by Pintip Dunn
We slip off our shoes, making sure we step over the enlarged threshold. A hallway leads past a large open room, with a three-dimensional metal-cast image of the Buddha. Inside, a few people sit on the floor, praying. The air is tinged with the smell of incense.
Seven Buddha images line the hallway, one representing the god for each day of the week. I walk down the row, placing money into each donation box, and lead Kavya to another Buddha image, which sits in front of a basin of water. After a quick prayer over clasped hands, I pick up the ladle and pour water on the Buddha’s forehead. This is exactly what I need today: a clearing of the mind.
“You can pour the water wherever you want,” I whisper to Kavya. “The heart, the back. Wherever there’s pain or confusion you want to wash away.”
She nods and then resolutely trickles water onto the Buddha’s chest.
We walk through the back door to the open lawn and put our shoes back on. The calm doesn’t so much evaporate as it explodes. Hordes of people mill around two rows of food stands. Everywhere I look, I catch sight of my favorite dishes. Both my eyes and my nose are flooded with grilled meats and fish sauce, coconut milk and sugar. I was born into this cacophony of taste and color and scents, and it never fails to give me comfort.
“Where do we even start?” Kavya asks.
I laugh. “We just pick a spot and dive in.”
I purchase some coupons at a nearby cash register, and then we step into the fray.
Before long, we’re alternatively taking bites from bundles of sticky rice and skewers of moo ping, or grilled pork.
“This is the best.” Kavya closes her eyes, as though that will allow her to better taste the food. “We should have Songkran every month. Every week.”
I rip off a hunk of pork with my teeth. Food is not just a sliver of our culture but also a thread that connects the entire tapestry of who we are. We use it to socialize—and to take care of one another.
I’m still chewing, my mouth unattractively full, when Kavya nudges me. “Don’t look now, but your favorite person is at ten o’clock.”
I can’t help it. I look. Mat strides through the crowd, wearing a long-sleeve Mandarin-collared shirt with gold buttons, along with baggy, light-weight trousers.
“Holy hotness, what is he wearing?” Kavya gapes.
“Traditional Thai clothes,” I say. “Like mine.”
She emits a low whistle through her teeth. “It suits him.”
I can’t argue. A phraratchatan is a good look on Mat. How come I’ve never noticed before?
He turns his head at that precise moment. Our eyes catch—and hold. Two seconds? Five seconds? I’m not sure how long we stare at each other, but he eventually rips his gaze away to greet an older woman. The fierceness on his face morphs into an expression of deference as he drops his head and gives a slight bow over prayer-clasped hands in order to wai the elder.
Respects paid, Mat raises his gaze and finds me once more. But he does more than stare this time. He heads straight in my direction.
I swallow hard. Uh-oh. Let the fake date begin.
Chapter Sixteen
Mat stomps up to us. His brows are scrunched; his face is red. He’s about as agitated as I’ve ever seen him. I instinctively tighten my shoulders, bracing myself, but Kavya speaks first.
“Hi, Mat.” Her tone is sly, but her face is the pencil sketch of innocence. She even widens her eyes, blinking rapidly, in case he didn’t get the memo.
He halts, in much the same way he paused to pay respect to the elder. Indecision wars over his face: annoyance at me versus ingrained politeness. Politeness wins out, as I knew it would. The attribute’s only been drilled into us since the day we were born.
“Hello, Kavya,” he says smoothly. “You look pretty today.”
She rolls her eyes, since he’s only glanced at her for the two seconds it took to make his statement.
“Are you having a lovely Songkran?” she asks, her voice extra-chipper. She’s just messing with him now. My best friend loves nothing better than to thwart a person on a mission.
But Mat is a worthy opponent. “As lovely as the lod chong is long,” he says, referring to the tapioca flour noodle that’s served with crushed ice and coconut milk, two tables to our left. He hands a coupon to Kavya. “In fact, you should try it. You’ll love it.”
She’s been effectively dismissed—and we all know it. “I’ll leave you two to your date,” Kavya purrs, “but it’s going to cost you.” She snatches up the coupon and holds out her hand for more. Mat gamely hands over the rest of his coupon book.
“Be good. Or, you know, don’t be. Whatever suits you best,” she says, backing away. I step forward to try and delay her departure. But it’s like trying to catch water with my bare hands: she’s gone.
“Come with me,” Mat demands. When I just stare, he amends his statement. “Please? With a cherry on top?”
I sigh. Fine. But only because I used to say that all the time as a kid—and he remembered. “Lead the way.”
We squeeze through the crowd, and Mat stops in front of a large willow tree, whose low branches droop all the way to the ground. He jerks his head, indicating that I should follow, and then disappears behind the thick curtain of leaves.
This guy is entirely too arrogant, and part of me loathes to do anything he asks. But I have to admit, the other, bigger part is dying to know what he thought of the photo I texted.
I take a deep breath. Square my shoulders. And walk in after him.
…
The leaves scratch over my arms and scalp. And then we’re in our own world. In the shade of the tree, the midday sun has been muted to the shadows you typically find in the early evening, and individual conversations blend into soothing background noise.
In reality, the food stands are probably only thirty feet away from us. But the drooping branches block their sight—if not their scents, if not their sounds—so it’s easy to believe that we’re the only two people around.
Without preamble, Mat thrusts his cell phone in my face. “What is the meaning of this?”
I don’t have to look to know the screen displays the photo I sent last night.
“Have your powers of observation fled?” I ask calmly. “That’s a picture of my green dress on the floor of my bedroom.”
“I know what it is,” he grounds out. “I just don’t know why you would text that to me, right before bedtime. Did you want to wreck my entire night’s sleep?”
I try not to smile. “Why would it wreck your sleep?”
“Because I laid awake all night, trying to figure out if you were punking me!”
“You said you wanted a photo.” My pulse is pounding. I’m not sure where I’m getting the courage to have this conversation. But Bunny’s always telling me to ride the wave of adrenaline, so I just go with it. “Would you rather have a photo of the necklace that goes with the dress? Or maybe my high-heeled shoes? A wrap for my shoulders?”
Mat snorts. “Is this your idea of flirting with me? Giving me a rundown of your clothes and accessories?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as ridiculous as I feel. “Is it working?”
He shoves a hand through his hair. “Bizarrely enough, it kinda is.”
I grin. Oh. Now I get the reason for his annoyance. For those dark circles under his eyes. It’s not because he’s disgusted after all. He is most definitely…something else.
It makes me feel bold. Bolder than I’ve ever been in my life. Maybe even as bold as my sisters.
I take a step. Just one tiny step, probably no more than a few inches. But it has the impact of making the rest of our already limited world fade away. The willow branches rustling gently. The smells of fish sauce and lime juice that sneak through the curtain of leaves. The hard, packed dirt beneath my thin-soled ballet flats.
The on
ly thing I notice, the only thing that matters, is the boy in front of me.
“What are you doing?” he asks, a strange gurgle in his voice. His chest heaves up and down, but he doesn’t back away.
“Getting closer to you.” I mean the words to be snarky, a restatement of the obvious, but his Adam’s apple rolls along his throat.
All of a sudden, I’m painfully aware that we’re not touching. His fingers, hanging by his sides, are a few hands’ width away. His face, flushed above mine, moves nearer the longer we stand there.
“Why?” he whispers.
A live wire stretches between us. From his hands to my hands. From his lips to my lips. I desperately want to close the distance between us. To see what sparks we could produce if skin pressed against skin.
But I can’t.
I shake my head—hard. What am I doing? I can’t get lost in these feelings. I can’t, for a single moment, forget what I’m doing and why.
He made a bet that he could get me to fall for him. Which leaves me no choice but to do it first.
“I like being close to you.” I opt for the direct approach. But instead of strategy, the confession feels uncomfortably like truth. “Do you?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “I like it, too.”
Ha! I want to shout. Take that. “My plan’s working.” I fight to contain my glee. “You’re falling for me.”
“I’m what?”
“You want to kiss me. All I had to do was recite a laundry list of my clothes.”
“Right,” he says dryly. “Try that with anyone else and see how far it’ll get you.”
But I’m so giddy that the sarcasm falls right off me. I poke my finger into his chest. “I made my own bet with Kavya. And this means: I’ve won.”
His eyes narrow. “You know, you give up your best advantage in a bet by telling the other person about it.”
“But you told me about yours,” I protest.
“That was to keep you guessing.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” I retort. “Keeping you guessing.”
He stares at me for a long moment. And then he bursts out laughing. Any other time, I would’ve assumed he was making fun of me. But now, I actually think he finds me entertaining.
“Oh, Winnie. I don’t think you could keep anybody guessing. That’s what I like most about you. Your emotions are spelled out across your face all the time.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, oddly defensive. “What am I feeling now?”
He grins. “You’re feeling that you’d really like to sit with me.”
He settles on the grass, near the base of the tree, and pats the dirt next to him. I squint. Even if I wanted to join him, my outfit’s not exactly appropriate.
Seeing my expression, he pats his lap. “This seat’s open if you’re worried about messing up your clothes.”
“No, thank you.” I lower myself to the ground, crossing my legs in front of me. That’s about the only way you can sit in this narrow skirt.
“You didn’t have any problem sitting on my lap the other day,” he points out.
“I made a monetary bet with Kavya,” I say loftily. “You’ve admitted you’re attracted to me. It doesn’t seem fair to use your attraction against you.”
He lifts his brows. “Since when did fairness enter into the equation? Besides, do you really think you can get me to fall for you without touching me?”
I let out a breath, insulted. Pretty sure both my body and my mind are crush-worthy. And I’m going to prove it to him. “Oh, I can definitely make you fall. Just look what happened last night. You could barely sleep, and all I did was send you a photo of a dress.”
He narrows his eyes. And then the moment shifts, as though a challenge has been issued—and accepted.
“I really like this outfit on you,” he says, his voice rumbly. “This color looks nice with your hair. And your skin.”
Ha. Does he really think I’m that naive? Surface-level compliments are the fakest form of flattery. I learned that in the first grade. Back then, I had no idea how to fit in with the other kids. No clue how to giggle and gossip and chase one another around the playground. The only “in” I had was through flattery. I like your socks! I like your stickers! I like your Band-Aid! (Which, in the first grade, is a bigger compliment than you might think.)
“Is that all you’ve got?” I toss my hair back. “I’m immune to compliments. Especially the fake ones.”
He smiles, and I can’t help but notice his teeth—and his lips. “As I was saying, pink suits you. But do you know what I really like?” He lowers his voice. “Your skirt with the cat heads printed all over it. I believe you wore it several times this last month. I wouldn’t mind if you wore it every day.”
I freeze. Because no one, absolutely no one—other than me—likes that skirt. Even Kavya doesn’t bother to pretend. I can’t believe he noticed either the print or the number of times I donned it. Let alone both.
With an effort, I swallow. “Now I know you’re making fun of me. You think the cat heads are ridiculous.”
“I do,” he admits. “Beyond the fact that it’s printed with heads, which is just creepy, you’re allergic to cats.”
“Exactly. These are the only cats I’m not allergic to.” I shake my head. “Honestly? You’re terrible at this game. I might as well collect my winnings from Kavya now.”
He leans back on his elbows. “The skirt may be ridiculous, but I like the way it looks on you. Sometimes, when you turn too quickly, it flares out, revealing a couple of extra inches of skin.” He looks at me through lowered lids. “It’s worth all the time I spend staring, just for that brief glimpse of your thighs.”
I’m hot all over—my cheeks, my neck, my ears. Okay, so I’ve underestimated him. He’s better at flirting than I thought. Doesn’t mean I’ll give up without a fight.
“I dreamed about you last night,” I lie. I have dreamed about him. Just not last night. “In fact, I’ve been dreaming about you disturbingly often.”
The smile on his face turns plastic, and a rush of triumph spurts through me. Gotcha.
“Each night, we’re somewhere new. Walking in a lush, green forest. Next to a rushing river with boulders. Playing hide-and-seek in a golden field of cornstalks.”
“Note to self: all of Winnie’s fantasies could be movie sets. No wonder your mom keeps setting us up on these rom-com dates.”
He probably intends his words to be biting, but the crack in his voice gives him away.
“The setting is different,” I say evenly, “but we always end up doing the same thing.”
“Sex?” he croaks.
“No! Jeez. Get your mind out of the gutter.” I flush. Apparently, I can’t be that racy, even when I’m pretending. “Kissing,” I correct. “I have kiss dreams about you, Mat.”
He clears his throat. “Tell me about them.”
“Well.” I lick my lips, my mind racing. Problem is, I don’t have any real-life experience, and my imagination’s just not that good. Kissing scenes in movies are always a little too intense, and half the time, I end up averting my gaze.
Oh gosh, maybe I really am a prude.
“I always wake up just as your lips touch mine,” I admit.
“That’s it?” His disappointment is a tangible thing, skipping across the small space and infecting me, too.
“Yeah.”
“So it’s just as frustrating as real life,” he says.
I look at him. He looks at me. The wind rustles the willow branches around us.
My eyes drop, for an infinitesimal moment, to his lips, and then I wrench my gaze away. My heart pounds, and the air around us has turned hot and thick.
This is all pretend. Two bets we made with our respective friends. Any resulting feeling is a manufactured by-product. Nothing more.
�
��You asked me a question in the food court,” he says, leaning against the tree, fiddling with the grass. I can’t help but wonder how those same hands would feel gliding over my skin. “When I confessed that I made up my crush on Denise Riley, you asked me who I actually liked.”
“I withdrew the question. Because it was none of my business.”
“I was going to tell you. Before my mom left for Thailand. Before everything fell apart. I swore to myself that I would confess before we got to high school.”
His eyes are dark, hypnotizing gems. “Confess what?”
“My crush,” he whispers. “It was always you. The person I had a crush on was…you.”
My thoughts scatter. What? How? Why? Back then, I never even thought about romance. And even if I did, it wouldn’t have involved him.
“I wasn’t interested in you,” I blurt. “Not like that. I mean, you were my best friend. I didn’t think of you that way.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why it was so hard to work up the courage to tell you.”
I blink. How do I process this? What do I feel? It’s like my entire world’s been flipped upside down, and I have to reimagine every event from the last four years. Because if he did have a crush on me, what does it mean that we stopped being friends?
I grab my temples. Oy tai, I’m so confused.
Wait a minute. Maybe this is exactly how he wants me to react. Confused, vulnerable, susceptible. Oh, he’s good. But I’m better.
“You’re very clever,” I say lightly. “You almost had me fooled there. But trick me all you want, I will never, ever fall for you.”
His mouth parts. A series of emotions flickers across his face, one as unreadable as the next. And then he snaps his jaw shut. “You got me. I was trying to trick you.”
Somehow, I didn’t expect him to agree so quickly. “So you didn’t have a crush on me?”
“Of course not.” He laughs hollowly. “You were the most awkward person on the planet. Still are. You had frizzy hair out to here.” He holds out his hands, shoulder-width. “Why would I crush on you?”
My face burns. I’ve long since tamed my puffy hair—albeit mostly with ponytails—but those embarrassing middle school memories come rushing back. “Okay, then.”
