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EPILOGUE

“Say ‘Dada.’?”

“Mama.”

“No. ‘Dada.’?”

Philippe looked Chef Lê straight in the eye and smiled cheekily. “Mama.”

“Oh yes, it’s me, maman!” Saffron stole the toddler away from his father, kissing and calling him all kinds of French endearments.

At Choi oi, friends and family gathered to celebrate the owners’ only son’s second birthday. Like Chef Lê, little Philippe was destined to be a social butterfly. He smiled at every guest, freely returned high fives, and kissed every offered cheek. And like his mother, he was dressed chic in a forest-green cotton jacket and shorts combo. His abundant dark brown hair, courtesy of both parents, was sleeked back.

Chef Lê feigned a wound to the heart at his son’s betrayal. “One day, he’ll call for me and not his mom. One day. Or else.”

“Threatening your own son—nice,” Viet deadpanned.

“Kid’s not going to listen, I can already tell,” Bao joked, watching Saffron carrying Philippe back into the crowd.

Viet was touched to be invited to the celebration since he didn’t think he was as close to the chef as Bao and Linh, who stood right next to him. But the chef was someone who didn’t understand the word acquaintance . There were strangers. And there were friends—nothing in between. Apparently, Viet’s second visit to the restaurant during the winter break had upgraded him to the status of friend.

The R strangers would probably see them as nothing more than adults getting to know each other, and not a former husband-and-wife pair who figured out they were far better separate than together.

Viet was still trying to find his girlfriend, though.

The spring forensic science competition, just a few towns over from Davis, had also happened in a blur. At the end of it all, there were no roaring spectators, no celebratory pile of teammates waiting for him, Lis, and Kale. Just Evie, who kissed him the moment he got off the award stage, a flimsy bronze medal newly adorning his neck.

If he hadn’t gone to Kale and Tate’s party that September night, if he hadn’t accepted Lis’s invite to the forensics club, if he hadn’t wandered over to the Dairy to meet the cows, there was a chance he wouldn’t even be in Evie’s orbit.

Now Viet left the dining room for the host stand. The sun beamed in so brightly, so cleanly, because the window, where it was once patterned with fingerprints and bird excrement, now shone spotless, courtesy of a meticulous cleaner. He focused on Evie, on the other side, who was chatting animatedly with an elderly Asian woman leaning on her cane, whose entire forearm was bejeweled.

Before the semester ended, Evie said she wanted to replicate the student-run clinic’s efforts in Little Saigon. First she’d need to spread the word and gauge local interest. Perhaps this woman was interested or might even be a potential patient.

Viet palmed a business card in his jeans pocket. Chef Lê, by honest coincidence or stealthy interference, had invited a friend of a friend who was a forensic pathologist. He was Vietnamese as well and readily offered his card, told Viet to call. This small thing between his fingers was a promise, and he had to be sure he didn’t lose it somewhere.

Sensing his gaze, Evie turned around. Their eyes locked. A smile bloomed on his face. She saw him, clear as day.

And he saw her too.