A Pho Love Story

by Loan Le

  Fay spots me and gives me a quick hug. I push the revelation from Bác Xuân to the back of my mind. She introduces me to Dũng. Up close, dressed in a chic white dress and crisp black-and-white suit, they really do look like models.

  “How’d you guys meet?” I ask.

  At my question, Fay and Dũng exchange one look and a small smile, full of meaning, full of secrets only the two of them can know. “Well, we were in college and in the library cramming like usual.”

  “It was the first time I stepped into the library, actually,” Dũng jokes.

  “We checked out books at the same time. Mine was a chemistry book.”

  Dũng glances down in mock shame. “And mine was a manga book.”

  “Something I’ll never stop teasing you about.” Her husband pulls her close, planting a quick kiss on her forehead.

  “Our first date, because we were poor college students, was actually on campus.”

  First date. Bảo said we’d have one soon, but will that all change when I tell him what I’ve found out? That the history between our families goes even further back than we realized, to a time that neither of us belonged to?

  Turns out Dũng had been the one to ask her out first. “We had a picnic on the quad, then walked around campus, ended up at the library, where I made dinner in one of the study rooms.”

  Fay gazes up at Dũng with a soft smile, so tender I feel like I’m intruding. “And did your parents approve of you two?” Then, the DJ decides to turn up the music, drowning out most, if not all, of my question. In Vietnamese, he asks if everyone is having fun.

  Fay leans over, asking me to repeat myself. The photographer snaps a photo of us. I shake my head.

  “This wedding is so much fun. Congrats!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE BẢO

  I die. Again and again and again.

  “Damn it,” I say, throwing Việt’s console to the ground. I’ve played Apex before, but not as badly, but I guess that’s what happens when my mind isn’t on the game. Instead, it’s on a certain painter, and that date I was so confident to suggest.

  We’re at Việt’s house on our day off from work. Việt is ensconced in his beanbag chair, looking like he was browsing the Internet rather than systematically destroying me and my team. “You suck more than usual,” he says oh-so-observantly.

  “Thanks. Sorry, let’s try it again.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  I haven’t had a chance to see Linh, only text her. She said the wedding had gone okay, and that she needed to tell me something, though it might be important since she didn’t text me what the thing was, just that she’d see me soon. A small part of me wonders if she’s regretting everything that happened—if I’m putting more hope into a relationship that can’t work out. But that kiss Linh had given me, the texts since then—and the promise that we would see each other—made it sound like she was in this, all the way. What did she need to talk to me about?

  When I think of romance and dating, my mind plays out the South Korean dramas that get Mẹ giddy: You know, the kind with the impossibly good-looking guy and the impossibly good-looking girl who’s disguised as an awkward person. Cue scenes with intermittent slow-motion physical contact, gauzy romantic music. Then they somehow end up trapped in an elevator and fall asleep slumped together. These things don’t happen in real life.

  I never thought that I’d be staying up late reading Seventeen and Marie Claire articles on first date ideas. I never thought I’d be reading those magazines, period. So far, the options are boring and generic, but I keep trying because my other option is to ask the person who knows Linh best for ideas and that’s Ali, and I don’t want to go there.

  One thing that’s consistent in the articles is that dates should be activities that two people would want to do together. We’ve done the restaurant thing. Movies could work, but we’ve already had six years of silence, once I think about it, so that’s off the list. I thought of Phước Lộc Thọ, but a local mall crawling with people who know either set of parents would make us paranoid the whole time.

  I am so desperate for an idea that I consult Việt in between games.

  All I get is a blank stare.

  “But you watch The Bachelor!”

  “I do. But his dates actually suck!”

  Not helpful.

  * * *

  The next day, I resolve to find another source: Chef Lê’s place, which is just starting to switch from late afternoon to dinner service. It works out well, since it’s the same day Linh has resolved to submit her paintings to the Gold Keys; she just needs to choose between her final pieces.

  Linh disappears into the back to grab a fresh paint mixer, and that’s when I bring up the whole date issue.

  “First date?” Chef Lê shouts across the room at Saffron. “Babe, they’re going on their first date!”

  “I heard you; you don’t need to shout,” she sings back to him, joining us at the center with a sparkling water with lemon in hand.

  “So what, Bảo, you need some tips?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  Saffron says, “Any date you think of will be fine. As long as you don’t do what Bry did.”

  His head swivels in her direction. “What do you mean by that? Mine was the pinnacle of romantic dates.”

  “You took me to the Eiffel Tower.”

  Ohhhh. But Chef Lê is less than quick to get it, apparently. “Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

  “Honey, I’m French. Seeing the Tower is like Americans visiting Washington, DC.”

  Chef Lê leans forward now, elbows on the table. “So what made you want to go out with me again?”

  Amused, Saffron takes a sip of her sparkling water. “I guess it was the day we went shopping. Which we didn’t really call a date, but it was one.”

  “To buy the floor lamp for your apartment? Going shopping was what convinced you?”

  “I thought it was sweet that you decided to go somewhere that you had zero interest in just because I said I wanted to go. I’m not about big gestures. So when you volunteered to come with me, I loved you even more.”

  “So if I took you to the bridge with all those locks, we wouldn’t have ended up together?”

  “I would have left you right away.”

  “Regular comedian today, aren’t you,” Chef Lê grumbles before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Saffron winks at me and with laughter still in her voice, says, “It was actually three dates before I decided I liked him. But don’t let him know.”

  I grin, thinking back to what Saffron just said. It wasn’t the date’s destination that really mattered to her; it was the gesture. She seemed to appreciate something less extravagant, as long as it felt real.

  At that exact moment, Linh comes back, mixer in hand. “Don’t let him know what?”

  “Nothing,” Saffron and I pipe back.

  * * *

  An hour later, an idea catches on. I’m sitting down, my back pressed against the heaters emitting air that’s neither hot nor cold. Seeing that I had nothing to do, Chef Lê asked if I could look over his brief speech. As comfortable as I’ve grown with writing, it’s still a shock that someone would trust me with their writing like this.

  Hell, I still can’t believe Ali put some semblance of trust in me.

  After journalism class today, Ali updated me about Ernie, who handed over his first television review about a Black Mirror episode. It was like another person had penned it. The writing was strong, energetic, and went deeper into the narrative than I’d ever be capable of doing.

  Now, Linh is just a few feet away, wearing her usual paint gear, nestled comfortably on the top of a ladder as she outlines parts of the mural with chalk.

  She has a sketch clipped to her mini canvas and every minute or so, she squints at it, then stares hard at the mural. As if she’s imprinting the image with her mind. Not for the first time, I’m not in her orbit anymore.

  If I walk out, will she even notice?


  I set down my laptop and stand, fighting back a smile.

  “You’ll go blind if you squint that much.”

  “You sound like my mom.”

  “I’m channeling mine.” I grin once I’m by the mural.

  “Shut up,” Linh answers, refusing to look at me.

  I wish I could lean up, steal a kiss. It’s been a few minutes since our last.

  “Bảo,” she says, still focused on her design. “I can feel you. You’re hovering.”

  “Just… making sure the ladder’s secure.”

  Linh rolls her eyes at me, then shakes her head so that her ponytail slides off her shoulder, back to a free hang.

  “What photo do you have?”

  “It’s called reference photo. Chef Lê gave it to me.”

  “Oh.”

  I know I should let her concentrate. And that she needs to get this mural done. But I also can’t wait to ask my question.

  I clear my throat. “So are you—”

  “I haven’t figured out a way—”

  We stare at each other, laughing nervously as we talk over each other’s sentences.

  “No, you go. You haven’t figured out a way to… what?”

  “At the wedding, I ran into Bác Xuân, who gave us the restaurant. And he actually knew my mom before they ever lived here. He knew her back in Vietnam.”

  I blink at her sudden statement.

  Linh blows out air. “And that’s not the only person he knows.” She gazes down at me. “He also knows your mom from Vietnam.”

  “Whoa,” I say. I sit down by the foot of the ladder. Linh eventually comes down, gesturing for me to scoot over as she sits right next to me. I think the air circulation has somehow gotten cut off, because suddenly I’m dizzy and barely feel the surface beneath me.

  Linh goes on, maybe too lost in her own thoughts to notice my reaction. “So I’m starting to think that this feud goes way back—before we were alive. It happened back there, and it must have been bad if our moms aren’t talking to this day.”

  “That’s—”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you don’t know what caused it?”

  Linh nods and shrugs at the same time. “Bác Xuân wouldn’t say another word. He said it’s not his story to tell.”

  Linh tells me what Bác said about their neighborhood being close, how they all helped each other in need. Almost as if they’d become a family. So whatever happened between them had to be capable of breaking apart a family. Based on gossip from my mom’s circle, that could be anything. They’d mentioned a family whose youngest son had gotten into drugs, which got him banned from ever entering his childhood home. A man who was sixty years old went back to Vietnam to find a wife half his age, leaving his ex-wife and two kids to basically fend for themselves. The wrongs done to the family seemed limitless.

  “Okay, we’re getting somewhere,” I say numbly. We are, but what if we eventually find something that’s bigger than we ever imagined? What if it turns out it’s nothing we can ever fix? What would that do to our families? To me and Linh?

  Linh slips her hand into mine. “I’m still here, you know. Nothing’s changing the way I feel about you. Whatever we find out, we’ll find out together.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO LINH

  Bảo kisses my hand, making me blush. Obviously the fact that our parents had known each other in Vietnam scared him, just as it scared me, and yet he’s still here. Holding my hand. Our break is interrupted by Chef Lê. He’s been so grateful that I’m taking on his mural, that in addition to paying me commission later on, he’s been feeding us whenever we come by. He’s also calling me “Miss Mai”—and Bảo likes it so much that he teases me whenever we’re alone.

  “Yo, you two are like an old married couple,” Chef Lê’s voice booms across the room. He’s carrying two plates of bánh cam over to us, a towel slung over one shoulder. Even if I didn’t see him walk over, I would have smelled it: thick, glutinous rice balls fried till crispy, with sugary mung bean nested within—a soft surprise once you bite through the outside.

  Chef Lê has a big, smug grin plastered on his face. “Time for a break.”

  I try to turn it down; it’s the polite way as my parents taught me. “No, I have to finish this sketch for the mural.”

  “The mural can wait a few minutes. I’m not going to have someone faint on the job. Come here.” Bảo shoots me a grin and heaves himself off the floor, going to reach for one sesame ball.

  His phone, though, rings at the wrong moment. He grimaces at me. “My mom.”

  “Better pick that up before your mom calls again,” Chef Lê says seriously, perhaps remembering his own experience with his parents at our age.

  Bảo presses Accept. “Hi, Mẹ… Uh, yeah, I’m with Việt, just shopping.” Which is half true. Việt’s out shopping, just with his track friends, I’m told. Bảo glances at me before turning away, still talking to his mom. Apparently he needs to run to the store to get something.

  “Are you two not supposed to be here?” Chef Lê asks.

  “Kind of. I’m not supposed to be here with him.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. It’s just… complicated. Our families hate each other. Restaurant rivalry.” At one point, that had been accurate. But now…

  “No shit. That’s rough. So I don’t imagine you have a lot of chances to hang out.”

  “We’ve been finding time to steal. Sometimes at school and after school. And here. And we’re going on a date soon, I think.”

  Or I know, since Ali texted me earlier saying that she had a “talk” with Việt, who apparently told Ali that Bảo was doing research.

  “First date, that’s big. But he hasn’t asked yet?”

  “I think he was about to.”

  “I can remind him.” Chef Lê nudges me by the shoulder. If I had a brother, I think he’d be like him.

  “What are you going on about?” Bảo asks, pocketing his phone.

  “Oh, you know. Deep emotional stuff,” Chef Lê says casually.

  A harried line cook surfaces from the kitchen, yelling Chef Lê’s name with equal parts annoyance and authority. Her hair has reached maximum frizz capacity. It’s obvious this isn’t a new thing—Chef Lê wandering during duty when he’s really supposed to be manning the kitchen. He wouldn’t last a day in my mom’s kitchen.

  “Oops, I guess I have to go back there.” He heaves himself to his feet and slings the towel back onto his shoulder. “Now eat before the sesame balls get cold.”

  “Here you go, Miss Mai,” Bảo says, handing me one. It’s still warm.

  “Thank you, Mr. Nguyễn.”

  I grin, loving his sudden shyness. For a wordsmith, he clearly doesn’t have the right ones lined up now. So I answer for him, put him out of his misery.

  “Let’s go on a date.”

  “Good, because I have an idea.”

  * * *

  In a modern art class in freshman or sophomore year, we looked at a Van Gogh painting from his time spent at Arles. He was always a tragic figure, someone who went through so much difficulty, only to receive fame years after his death.

  He’d capture a simple rendition of his room: his bed, two empty chairs, portraits of unnamed subjects that seemed to stare right at the bed where he would usually go to sleep. As if his world had turned inward. As if there was nothing outside for him.

  Van Gogh’s room is my mom’s kitchen.

  After my shift, right before we start to lock down, I find my mom alone in the kitchen, stirring a ladle in a large pot. She’s not committed to it, just turning the spoon, slowly and slowly. Something must be bothering her, just as Bác Xuân’s statement has been bothering me.

  I don’t know how to bring it up. How can I even start a conversation and transition it smoothly over to the past—a past that my mom seems to volunteer to talk about less and less? What right do I have to bring something up that may be painful to her?

  Let
it go. It will all come out in due time, Bác Xuân said.

  Will it be too late then?

  Mẹ comes back to life; she picks up her stirring, then takes a sip. After adding a handful of sugar, she turns, jumping at the sight of me.

  “You scared me, con.”

  “Sorry,” I finally said. “What were you thinking about?”

  “Dì Vàng. She’s coming very soon. I wonder if I’ll have everything ready by then.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “Of course. She’s my sister. It’s been far too long.”

  This is an opening. I should ask, shouldn’t I? But perhaps it’s my mom’s mood, perhaps it’s the feeling that I’m trespassing somewhere, but I keep the question to myself. I’ll ask next time.

  I will.

  * * *

  I’m in the art room after school the next day. I don’t have to work today, so I’m taking the extra time to just paint. Paint without needing to worry about what to submit since I did it right after stopping at Chef Lê’s. I know I chose the right paintings in the end, the ones that mattered the most to me and best represented the theme I was capturing: memories. Memories about my parents and growing up. About my journey as an artist. About Bảo and the discoveries I’m making as we have more time to ourselves.

  I only stop painting when Yamamoto comes in, announcing her appearance with a dumbfounded, “Huh.” I turn on my stool, facing Yamamoto, who’s behind me, and wait for an explanation.

  But it doesn’t come, not right away.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m not sure. Your colors are the same, but something about this is… lighter.” Yamamoto regards my canvas, tilting her head.

  Lighter? I try looking at the canvas the way she is. But it doesn’t seem out of the norm of what I usually paint.

  “Like, what gives?”