by Helen Hoang
I walk home in a sort of trance. It’s not until passing pedestrians give me double takes and odd looks that I realize I’m crying.
I don’t try to stop.
I let the tears fall.
I cry for the girl I used to be.
I cry for me.
It’s a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn’t feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder.
No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself.
But I did. Tough love doesn’t allow room for weakness, and tough love is all I’ve known. Maybe for now, just this once, I can experiment with a different kind of love. Something kinder.
I cry until my muscles ache, and then I cry more, like I’m letting out tears for a future sadness. People watch, and they whisper among themselves. A little girl points at me and asks her mommy what’s wrong with me, and the woman picks her child up and hurries away.
I see, and for the first time in my adult life, I don’t care that I’m making a scene. I haven’t hurt anyone. I shouldn’t be ashamed. I shouldn’t need to apologize.
This is me.
THIRTEEN
Quan
When I hang up from the call with LVMH Acquisitions, I sit back in my chair and stare at Michael, who’s seated across my desk from me. Neither of us speaks for a full minute. The stunned expression on his face says it all. I’m pretty sure I look the same.
“Did that just happen?” he asks, breaking the silence.
I open up my email program on my laptop, and when I see what I was looking for, I turn it around so the screen faces Michael. “I think it did. Look, her lawyers are already contacting our lawyers to move acquisition talks forward. Prepare to be cc’d on everything.”
“There’s a real chance we’re going to be a household name?” he asks.
An amazed kind of laugh breaks out of me. “I guess so? We might hate their offer and conditions, though. They could also change their minds for no reason. These things go nowhere all the time.”
He nods, but he also sags into his chair and rubs his face like he can’t quite believe this is real life. After a moment, he blinks and declares, “We need to celebrate.”
I grin. “I’m down with that.”
“Tomorrow night,” he adds.
“I have something then,” I say, but before he can suggest another time, I continue, “but I’ll reschedule. I want to reschedule, actually.”
He gives me a curious look. “It’s something . . . with her?”
“Yeah.” I keep my tone casual as I straighten up my desk, gathering financial printouts into a neat pile. “Things didn’t go too perfectly last time, so we decided to try hooking up one more time.”
Michael props an elbow on his chair’s armrest and rests his chin on his fist as he looks at me. “What do you mean by ‘not too perfectly’?”
“I didn’t sleep with her. We did some stuff, and it was really good. But we both have issues, and we’re working on it,” I say lightly, like I haven’t been thinking about her all week and jerking off to fantasies of her every chance I get.
Michael arches his eyebrows, asking, “You guys have tried to hook up how many times?”
“Only two,” I say.
“At what point is it dating? Three times? Four?”
“It’s dating when we say it’s dating. And we’re not,” I say.
He sits forward in his chair like he’s a bloodhound who’s caught a scent. “Why do you want to reschedule?”
I shrug and put the printouts in the proper file in my desk drawer. Generally, I’m kind of messy—when I got around to cleaning my apartment the other week, I saw that my dishes really were growing mold; that’s a new level of nasty, even for me—but when it comes to this business, I’m super organized. I keep things alphabetized and color coordinated. My email inbox drops to zero unread at the end of every day. Everything’s paid exactly on time.
“Is it because you don’t want it to be over?” Michael asks. “You’re dragging it out?”
I don’t answer. Because it’s complicated. It’s true that Anna and I have been texting all week, making random observations, sharing funny news articles and cute animal videos and stuff like that. Talking to her fills a space in my life that I didn’t realize was empty, and I’ll be sad to see that end.
But I’m also nervous. I think I know what I need to do the next time we’re together, and I break into a sweat every time I think about it.
“I’m going to ask her about rescheduling while I’m thinking about it,” I say, picking up my phone and texting her the message Hey, can we meet on Sunday night instead of tomorrow?
“So let’s say you guys meet one more time and you finally hook up. What then? It’s over? You never talk to each other again?” he asks.
“That’s what usually happens after a hookup,” I say, but I don’t feel good about it.
Michael starts to comment, but my phone buzzes with a message from Anna. That’s fine.
That’s all she says. There aren’t any emojis, no funny comments. Something’s off.
Are you ok? We can stick to the original time if it’s a problem for you, I tell her.
I’m ok, she replies, and again, that’s it. This isn’t like her.
“I have to call her real quick,” I say out loud, and Michael frowns slightly as he watches me dial her number and put the phone to my ear.
The phone rings so many times that I’m sure it’s going to voice mail, but she finally answers, “Hello?” Her voice has a strange quality to it that puts me on edge.
“Are you really okay? If you want to stick to tomorrow, that’s fine. Or we can cancel or rain-check. Whatever you’re—”
“No, Sunday is fine. I’m fine,” she says, but her voice breaks halfway through the last word.
She’s crying.
The sound stabs straight at my chest, and before I’m completely aware of it, I’m opening my desk drawer and putting my wallet and keys and things in my pockets.
“Where are you?” I ask. There’s noise in the background. Pretty sure she’s outside.
“On my way home,” she says.
“Cross streets?”
“Why do you . . . Oh. You don’t need to come see me. That’s really nice of you, but I’m okay.” She releases a shaky breath that’s like a mile long. “I see my apartment building. I’ll be home in two minutes.”
“Be right there.”
“Quan—”
I hang up before I can hear the rest of what she says.
Getting up from his chair, Michael asks, “What’s going on?”
“She’s crying. I need to check up on her.”
He nods seriously. On things like this, we get each other one hundred percent.
On my way out, I pause to say, “I’ll let you know about plans for tomorrow. We might need to celebrate later.”
“Don’t worry about it. Go see your woman.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I nod at him once before leaving.
As I’m getting onto my Ducati, however, the significance of what he said hits me. Your woman.
Anna isn’t mine.
But I have to admit I like the sound of that. A lot.
* * *
—
When I get to Anna’s building, I manage to catch the door while someone is leaving and run up the three sets of stairs to her apartment. I don’t stop to catch my breath before knocking.
She opens the door, and things move uncomfortably inside me. Her eyes are puffy and red. Her face is blotchy. She looks horrible. But at least she’s in one piece.
“You got here so fast,” she says, looking down the hall behind me with wide eyes like she’s searching for a teleportation device or something. “You didn’t
need—”
I take her in my arms and hold her tight, whispering, “I did need to.”
She’s stiff at first, but slowly relaxes against me with a long, shuddering sigh. When she presses her forehead to my neck, everything that shifted out of place upon seeing her settles back into place.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask.
She’s unresponsive for a long moment before she shakes her head, saying nothing, and my stomach sinks with disappointment. It’s obvious there’s something. It’s also obvious she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me, and that sucks. I tell myself it’s okay. The thing between us isn’t a thing. But my disappointment remains. I want to be someone she can tell things to. With other people, I’m that person—or I used to be, back before I became fragile in their eyes.
After standing with her by the front door for several minutes, I guide her to the couch and sit with her. I don’t know what to do, so I just hold her, sweeping my hand up and down her back.
I’m pretty sure she’s fallen asleep when she murmurs, “I don’t have energy for our third try tonight.”
“I didn’t come here to have sex with you,” I say firmly. What kind of dick does she think I am?
She turns her face to the side and looks up at me. “So today doesn’t count?”
“No.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “Thank you. For coming.”
“I was worried.”
Sighing, she shuts her eyes. “I had therapy today.”
“Did it help?” I ask, hoping she’ll elaborate.
Her chest expands with a long, deep breath and falls. “I don’t know. It’s complicated and . . .” Her forehead wrinkles slightly. “It’s hard to talk when I’m so tired. Just saying the words . . .” She lifts her hand, and it falls limply to her lap, making the point for her.
“You can tell me later. If you want.”
She nods, and I hold her tighter as the sky turns to night, shrouding her living room in darkness. It’s not exactly comfortable. I’m still wearing my motorcycle jacket, and while the synthetic fabric is great if you wipe out during a ride, it’s definitely not lounging attire. But I like the way she’s resting on me. It satisfies needs that I wasn’t aware I had. I soak up the moment until my muscles go stiff from inaction. When I can’t take it anymore and stretch out one of my arms, her head slides a fraction down my chest.
She’s fallen asleep.
I’d bet my Ducati that she doesn’t fall asleep with just anybody. But she did with me. That means something.
FOURTEEN
Anna
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Quan—he’s on his side, facing me, deep asleep. The sight is so unexpected that my heart starts racing, and I look around in a panic, trying to make sense of things. This is my bed, my room. I didn’t draw the blinds shut last night, and everything is tinted gray and hushed, the way it is right before dawn. I don’t usually wake up at this time. Only when I’m traveling or accidentally go to sleep super early.
Memories of yesterday flit though my mind. My regular (failed) practice, seeing Jennifer, the news, the book, crying in public, Quan worrying about me . . .
I vaguely remember him moving me from the couch last night and then—I slap a hand over my mouth. I asked him to stay. That’s why he’s here, sleeping on top of my covers and looking cold. I sit up and carefully fold my blankets over him.
For a while, I sit there, scared to move for fear of waking him. What do women do when they have strangers in their beds? As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I frown. Stranger doesn’t feel like quite the right word for Quan. But he’s not my one-night stand—not yet. He’s definitely not my lover. Acquaintance seems too distant. He’s talked to me a reasonable amount, listened to me, laughed with me, seen me at my worst, held me while I cried. And he stayed because I asked him to.
I think . . . he might be my friend.
That’s an uncomfortable realization and too much for me to handle this early in the morning, so I grab my phone from where it’s charging on my nightstand—Quan must have done that for me—and sneak away from him.
As I brush my teeth as quietly as possible, I scroll through the hundred-plus text messages on my phone. Most of them are from Rose and Suzie. They were discussing the new twelve-year-old violin prodigy who’s recently hit the classical music scene. For a while after I accidentally went Internet famous, I was the one everyone was talking about. But it’s not me anymore.
My time has passed.
I never yearned to be spotlighted in that way, but I suppose I do feel a sense of loss now. It’s nice to be wanted. And sad to be discarded. But I know that’s the nature of shiny new things. I need to move forward with my life like all the other people who are no longer shiny and new and find meaning where I can.
After catching up on Rose and Suzie’s group chat, I see I missed a text from my sister, Priscilla. It says only How are you? She checks up on me about once a month. If she didn’t, we’d never talk because I get too enmeshed in my day-to-day grind.
I type in my response (it’s always the same) with my left hand: Fine, and you?
She’s on the East Coast, so the chances of her being up are pretty high. I’m not surprised when my phone starts vibrating with an incoming call.
I hurry to rinse my mouth and find a place in my apartment where I can talk. Nowhere seems suitable, so I pull on my ugly bathrobe and step onto my rarely used balcony. It’s freezing out here, especially because I’m barefoot and there’s condensation on the ground, and I hold the folds of my robe shut with a hand.
After taking a quick second to collect myself, I answer, “Hi, Priscilla je.” I have to add the je for “older sister.” When I was little, I called her just “Priscilla” once and she made me kneel in the bathroom with my arms crossed for two hours. She’s older than me by fifteen years, so she got to do things like that. Because my parents were always busy working, she was also the one who came to pick me up from the principal’s office when I started sobbing uncontrollably and refused to get on the school bus to go home on the first day of kindergarten. If I went trick-or-treating, she took me. If I had a birthday party, she organized it.
“Hey, Mui mui. You’re up early,” she says. From the rhythm of her words, I’m certain she’s speed-walking somewhere. (She doesn’t walk at regular human speed. I don’t think she knows how.) “It’s what, six a.m. your time?”
“I fell asleep early last night. I think I slept for almost twelve hours,” I say as I do the math in my head.
She laughs, and the sound is rich and smooth, almost musical. “I want your life.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Whatever. You’re not pulling eighty-hour weeks. I’m getting too old for this,” she says.
“You’re not old, and I thought you loved your job.” Year after year, she earns humongous bonuses from her consulting company that my mom delights in humble-bragging about to her friends.
She makes a scoffing sound. “Everything gets old after a while, but enough about me. How’s Julian? What have you two been up to?”
“He seems to be doing pretty well,” I say. “But we haven’t been up to much, not together.”
“What’s that mean?” she asks suspiciously.
I consider lying but decide there’s no point. “He wanted to see other people for a while.”
“He what?”
“He’s dating other women,” I explain, since she didn’t seem to understand the way I said it before. “He’s seeing what else is out there before he makes a commitment because he doesn’t want to have regrets.”
“Oh my God, I can’t even . . .” There’s a long pause before she says, “When did this start?”
“About a month ago.”
“An entire month? And you didn’t think to tell me?” she nearly shouts.
Some
one is out walking their dog on the sidewalk below, so I angle myself toward my doors and mumble, “Sorry.”
“Before this happened, did you . . . do anything weird?” she asks.
My shoulders slump, and I stare up at the brightening sky. This is why I didn’t tell her earlier. I knew she’d think it was my fault somehow.
Was it my fault?
“Not that I know of,” I say.
“Have you been in another of your lazy phases?” she asks.
I grimace at her choice of words. “No, I haven’t. I’ve . . .” But my voice trails off as I remember the weeks after I returned from the tour. I barely got out of bed during those days—but not because I was “lazy.” My brain simply quit functioning. After being so busy for months, performing for enormous audiences, interacting with countless conductors, musicians, and people from the press, being on for so long, I shut down. I remember looking in my fridge, seeing food, and being completely overwhelmed, bewildered even, by all the steps that it took to get it into my stomach. For several days, I only ate Cheetos. I didn’t have the mental capacity for cooking, let alone going out with Julian, contorting my face into the proper expressions, saying all the right things to his friends, and giving him the blow jobs he loves. For weeks, when Julian wanted to hang out, I made excuses.
Maybe I really did drive him away after all.
Priscilla sighs loudly. “Oh, Anna, what am I going to do with you?”
I know it’s a rhetorical question, but I’m tempted to answer, Nothing, anyway. I don’t want or expect her to solve my problems. I don’t say anything, however. She gets mad at me when I have an “attitude,” which is what she calls it when I disagree with her or express frustration or anger or any emotion contrary to what she wants.
“Everyone really liked him for you,” she says with another sigh.
“I’m sorry. I know you got along really well with him.” She was the one who introduced us—he was an intern at her company. At family get-togethers and things, Julian and Priscilla usually sat next to each other, immersed in stock market talk, and I loved knowing that my boyfriend and sister were on good terms.
