by Helen Hoang
But I think I do.
I think I’ve fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him, like seahorses and anglerfish do.
“You need to talk to that Quan,” my mom says. “He’s not a bad person. He deserves for you to treat him with respect. Be kind when you end things.”
Tears blur my vision, but I hold them back. “He makes me happy, Ma.”
My mom sighs and gets up to come to my side. “He’s a phase. You don’t marry boys like that.”
“He doesn’t feel like a phase.”
“Trust me, okay?” my mom says. Her voice is gentle, her expression caring, and I’m reminded that she loves me. She doesn’t have a Make Anna Miserable agenda. She wants what’s best for me—unless it conflicts with what’s best for my dad or Priscilla. Then I’m a lower priority. Because I’m youngest and female and unremarkable. That’s just how things are. “You’re young. You don’t know the value of what you have. But I know. Julian will take care of you, Anna. You need that. You knew how we felt about your music career, but you chose it anyway. Now you have to be realistic.”
“I’m not good at anything else,” I remind her.
When my parents first signed me up for violin lessons, I think they did harbor the hope that I was a prodigy and would go places. When special talents never arose, they kept me in lessons because it would look good on my college applications if I was “well-rounded.”
That’s how it worked for Priscilla. She performed a violin solo at Carnegie Hall when she was in high school, and that experience, coupled with her exemplary academic record, got her into Stanford, where she majored in economics, and then went on to receive an MBA. Everyone was horrified when I announced that instead of following in Priscilla’s footsteps, I wanted to use my musical training to be an actual musician.
“You didn’t try anything else,” my mom says with a distasteful twist of her mouth. “You could have taken over my accounting business. I would have been happy to hand it to you.”
“I’m horrible at math. Besides, I’m doing okay now,” I say, hopeful that I’ve finally proven to her that my one rebellion was truly the best choice for me.
My mom pins a hard look on me. “You know your success is temporary. Soon you’ll be back to struggling to pay your rent.”
My throat swells, and I bite the inside of my lip so the small physical pain can distract me from my turbulent emotions. I hold my dad’s hand tighter, stroke my thumb over his pockmarked knuckles. He doesn’t hold me back.
“You know I tell you these things so it’ll hurt less when you hear it from others,” my mom says softly.
Swallowing past the tightness in my throat, I nod.
“Mom is tired, so I’m going to sleep now.” She strokes my hair much like Julian did earlier, and I hold still and let her, even though it feels like ants are crawling on my scalp. It’s how she demonstrates affection for me. When I was young, I lashed out when people—my grandparents, aunts, uncles, et cetera—tried to touch me this way, and I was chastised and punished for it. It hurt people’s feelings and made them feel rejected, a terrible sin, especially between a child and an elder, so I learned, by necessity, to grit my teeth through it. I grit my teeth now. “You’re a good girl, Anna. What we’re doing is hard, but you don’t complain. You always listen. You make me proud.”
With one last pat on my head, she leaves. Tears swim in my eyes before falling onto the back of my dad’s hand. I wipe them away with my sleeve, but they keep falling.
I don’t make a single sound as I cry.
THIRTY
Quan
“So good to meet you in person at last,” I tell Paul Richard, head of LVMH Acquisitions, as I shake his hand.
“Likewise.” He flashes a polite smile at me, and after unbuttoning his suit coat, he sits in the chair across from me at the restaurant table.
I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week. It’s our last meeting before we finalize the terms in the contracts. After that, we’re signing.
Michael Larsen Apparel is going to be an LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton company.
But this guy is giving me strange vibes. I don’t know what it is exactly, but something isn’t right.
A waiter offers to fill his water glass, and he waves them away. “No need, I won’t be long.” Focusing on me, he says, “You probably have lots of questions, so let me reassure you that yes, we want Michael Larsen and the MLA brand under our umbrella. We’re devoted to making this happen. And I must say, your leadership of the company up until now has been impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, thinking maybe I was wrong about him. “It’s been really exciting getting the company off the ground. I’m looking forward to working with your team as we continue to grow.”
“It would be a learning experience for you, I’m sure,” Paul says, and there it is again. That strange vibe. “Especially given your limited experience.”
I sit up straighter in my chair as alarm shoots up my spine. “That hasn’t been an issue for us so far.”
Paul makes a point of adjusting the diamond cuff link on his pristine white sleeve before saying, “Let’s cut straight to the chase. You’re not the right person to lead the company post acquisition. We’re going to instate a CEO with the proper credentials, but if you’re interested, we would like you to head the sales team.”
My body heats up until I can feel my neck burning beneath the collar of my T-shirt and sports jacket. “We were assured since the beginning that Michael and I would remain in our current positions.”
“Michael definitely needs to remain,” Paul says.
And I understand what he’s not saying: Michael is essential. I’m not.
“You and Michael Larsen are family, is that correct?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Watching me steadily, he says, “I know it would be easy to take this personally and turn the deal down, but you need to ask yourself if that would be the best thing for Michael. I’m telling you now, if you do that, you won’t hear from us again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.” Before I can say anything, he gets up, buttons his suit coat, and checks his watch, frowning like our two-second meeting ran long. “I’m going to have the lawyers put a pause on the contracts. A week should be enough time for you to think things over. You have my contact information. I hope I hear good news a week from Monday.”
He leaves, and I sit there alone. For the first time in my life, I really understand what it means to “lose face.” The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like anything, and I can’t turn my face toward them. I can’t stand being seen right now. I can’t look anyone in the eye.
I haven’t eaten and I like this place, but I throw a twenty on the table and go, keeping my head down. Outside, I plow down the sidewalk until I reach my bike and then I jump on it and hit the streets. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going to get there fast.
As the world flashes by quicker and quicker, I think, Fuck that guy. Michael and I made this company—both of us. I know what I did, what I accomplished. I’m not replaceable. Michael won’t let them break us apart. We’re partners. We stay together. MLA was fine before they came along. We’ll be fine without them.
I’d rather burn it all down than hand it to that jackass.
Michael would burn it down with me if I asked him to.
We’re that close. Closer than brothers.
But I’d never ask him to do that.
And I’d never ask him to give up his dreams. Not for me.
I turn onto the freeway and push my bike to its limits as I weave in and out of the traffic. I can get a speeding ticket for this—if a cop can catch me. At this point, I’d welcome the chase.
I want to break rules, destroy things, watch smoke blacken the sky. I don’t give a shit if I get hurt in the process. Maybe I even crave the taste of pain. It couldn’t rival
this gaping sense of betrayal.
But there’s someone who would care if I got hurt, someone who likes it when I drive with my hands precisely at ten and two and signal at every turn.
My heartbeat is crashing in my ears, my blood is rushing, rage is howling in my chest, but still, when I think of Anna, I slow down.
When I realize I’m headed south on the 101, I’m not surprised that I’m going straight to her. My compass always points to her.
THIRTY-ONE
Anna
Today is my dad’s birthday. That means I’m supposed to perform, and I’m not remotely ready. I haven’t practiced at all. Tonight should be interesting. I predict it’s not going to involve me actually playing the violin, but I haven’t figured out how I’m going to accomplish that yet. Appendicitis would be convenient.
Priscilla returned last week, but that doesn’t mean things have been any easier. Her New York trip must not have gone well because she’s been foul-tempered and caustic to everyone but Dad, whom she’s been treating more and more like a newborn, speaking to him in baby talk, kissing his face all over, and pinching his cheeks as she tells him how adorable he is. I don’t think my dad appreciates it. In fact, I’m fairly certain he hates it. He’s a proud old man, not an infant. But I don’t say anything.
The party is scheduled for this evening, but my uncle Tony has been here since early morning. He tried to tell my dad about the costly divorce their doctor friend is going through because he had an affair with a thirty-year-old and got her pregnant, but my dad moaned/slept through the story. After that, Uncle Tony got out aviator-style reading glasses and a book—Ringworld by Larry Niven. He’s spent most of the day quietly reading at my dad’s bedside.
In his mid-sixties, Uncle Tony is the youngest of my dad’s siblings and the least successful. He can’t hold down a job for longer than a few months and lives off intermittent unemployment checks and family handouts. All my life, my parents have used Uncle Tony as a model for failure, saying things like Don’t pursue a career in music or you’ll be like Uncle Tony. But he comes to see my dad every week, is unobtrusive and doesn’t expect to be entertained, and always brings Ferrero Rocher chocolates. Now and then, he gives a red envelope with precious wrinkled twenties in it, to help take care of his brother.
I’m returning to my dad’s room with a new bag of diapers from the garage when I see Priscilla outside the doorway looking in.
“I don’t know why he bothers coming,” she says, speaking in a low voice so it doesn’t carry into the room.
“He comes to spend time with Dad.” It’s obvious to me.
She sneers. “He’s so lazy. He could try harder to get Dad to talk, or show him videos, or FaceTime their friends, or give him a massage, or wash the dishes. Something. But all he does is sit there.”
“Sometimes it’s really hard just being here,” I say quietly. I think he’s doing as much as he can, and I don’t expect more from him. I can’t understand why she looks down on people when they’re trying their best.
Her lips curl and her nostrils flare with disgust as she looks sideways at me. “You would say that. You don’t interact with Dad either, and you’ve been so sloppy lately that you might as well not be here.”
The sharpness of her words takes my breath away, but it’s the look on her face that stabs straight into me, damaging me in ways I can’t describe. I’m the one she’s looking at that way, I’m the one she finds revolting, and I’ve been giving all I have. I’m struggling not to break into pieces.
She just doesn’t know.
“It’s hard to do those things when he doesn’t want to talk or watch videos or FaceTime people. He wants all of this to end,” I say, trying to make her understand.
The wrinkles of disgust on her face deepen. “Does he want that? Or do you?”
“I want it if he wants it,” I confess in the barest whisper. I’m so tired of him hurting, so tired of making things worse for him. So tired.
Her eyes widen into round saucers, and I know I’ve shocked her, horrified her.
Without a word, she grabs the bag of diapers from me and sails into the room, aiming a broad smile at Uncle Tony as she thanks him for the chocolates. He nods at her, pleased, and returns to his book.
I hang around the doorway awhile, waiting for her to issue commands like she always does. Everything should still be okay if she orders me around. But she doesn’t.
She’s acting like I’m not even here.
I turn around and walk away from the room. I need to be alone and figure out what to do, how to fix this. She’s my sister. I need her to love me. I need that.
I shouldn’t have said anything, I know that. But I’ve been doing that for so long that it feels like the words are piling up, pushing to get out, demanding to be heard. Please, please, I want to scream, please understand me.
Stop judging me.
Accept me.
Down the hall, my mom opens the front door and lets a whole troop of people inside—out-of-town relatives and their families and a handful of her friends from church. They’re smiling, exchanging greetings, and handing her red envelopes, which she tucks into her pocket for safekeeping. Everyone wants to help take care of my dad in some way, and money is the easiest way to do it.
I try to slip into a bathroom and hide, but it’s too late. I’ve been seen.
“Anna, come say hi,” my mom says, beckoning me toward her with her hands.
My face is hot and I’m on the verge of tears, but I put on a smile. I remember to wrinkle the corners of my eyes. I fumble through greeting them all. I’m horrible at remembering faces, and there are different ways to say aunt and uncle in Cantonese depending on if they’re on my mom’s side or my dad’s side, their age relative to my parents, and whether or not they married into the family. In the end, my mom has to reintroduce me to everyone, and I parrot back the titles that she gives me, only with abominable pronunciation that makes people laugh. My mom laughs along with them, but there’s a hard edge to her face that tells me she finds my failure humiliating.
By the time that’s over, my heart is hammering and my head hurts. I need a quiet place. I need time. As I’m closing the front door, Julian and his mom walk up the front steps. I didn’t invite them, so Priscilla and my mom must have done it. I really wish they hadn’t. It takes energy to be with him, and I feel like I’m scraping the bottom of my resources.
Numbly, I note that he looks good today. Well, he always looks good, but today he looks exceptionally good. He’s dressed in well-fitting khakis, a white button-down shirt with no tie, and a navy blue sports coat, and he’s having a great hair day. His chin-length locks look like they’ve been professionally styled with a round brush and a hair dryer and then flat-ironed, but I know he rolls out of bed like that. Julian is lucky in many ways.
My facial muscles don’t want to respond, but I make them cooperate through a force of will. I say the right things with the right amount of enthusiasm. I hug Julian and his mom and show them to the backyard, where caterers have set up a big white tent and a dozen round dining tables on the grass. The sun’s only begun its descent, so the sky is still bright and the illumination from the Christmas lights suspended overhead is subtle. The flower arrangements are beautiful—fresh hydrangeas in shades of magnetic blue and magenta—and there’s a long buffet table filled with food from my dad’s favorite restaurant. In the back corner, a bartender is setting up a wet bar.
This is what happens when Priscilla organizes an event. Everything’s perfect.
For other people.
For me, it’s a test of my endurance. Every minute, more guests arrive. The tables fill up. The noise escalates. Activity levels escalate. I shake hands with unfamiliar people and hug familiar ones. I make small talk, pushing my brain to its limits as I follow the conversations with careful attention, reason through what I think people want to hear as quickly as I po
ssibly can, and then say it with the correct delivery, which involves facial expressions, voice modulation, and hand motions. I’m a marionette, hyperaware of all the strings I need to pull in order to give a convincing performance.
All the while, my cousins are tossing a football back and forth at the far end of the yard. A baby is crying, and her mommy is trying to distract her by pointing out the football. Bees are buzzing on the camellias. The air smells like grass, flowers, Chinese food, alcohol, and the smoke from the next-door neighbor’s barbecue.
I haven’t been moisturizing my skin properly, and as I sweat, my face stings. My hand grows clammy, and Julian lets me go so he can wipe his palm on his pants.
“I can’t tell if that’s you or me,” he says with a laugh. “I’m a little nervous tonight.”
“Why?” I ask, because that’s unusual for him.
His chest expands as he draws in a big breath, and instead of answering the question, he asks, “Want a drink? I could use one.”
“Sure.” Now that he’s mentioned it, dulling my overloaded senses with massive amounts of alcohol sounds like a fantastic idea. Maybe I’ll have an entire bottle by myself.
I follow him to the wet bar, and as he’s ordering us two glasses of red wine, I can’t help noting how attractive he is. But I could say the same of a Monet painting, and I don’t have a burning desire to possess one. Julian isn’t Vivaldi for me. He doesn’t captivate me. He’s not my safe place.
There’s only one man like that for me, and he’s not here. I wish he was. At the same time, I’m glad he’s not. I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t want him in her house. Priscilla doesn’t respect him at all. The rest of my family would probably hate him on sight.
As Julian hands me a wineglass and tips the bartender, the crowd quiets. Priscilla rolls our dad outside in his wheelchair. There’s a knit cap on his head, and he’s wearing a black cardigan backward over his hospital gown. A fleece blanket covers his legs and is tucked neatly under his feet. His head is propped up with pillows, but he still lists slightly to the side as he blinks groggily at his surroundings.
