by Helen Hoang
But this doesn’t feel like an adventure.
This feels terrifying.
He’s nothing like Julian, and Julian is all I’ve ever known.
“I was just going to . . .” He points at the door to the men’s room, right next to the women’s room, and his eyes twinkle as his lips curve into a smile, like someone’s just told him a secret.
My frazzled brain malfunctions, and I can’t catch my breath. He’s disastrously gorgeous when he smiles. Something wonderful radiates from the heart of him, realigning the features of his rough exterior and making him beautiful.
“Have you been in there all this time?” he asks.
Too dazed to come up with a suitable lie, I confess, “I was scared.”
His amusement immediately melts away to be replaced with concern. “Of me?”
“No, not of you, not exactly.” In an effort to make him understand, words tumble rapidly from my mouth as I explain, “I’ve never done this before and I had all these ambitious plans but then I saw you and I started to worry I was taking advantage of you and I don’t want to hurt you because you’re so nice and—”
His expression softens with understanding, and he squeezes one of my hands in his. The sensation is so distracting that I completely forget what I was saying.
“Do you want to leave this place?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, so relieved that tears prick at my eyes. More than anything right now, I want to go home.
“Let’s go, then.” Holding my hand, he leads me through the people and out of the bar.
Outside, cool fresh air envelops me. It’s less chaotic, and some of the tension leaks from me. I wouldn’t say I’m relaxed, though. I’m still stressed halfway to death.
“I’m going to go,” I say as I let go of his hand and edge away from him, itching to put everything here behind me. “I’m really sorry. I hope you have better luck with someone else.”
He takes in the movement of my feet on the pavement and then searches my face intently. “We could try again. But only if you want.”
“You’d do that?” I ask, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice. “I just had a panic attack and hid from you in the bathroom for half an hour. You should never want to see me again.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away. Plus, tonight’s barely started.”
His words catch me off guard, and I stare at him for a moment. I need to run, to escape, to crumple up tonight like a ruined sketch and start with a fresh sheet. And he’s telling me not to. Worse than that, he makes perfect sense. And he’s smiling again, taking my breath away and making me stupid.
Angry discomfort claws through me, and I hate his smile for how much I like it. I know it’s illogical. I know it’s cowardly. But I back away from him farther, shaking my head.
“I’m sorry, but I just . . . can’t. I’m really so sorry,” I say, and I hurry away so I don’t have to see his disappointment.
The journey back to my place goes by in an anxious blur, and when I finally shut myself in my apartment, I take my high heels off and carelessly toss them aside on my way to the bathroom. I peel the red dress off and step into the shower, even though I showered a few hours ago. That’s the routine after I’ve been out—unless I simply don’t have the energy.
As I wash the makeup off my face and rinse the product out of my hair, I grimace at myself. What an abysmal waste. I should be at the bar right now drinking and flirting and being the most authentic version of myself—not to mention preparing to have life-altering adventure sex with an inappropriate yet exceedingly appealing man.
But I’m not. I’m home, where I’m safe. When I curl up on the couch in my pajamas and ugly fluffy bathrobe, I’m so relieved it’s disgusting.
I’m also very much alone, and my apartment feels emptier and colder than it ever has before. Because I need a connection to others, no matter how slim, I get my phone. Surprisingly, I have two messages from Quan.
Hey, I hope you’re ok.
Did you make it back in one piece?
Biting the inside of my cheek, I reply, At home. I feel so horrible that I did this to you. Thank you for checking up on me.
Don’t feel bad. You looked like you were having a rough time. I don’t really get it, but I get it, if you know what I mean, he says.
Against all odds, I find myself laughing. I don’t know what you mean.
I mean I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I know there’s something and I’m not taking it personal.
Something about his words makes my eyes water with tears even as I smile down at my phone. I’m trying to figure out what to say in response when I get another message from him.
I’m grabbing Mexican for dinner. What are you having?
The same, I say, but I’m not excited about it. It’s the last quarter of a giant super burrito that I’ve been slowly consuming over the past week. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance it’ll give me stomach cramps, but I hate to waste food and there’s no way I’m leaving my apartment again today—unless there’s a fire, or a puppy stranded in the middle of the street with a truck barreling toward it, or a family emergency, something like that.
I’ll be home in about 30. Want to watch something with me tonight? he asks.
I cover my mouth as I process his unexpected invitation. It doesn’t make sense to me. But I like it. A lot. I can’t go out tonight, but I can do this.
I don’t really understand why you want to stay in with me, I tell him.
Why do you say that? he asks.
Because you’re . . . you. I saw you. You’re extremely attractive and good with people. If you go to a club or somewhere like that, you’ll have a date in minutes. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?
I think I could say the same about you, he says with a winking emoji.
I’m NOT good with people, I reply, pressing the send button with an extra-hard jab of my thumb. After what happened at the bar, that’s glaringly obvious. I don’t think I’m “extremely attractive” either, but I know from past experience that pointing that out will just make him insist otherwise and I don’t have the patience for that nonsense. Objectively speaking, I’m average in the looks department, and I dislike people lying to me about it. If someone’s going to lie to make others feel good, it better be me.
Scratch that, I’m not supposed to do that anymore either.
You don’t think it’s possible that I get cold feet too? he asks.
I frown at the phone in my hands. I forgot about his health issues and surgery. He didn’t look injured in any way at the bar. He looked like a man in his prime. It’s difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that he might not be as confident as he seems.
I guess it IS hard for me to believe that you can be anything like me. We’re so different, I say.
Not that different. We can watch that Our Planet documentary. It looks good, he suggests.
I liked that one a lot.
Lol, have you seen all the documentaries? he asks.
Yes, but I don’t mind rewatching them. Then, after a short hesitation, I add, We can watch something else if you want.
Is this a yes to watching nerdy TV with me tonight?
Trying not to smile, and failing, I reply, Yes.
SEVEN
Quan
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say as I jump in between the two tinies whacking each other to death in the middle of the kendo studio and pull them apart, getting hit several times in the process myself. “Run after you strike. None of this standing and bashing. If these were real swords, you’d both be armless.”
On the other side of the studio, Michael is supposed to be overseeing the other students, but he’s watching me and laughing his ass off.
The bigger of the kids next to me
, a seven-year-old, calls out, “Yes, sir,” and backs away.
The smaller one, only five, totters around and tries to lunge at the big one, his sword poised to continue whacking. I can’t help laughing as I yank him back and set him the required distance away from his opponent. He’s got a lot of attitude, this dude, and it’s stinking cute, especially because he’s wearing his older brother’s hand-me-down kendo gear and looks like Dark Helmet from Spaceballs.
I get their match started again, and they do make small improvements. It’s still messy as hell, though—and bloodthirsty. But what can you expect when they’re so small? Luckily, they wear enough armor that it’s next to impossible to get hurt.
When it’s time, I call an end to the sparring, and the kids back away from each other to form two neat rows, switch their wooden swords to their left hands in a resting position, bow, and shake hands like little warriors. We go through the closing rituals for class, and as the studio is emptying out, Michael punches me lightly on the arm.
“Good to see you here,” he says. “It’s been a while.”
I unlace my helmet and pull it off. Then I untie the sweaty bandana from my head and stuff it inside my helmet. “It’s good to be back. I didn’t realize how much I missed this.” And the kids specifically.
My family and friends all know about me being sick and everything, because I made the mistake of telling my sister, Vy, who told my mom, who then told literally everyone she knows. For the longest time, they treated me like I was two steps from dying. They still treat me different, like I’m made of glass or some shit—my mom is the worst. But these kids, they don’t care. When I showed up this morning, they hog-piled me. I loved that.
This morning was good, and I know I’ll be coming back to lead more Saturday classes. If I can wake up in time. I can’t help cracking a big yawn as I untie the laces to my chest protector and shrug the heavy weight off my shoulders.
“You look tired. Up late last night?” Michael asks with careful casualness.
“Yeah. Didn’t sleep until two something.” The studio door shuts behind the last kids, so I take my uniform off and pull on a faded T-shirt and an old pair of jeans.
As Michael does the same, he arches his eyebrows at me. “Did you go out? With someone?”
I shake my head, not sure how to explain last night. “Not really. I was texting.”
“Texting who?”
Busy packing my gear away, I say, “A girl. I met her on one of the apps.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, so I glance up at him and find him nodding with an impressed expression on his face. “Cool.”
“It’s not like that, so you can stop looking all pleased with yourself,” I grumble.
“What’s it like, then?” he asks.
“We tried to meet up for a one-night stand, but she panicked at the last second because she hasn’t done it before. So we just ended up texting and watching TV together.”
That same impressed look from before covers his face. “What did you talk about? And what did you watch?”
I duck my head as I admit, “She likes nature documentaries.”
“You watched nature documentaries?” he asks with wide eyes.
I pick up one of his discarded gloves and throw it at him. “Yeah, I watched them. They were interesting. I’ll probably watch more.”
He catches the glove easily and laughs. “Especially if she watches with you.”
“I don’t even know if I’ll see her again.”
“You liked her, though?” he asks.
I shrug. “Yeah.” I keep my tone light like it’s not a big deal, because it’s not. I know there’s nothing going on between us. But I do really like her. Last night was a little awkward, especially the part where I waited for her at the bar for half an hour, but texting about random stuff and watching nerdy TV was good. There wasn’t any pressure. Things flowed easily. I laughed a lot. It wasn’t the reintroduction to dating that I was looking for, but truthfully, I think it’s better.
Michael gives me a knowing look. “You guys are going to meet again. I bet you a hundred bucks.”
I’m about to say something sarcastic when my phone starts buzzing repeatedly from inside my pocket. I dig it out, expecting it to be my mom, but the screen says Anna.
She’s calling me. Not texting, but calling.
The knowledge that she felt comfortable enough to take this step makes my chest light up.
“Shit, is that her?” Michael asks, rushing over to peer at my phone over my shoulder. “Hurry up and answer.”
I draw in a quick breath and exhale through my lips before accepting the call and bringing the phone to my ear. “Hey, Anna.”
“Hi,” she says, sounding shy and awkward and entirely like herself.
I shouldn’t, but I break into a huge grin. “What’s up?” Michael is watching me with pure delight, so I turn around to get some privacy from his nosy eyes.
“I was wondering if you wanted to try again tonight? Maybe at my place?” she asks.
“Yeah, that would be great. Should I bring anything? I can pick up takeout,” I offer.
“Is that safe with your motorcycle?”
I laugh. “I have a car, too.”
“Well, I was thinking we could cook something, so it’s really not necessary. I’m usually better when I have something to do, and I’m okay in the kitchen as long as I don’t have to touch raw meat. It’s slimy.” She sounds so tortured that I can’t help laughing again.
“Are you a vegetarian, Anna?”
“No, but I don’t eat a whole ton of meat.”
“Because it’s better for the planet,” I guess.
“Because it’s better for the planet,” she confirms, and I can tell from her voice that she’s smiling. “Are you okay with pasta? And mushrooms? And white wine sauce?”
Grinning, I say, “Yeah, I like pasta and mushrooms and white wine sauce.”
“Does seven work for you tonight?”
“That’s perfect.”
“Great, I’ll see you then,” she says on a relieved breath. “I’ll text you my address. When you get here, buzz me in apartment 3A, and I’ll let you up.”
“Got it, looking forward to it.”
I expect her to say good-bye and hang up, but instead she says, “Me, too.”
I smile so hard my face hurts. “Bye, Anna.”
“Bye, Quan.”
The line finally disconnects, and when I turn around, there’s such glee on Michael’s face that I pick up his second glove and chuck it at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”
He’s so busy smirking that the glove hits his chest and falls to the ground by his feet without getting his attention. “You really like her.”
“We’re just going to hook up and then we’ll be done. This isn’t a thing,” I say reasonably.
“Okay,” he says, but he’s still smirking and I know he doesn’t believe it for a second. He thinks I’ve met someone special, when I haven’t.
I mean, she is special. But she’s not my someone special.
I’m sure of this.
Mostly sure.
To change the subject, I open up an email that I’ve been debating sharing with him and hand him my phone. “Check this out. I got this email yesterday.”
He reads out loud under his breath as his eyes dart across the screen, “Hi, Quan, congratulations on MLA’s recent Jennifer Garner endorsement on social media! Her kids look adorably fabulous in your clothes. My wife ordered those same dresses for our twins. I asked around and was told you guys are looking for funding to take things to the next level. Let’s set up a call. Angèlique Ikande, of LVMH Acquisitions.” Frowning, he looks up from the phone and asks, “That’s not the LV that I’m thinking, is it?”
“Pretty sure it is,” I say.
“Louis
Vuitton?” he asks, his eyes opened wider than I’ve ever seen.
“The one and only.” I try to keep my smile from growing too big. This could be nothing. It could also be the break of a lifetime for a small company like ours. I’ve been trying my best not to get too excited. “The call is next Friday. I was going to wait until after the call to tell you—I’ll know more then—but I figured if I were you, I’d want to know.”
“I can’t even . . .” Michael gives me back my phone and slumps against the wall, looking dazed. “But what does it mean if they acquire us? Will they change our name? Will they even keep you and me?”
“I can’t imagine any scenario where they wouldn’t keep you,” I say, shaking my head at him in amusement. I’m not worried about myself, either. I’m no fashion designer, but Michael Larsen Apparel wouldn’t be where it is today without me. I built the team at MLA from the ground up, formed the valuable connections with our suppliers, guided our marketing and PR efforts. When Michael lets me, I steer his designs in more profitable directions. We did this together. No matter how this goes, I’m fucking proud of us. “And I think our brand—MLA and your name—has value, so they wouldn’t mess with it. What usually happens is they buy owners out for a certain amount, but we stay to lead the company under contract. The best thing is they’re an enormous multinational company and they have the connections and resources to really get MLA out there. We could end up in malls and department stores worldwide, instead of selling mostly online and domestically like we do now.”
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Michael rubs his face. After a moment, the first sign of a smile breaks through. “I can’t wait to tell Stella. She’s going to have a zillion questions. You should brace yourself.”
I laugh, but I also make a mental note to be extra detail oriented and meticulous with everything LVMH related—if anything LVMH related happens. Because Stella will ask a ton of questions in that case, and as a genius numbers person, she tends to ask people things that make them squirm if they don’t know their shit. “Well, all I know is what’s in the email, so tell her to wait.”
