Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

LAN

A fluttering feeling makes its way from my chest to my arms, my legs, and my unsteady fingers. I peek at Vivi through the front strands of my hair, noticing the way her chest rises and falls.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I blurt out. The stuffiness of the space isn’t helping, and I find myself curious about the girl next to me instead of doing whatever research we’re supposed to do.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Sure! Where?”

“There’s a café nearby that’s really cute and has the best egg coffee—why don’t we go there? And maybe try brainstorming?”

“Lan,” she says, and my chest flutters again. I like the way she smiles when she says my name. “I’ve dreamed of this moment. One thousand percent yes. Never thought I’d be going on a food adventure with my favorite food blogger.”

I swallow. Because I’ve kept the blog so private, no one’s ever told me these things to my face before. All the comments were on a screen, with a gap just wide enough for me to convince myself that the kind words held no true meaning. But with Vivi, there’s sincerity in her eyes, and adoration . My heart squeezes. “That’s a big compliment.”

“I’m not trying to kiss ass—wait, do you know what that means—”

“Yes.” I roll my eyes. “I know basic American phrases.”

She laughs, her dimples making an appearance again. “Just making sure.”

Café 1975 always looks like a scene from Studio Ghibli. A quaint coffee shop tucked between modern buildings with its rusty blue and patterned-grille doors. I often found myself here after school. The afternoon sun invites itself into the space, rays the color of brewed tea. Vinyls line the wall and the record table plays a remastered ABBA album.

“Whoa, I feel like I’m inside a Hayao Miyazaki film,” Vivi says, her mouth hanging.

“Right? It’s so—”

“Whimsical,” she finishes before bolting to the cash register.

Café 1975 was my little secret—well, not so much a secret since it is on a busy street, but it’s not something I ever posted about. Or told anyone about—even Tri ? t. When I was still blogging, it was hard to find somewhere just for myself. Somewhere I didn’t feel pressure to write a blog post about. The last time I was here was Ba’s first day of remembrance—ngày gi ? , or his death anniversary, when it clicked that he was never going to come back, and that the mango tree and orchids and our small garden would never feel his presence again. I sat in the farthest corner and pretended to look at their menu, my only friends the vinyls, ABBA, and old books. I couldn’t even cry.

Now I’m back, and I brought someone. But Vivi’s presence doesn’t bother me. She makes the place look brighter.

“Why the blazer and trousers?”

I blink. “Oh. Right. You’ve only seen me in my usual black shirt and jeans at the bánh mì stall. It’s kind of stupid, but I’m trying to convince myself that wearing nice clothes will make me more productive. It’s not working too well, though.”

She shrugs, grinning. “I think you look nice.”

We’re seated by the hoa ph ?? ng tree just outside the café. Its red petals dance around us before falling onto the concrete. Vivi settles in a wicker chair and plays with the fallen petals. She tucks a flower behind her ear, making my eyes wander to her cheeks—flushed, like mine.

Clearing my throat, I grab another petal from the ground and press it between the pages of my book. “Here. Vietnamese people like to press these flowers and turn them into bookmarks.”

She immediately plucks more petals from the ground before promptly squashing them inside her book. “That’s so cool! Now I can keep these with me forever.”

“All my books have hoa ph ?? ng in them.” Ba would always grab a handful for me off the schoolyard when he’d pick me up. Look, this flower has a skirt , he would joke. I swallow the rising grief in my throat and, instead, try to inhale the egg coffee’s smell.

She twirls the blossoms between her fingers. “What kind of books do you like?”

Ba’s books, and my own, haven’t been touched since his passing. I almost wanted to throw them out. But instead of telling Vivi that I don’t read anymore, I decide to just pretend; it’s easier than explaining all the whys.

“I love stories that I can lose myself in. To escape reality and be whisked away to another world. Stories that make me root for the characters and make me feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself.”

She sighs dreamily, her round eyes sparkling at the sky. “Isn’t that the best part about books? The limitless things you can imagine in your head. All the places you could be.”

I focus on stirring my coffee, allowing the words I’ve long repressed to come out.

“I loved books because of my dad. I never even planned for A Bánh Mì for Two to happen, or to have this many followers. I needed to write a story for a class about anything, so I chose to do it about street food and asked my dad to help me. He agreed and it became our little project. For the first two years, we wrote silly things together, not caring about anyone’s opinion on the blog. Then he passed, and I kept writing, but this past year… I’ve been struggling with writer’s block.”

I’m not sure why I’m recounting my most vulnerable memories to someone I’ve just met, but Vivi should have all the details she can get about the blog to help. And it feels easy, less lonely, to talk to her. Maybe it’s because I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me.

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

The same words everyone keeps telling me. What are they sorry for? What’s Vivi sorry for? She wasn’t there. We’re just two lives colliding, dominoes cascading into place. And now I’m participating in a project with a stranger, with fleeting hope in my chest that somehow we’ll win. That I can overcome this writer’s block, and that Má will say, I’m proud .

She continues before I can speak. “I can feel the heart behind your words. How A Bánh Mì for Two is more than just a blog, and how much it means to you.”

Unlike other people, she doesn’t linger in her pity for me. She just… moves on. She doesn’t pry into how I’m feeling or how I’m doing. It feels nice . Like I don’t need to cut myself open and show her all the emotions stored within me.

Instead of wanting to shrink under the weight of her gaze, I feel myself basking in it, almost wanting more .

“I read the blog posts ‘Recipes for a Big Dinner’ and ‘Places to Eat with a Huge Family’ and daydreamed about being in Sài Gòn, sharing meals with my mom and dad. I’m sure, wherever your dad is, that he would be proud to know you’re entering this contest.”

Would he?

“Thank you.” My chest feels light, and I smile back at her. It’s impressive she can recite my blog posts back to me.

“Why’d you choose the name A Bánh Mì for Two ? I don’t think you’ve ever explained it on the site.”

“Because food is always meant to be shared,” I answer immediately. “At least in a lot of Asian cultures, everyone gets their own bowl while we pick off different plates in front of us. The same goes for street food. The name also comes from my dad. We’d order a bánh mì for two, splitting each half.”

“My mom gets really excited when we go grocery shopping and restock our fridge. I think seeing the fridge full makes her happy, like we’ll be full for another day. Maybe that’s why I love your blog so much, because we both look at food… beyond food.”

“I have to admit I never really thought that much about food and my blog. But this makes me really happy. You… get me.”

Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I hope I do.”

The coffee lingers on my tongue, and I realize how long it’s been since I treated myself to a cup of egg coffee. How long it’s been since I’ve sat down with someone my own age—besides Tri ? t. “Thanks for picking up my notebook. If I hadn’t run into you, I don’t think I’d ever find the drive to enter this submission contest.”

“Well, you did run away from me—but we’re here. And I’m glad you’re giving this whole thing a chance, giving me a chance to help you.”

My chest warms, and part of me wonders what would happen had I never dropped that notebook; if Vivi’s path never crossed mine, where would we be now?

“Is there anything you’re hoping to see before you leave?”

She nods her head and takes out several photographs from her wallet before handing them to me. I hold them gingerly, noticing the creases on the flimsy paper. One is a photo of three women wearing beautiful áo dài standing in front of a tall, familiar building. They’re hugging each other, smiling at the camera.

They all have the same eyebrows and nose as Vivi. The same smile, too, almost.

“The reason why I’ve never been back is because my parents have never gone home… and I’m here to find out why. I’m actually here… without my parents knowing.”

My jaw drops. “You’re saying they have no idea you’re in Sài Gòn right now.”

“No,” she says sheepishly. “They think I’m in Singapore.”

“Vivi!” I gape at her. “That’s…” Highly dangerous? Extremely brash?

She sighs. “It sounds so bad , but hear me out. That’s my mom in the middle, she hates talking about Vi ? t Nam. Every time I try to bring up how we should visit or anything about it, she gets super defensive. And I don’t know who the other two women are, but I think they’re my family.”

Family. The word tugs at my chest. “Your mom never told you why she left?”

There are plenty of stories about Vietnamese people in America, gossip about so and so moving across the Pacific years ago, international students marrying abroad, or families upending their entire lives because they scored an immigration visa.

She fidgets with the spoon and avoids my gaze. “Not once. So that’s why I’m here without them knowing.”

“Maybe there’s a reason why your mom left. Sometimes people have to run away, to find something better for themselves.”

I wish I could run away sometimes, too. But where would I go?

“She never told me the reason , though.”

“But… what if it’s something so horrible that she’d rather keep it to herself?”

She clicks her tongue. “They’re my family. I’m family. I’m blood related to these people. I deserve to know.”

“Blood related doesn’t mean…” I stop my sentence, seeing her face. “I’m sorry… I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t resent your mom too much. You have both of your parents. Some people only have one or neither.”

“It’s not that black and white, though. I’d rather find out now before, well, they die without telling me.”

Memories of Ba and a wave of grief overcome me. She clutches the edges of the photographs in her hands, and I can see tears welling up in the corners of her eyes before she blinks them away. My heart pinches. “I was hoping I’d find these people somehow here… but the extent of my abilities is people watching and seeing if any faces match up to the photos—no success there,” she says, her shoulders slumped. “I wish I could see them, ask them about my mom, see where she grew up. But my Vietnamese isn’t that good, either. I can ask for directions and get by, but I don’t think my elementary Vietnamese can help me track down these people without knowing their names.

“Sorry,” she sighs. “That was a lot.”

I hold the photographs closer, and within the photo of Vivi’s mom and the two unnamed women, a sign stares back at me. “This was photographed in front of Ch ? B ? n Thành.”

She brightens. “No way! But… where is that?”

“It’s this giant market in Sài Gòn,” I say. “It’s one of our most iconic landmarks, and so the place is always brimming with tourists. Having a stall there is prime real estate because most foreigners don’t know how to haggle.”

“I can’t believe that I have a lead,” she says, her eyes still pinned to the photograph and her thumb hovering over the silhouette of her mom. “I have to go to Ch ? B ? n Thành, then.”

“And do what?”

She sighs. “I haven’t thought that far yet. Maybe ask everyone at Ch ? B ? n Thành once I’m there?”

I snort. “Vivi, do you know how many people go in and out of that market every day? That’s impossible.”

Her face falls. “Oh.”

“But,” I start again. “They’re wearing áo dàis in this photograph. I think I know the cut and patterns of those áo dàis, and if I’m right, I might know someone who can help us point to where your family might be.”

She gasps, clutching my hands. Heat rises to my cheeks from the skin-to-skin contact. “ Us? You would help me? You’d come with? Because, if you say yes, you cannot back out.”

Vivi’s looking at me as if I’m made of magic, like I have solved the mysteries of life. It feels nice, to bask in that awe; her eyes pinning me and my breath too shy to leave my mouth. But what I know isn’t magic, just the life of a girl living in the heart of Sài Gòn.

“Well.” I inhale. “How about this, since you’re helping me with the submission contest, I’ll help you track down the women in the photos. Everyone in Sài Gòn knows someone. We can definitely ask around.”

Her face brightens. “Really? You’d do that?”

“Yeah. Why not?” There are many, many reasons why I shouldn’t be instigating a wild goose chase around Sài Gòn with a girl I just met, but I owe her something, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Plus, I find myself gravitating toward her smile, and the blossoming urge to have her look at me like that again.

“What’s that thing Americans do with their littlest finger?” I say, holding out my pinkie. “Let’s make a deal?”

She laughs and loops her pinkie around mine. I can feel the warmth creeping up my spine.

“Deal,” she says, and my heart leaps. “I still can’t believe you put all the pieces together from just a building in the background and some áo dàis.”

She holds the photographs closer to her chest, almost as if she’s afraid they’ll disappear. “It’s not impossible after all—finding my family in such a big city. I thought it was so silly of me to hope that I’d run into them on the streets. That they’d recognize me, even though we’ve never met.”

Even though Vivi’s a girl from across the world and grew up in a city so different from Sài Gòn, she still ended up here, in my city, chasing after the phantoms of family and searching for answers. I know that feeling all too well.

Maybe we’re more alike than I think.

“We’ll go to Ch ? B ? n Thành together. We’ll find them,” I say, the promise rolling off my tongue—since when do I make promises? “Somehow or someway, I’m sure you’ll meet them.”

She smiles, and her dimples make my heart jump. “ And somehow or someway, we’ll win the contest, too. Two miracles can happen at once.”

“It’s getting late. I’ll take you home.”

She hesitates. “Take me home?”

I feel the corner of my left lip shaping into a smirk. “Yes. On my motorbike.”

She drops her jaw, shocked.

“Is there… something wrong with that?”

“No!” she blurts out. “Just… I feel like I’m inconveniencing you. You don’t have to take me home—I’ll figure it out. The internet is free and ever generous.”

“Can you please let me take you home before I feel bad about leaving a tourist stranded in the middle of the city?” I know Vivi wouldn’t be stranded. Sài Gòn has tons of rideshare apps for tourists and locals alike, but still, a part of me doesn’t want to leave her just yet.

She nods, biting her bottom lip. “Thanks.”

I help Vivi hop onto my motorbike, our fingers brushing against each other. She fidgets behind me, her books in between us.

“Hold on to me.”

“Hold on to you?” She shifts behind me, making my heart race faster. Placing her feet clumsily on the side of the motorbike, she tries angling herself so there’s space between us. I bite down a smile.

I lean back into her, closing that space, letting her know that it’s okay to touch me. “Yes, or you’ll fall off.”

Slowly, she inches her arm around my waist, holding on to me firmly.

For someone so bouncy and seemingly brave, she’s still shy—like me. “You can just grab my shirt, you know.”

“Oh.” Jolting, she starts to retract her hands.

“I’m teasing.” I hold on to her hands firmly. “This is nice, too.”

I turn into the busy traffic of Sài Gòn, joining the sea of motorbikes. We waddle through the crowd during peak rush hour, inching our way through the tide. I glance back at Vivi, a smile on her face as she takes in the city in front of her. The sun settles below the horizon, and kites once again take to the sky. The flying canvases makes me think of Ba, and grief grips me again. But it doesn’t feel like it usually does. Instead, I focus on Vivi’s warmth behind me, on her arms around my waist, and the loneliness doesn’t overwhelm me.

“Wow.” Vivi marvels at the kites.

I lean into her. “Do you want to go see the kites?”

“Yes.”

I weave through the crowd before turning into a narrow alleyway. Street food vendors selling bánh tráng, c ? m t ? m and chè mingle among passersby, feeding the people of Sài Gòn.

I can feel Vivi’s cheeks smiling against my back.

“Hang on,” I say.

Speeding up my motorbike, I swerve us deeper into the vast open field away from the blaring horns and toward the hum of cicadas. Vivi tightens her embrace. My heart is pounding so hard that it’s suffocating. As if on cue, five different paper kites spring from the ground up, riding the wind’s current and soaring right above our heads. I speed up again, chasing the kites around us as they dance gracefully across the red-and-orange canvas of the sky. The kites’ shades of blue, red, pink, and yellow bleed into the sunset’s hues, swirling into a palette that rivals that of traditional Vietnamese paintings. The wind playfully blows on our cheeks and the city’s humidity slips away. The earthy scent of the fields tickles my nose—the smell of sweet summer rain from the day before.

She tightens her arms around my waist, sending shivers up my spine. “Lan?”

“Yes?”

“Your Sài Gòn is beautiful.”