don’t silly! You know what I mean. Peer pressure, safe sex. Should not have left it all to the school.”
“We did learn about those things in school, but... Can we not have this conversation?”
“I want to ask about Sarah! I’m very happy for you. I knew that one day, you would get over this bachelor lifestyle and find a woman.” Mom tries a bite of the stew. “Mm, this is delicious. Did she teach you how to make it?”
I shake my head. “Sarah and I broke up.”
“What? I just saw you on Friday. Is it because of your father? Aiyah! He is a donkey-brained numbskull, scaring off your girlfriend. I know, he said it was tacky, probably made her feel like a cheap whore, and she decided she wanted nothing to do with your family.”
I can’t get used to the way my mother is talking today—she’s so different when it’s just the two of us. I guess Dad cast a long shadow over all of my interactions with her. She’s angry, but she’s also lively. It’s nice in a way, even if I’m scrambling to keep up.
“Sarah didn’t dump me,” I say. “I broke up with her.”
“Why?”
I shake my head again.
Mom throws a piece of bread at me. “Fine, don’t tell me, I’ll get answers out of you later. I expect I’ll be staying here for a while. But I want you to know: I don’t care that she’s white. We already went through it with Nancy, and it was an adjustment, yes, but no problem.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mom, can we not talk about Sarah for a while?”
“Fine, fine.”
We watch a Cantonese drama after dinner, and my mother gets annoyed with me when we have to turn on the English subtitles because I can’t quite catch everything.
Afterward, I make up the guest room for her, and then I go to bed and stare at the ceiling for a long time, which is my usual bedtime routine these days.
* * *
When I get home from work on Wednesday, my mom serves me winter melon soup and we talk about my day at work. It’s nice to have her here. I’m sure I’ll get sick of having her around soon enough, but for now, I prefer it to being alone, with only Sarah to occupy my thoughts.
“Why did you break up with Sarah?” Mom asks.
Great. I bet she’ll ask me every day until I give a satisfactory answer.
I have to tell her something, but what pops out of my mouth is a surprise.
“I don’t deserve it.”
I didn’t realize it until I spoke the words, but that’s the reason. After Sarah and I spent our first night together, I realized I’d been holding myself back from relationships in part because I felt like I didn’t deserve it. But then I started telling myself that wasn’t true, until the argument with my father made me feel otherwise.
“Why not?” Mom demands. “Nice young man like you, of course you deserve it!” She pauses. “Ah, I understand. Your father won’t talk to you, so you still haven’t forgiven yourself for being a foolish teenager. But he is a donkey-brained numbskull—no need to pay attention to him.”
“He’s your husband.”
She shrugs. “For now.”
“What? Are you thinking of getting a divorce?”
The thought seems almost scandalous. None of their friends are divorced.
“I hope not,” she says, “but look how much he has messed you up, and he’s gotten in the way of our relationship, too.” She gestures between us. “Because of him, you only come home at Christmas, and I don’t blame you. And it’s hard for me to come to Toronto because I don’t like driving far. He is haunting every conversation between us, but I won’t let him, not anymore.”
She drops her soup spoon and puts her hand on mine, and I’m trying not to cry, but I will eventually lose the battle.
Now that I’ve heard it not just from Amrita, but from my mother, I understand it’s true. I haven’t forgiven myself. And since I haven’t forgiven myself, I couldn’t sincerely believe I deserved it, and one conversation with my father was enough for me to back away from what I had with Sarah.
Because of what happened when we were younger, Melinda became a sex-ed crusader who encour
ages parents—especially in the Chinese community—to have the difficult conversations, even if it’s taboo. In many ways, the incident was far worse for her, and yes, it affected who she became, but it hasn’t stopped her from living her life. She hasn’t let it.
I have.
It’s not true that love won’t last for me. My mother may have been disappointed in me many times, but her love was never conditional, even if she rarely spoke of it. I have a good relationship with my sisters. With Amrita, who loves me in a platonic way, even when I’m being an idiot and she throws chopsticks and pens at my head. I’ve known her for over a decade and we built a business together...and we’re still close.
Sarah is nothing like my father, and it’s not true that I know nothing about love. A different kind of love, but still.
I love Sarah.
I love every single part of her, and the time we spent together was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.
I want her back.
But first I have to forgive myself, and I can do that now.
I forgive myself for not meeting all of my father’s expectations when I was young. Like many teenagers, I had sex. I tried drugs. I skipped class. I wasn’t a model student like my sisters; I wasn’t exactly who my father wanted me to be. But that doesn’t make me a bad person.
I’m happy with who I am today, and the journey that led me to Sarah Winters.
“I do deserve it.”
“Finally,” Mom says. “You are showing how smart you are!”
I chuckle and spoon more soup into my mouth. As I swallow, a strange sense of freedom spreads through my body.
Freedom from my father. Freedom from the past.
I won’t let the past stop me from moving forward. I will allow myself to love a woman who wiped butter tart filling from my lips before she knew my name, a woman who accidentally stabbed me with a fork. A woman who is sexy and ambitious and can make incredible pie.
Speaking of pie, I smell something other than winter melon soup in the kitchen. Sure enough, butter tarts are cooling on a rack on the counter.
When Mom sees where I’m looking, she stands up and piles some tarts on a plate for me.
“I don’t know why I made these,” she says. “You have a terrible diet and I should not be encouraging it.”
