The Kiss Quotient

by Helen Hoang

  When he’d finally destroyed everything that could be destroyed, he stared at the carnage on the floor and spilling from the garbage.

  It had worked. He felt nothing now.

  He walked to the sewing machine he usually used, sat down, and considered the pile of unfinished clothes next to it. A few pairs of pants needed hemming, dresses needed to be taken in, and a jacket had a torn inner lining. They were all clothes someone else had designed. Someone else’s vision.

  Might as well finish all of it. Maybe he could give his mom more time off this week.

  He started to sew.

  { CHAP+ER }

  26

  Later that week, Sophie manned the shop and watched Ngoại while Michael took Mẹ to the doctor for her monthly checkup and bloodwork. It was a short drive, but it felt like forever with his mom crossing her arms and boring holes into the side of his head with her eyes. He cranked the music volume up and focused on the road.

  She turned the radio off. “I can’t take it anymore. You walk around all day like a cat who’s lost his mouse. You don’t talk. You scare the customers. And you’re working like you’re dying. Michael, tell Mẹ what’s going on.”

  He tightened his grip on the leather steering wheel. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “How is Stella? Tell her to come on Saturday. Grapefruit was on sale, so we have a lot.”

  He said nothing.

  “Mẹ is not stupid, you know. Did you break up with these people’s daughter?”

  “Why are you so sure it wasn’t the other way around?” Stella would have done it eventually. When she decided she’d practiced enough.

  “Clear as day, she’s passionate for you. She would never do that.”

  He clenched his jaw against a fresh surge of unwelcome feeling. Stella had liked him well enough, but the only place she’d been “passionate” for him had been in bed.

  “I met her parents, Mẹ.”

  “Oh? Were they nice people?”

  “Her dad didn’t think I was good enough,” he said with a bitter twist of his lips.

  “Of course, he didn’t.”

  Michael snapped his attention from the road to his mom’s profile. “What do you mean ‘of course, he didn’t?’” He was her only son. She never talked about him like this.

  “You’re too proud, just like your dad. You have to be understanding. He only wants what’s best for his daughter. She’s his only child, right? What do you think it was like when I married your dad?”

  “Grandma and Grandpa love you.”

  “They do. Now. They didn’t approve of me at first. Why would they want him marrying a Vietnamese girl with only an eighth-grade education who barely spoke English? They refused to come to the wedding until your dad threatened to cut ties with them. I had to work to convince them. It didn’t happen overnight. But it was worth it.”

  “I didn’t know that . . .” It made him look at his grandparents in a new, rather unfavorable light.

  “When you love someone, Michael, you fight for them in every way you know how. If you put your mind to it, her dad will come to like you. If you treat his daughter right, he’ll love you.”

  “I think it would be very selfish of me to fight for her. There are men who are better suited to her. They’re richer, more educated, and more . . .” His words trailed off as she slowly turned to face him, her eyes narrowed in a ball-shriveling stare.

  “You sound just like your dad. If you can’t stand being with a woman who’s more successful than you, then leave her alone. She’s better off without you. If you actually love her, then know the value of that love and make it a promise. That is the only thing she needs from you.”

  “You think I’m like Dad? You think I’d do what he did?” His mom’s words submerged him in frigid water and stopped his lungs. Fuck, his own mom thought—

  “You would never do that,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He has no heart. You do, and it steers you in the right direction. But you think you need to be best and do everything yourself. You and your dad both have that problem.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Then why are you still working at the shop? And why did you do all my sewing? You think this old woman can’t sew a straight line?” she asked in exasperation.

  “No, I—”

  “I can’t stay at home anymore. I know I’m not as fast as I was, but I do a good job. I’m feeling better. The drugs are working. You kids have to stop trapping me in the house, and you, Michael, you have to stop coming to the shop. I don’t want you there anymore, especially in this black mood. You’re bad for business.”

  “Mẹ, I can’t leave you alone, and you won’t let anyone who’s not family work with you.” It was an inescapable truth he’d had to come to grips with, one bar of the cage he voluntarily lived inside. Because he loved her.

  “You think you’re the only one in the family who knows how to sew? How many cousins do you have? What about Quan? He came to the shop on Saturday to use the machine to fix his jacket zipper. He knew what he was doing, and he doesn’t like working for his mom. She yells too much.”

  Michael flinched back in his seat as his brain scrambled to understand what she’d said. “You’d let him work in front? With all those tattoos?”

  She pointed at Michael’s arm where black ink peeked out from underneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. “You have it, too. Don’t think I didn’t notice. I have no idea why you young people do that to yourselves.”

  He dropped his left hand away from the steering wheel so his arm lowered out of view. “Girls like it.”

  “My Stella likes that?”

  “Well, yeah.” She’d kissed the dragon so many times it probably missed her as much as he did by now. It occurred to him Philip James was probably bare as a baby under his clothes. A satisfied smile spread over his lips.

  And since when had his mom started calling Stella hers?

  “She’s not as innocent as you think,” he added, trying to mitigate his mom’s eventual disappointment.

  She slanted him an are you kidding me? look before focusing on the buildings passing by. “Like a girl would stay innocent long with my son. Besides, every mother wants a daughter-in-law who can get down to business. I want to hold babies again.”

  Michael choked and coughed.

  “Don’t miss the turn.” She pointed to the front drive of the Palo Alto Medical Foundation.

  He dropped her off at the door and went to park in the underground parking structure. His mind was a mess of loud thoughts as he left the elevator and went to look for her in the waiting area outside the oncology suite.

  His mom said his heart steered him in the right direction, and she didn’t think he’d ever do what his dad had. She wanted him to fight for Stella. She thought love was enough.

  But love wasn’t enough if it was only one-sided.

  His favorite receptionist, Janelle, flagged him down. “She already went in. Before you go looking for her, I need your signature on some paperwork over here.”

  He strode up to the reception desk with a feeling of dread. In his experience, paperwork was not a good thing. Bills were paper.

  “Since you have power of attorney, you sign here and here,” Janelle said.

  He frowned down at the papers. They didn’t look like regular medical paperwork at all. “What are these for?”

  “The foundation has recently started a new program that provides assistance for households with insufficient insurance coverage who haven’t been approved for federal or state assistance for various reasons. Your mom was one of the lucky few who were approved for full aid from here on out. That’s got to be a relief, huh?”

  Michael snatched up the papers and started reading the fine print as fast as he could. The more he read, the more stunned he became. His skin tingled with disbelief. “Is this
really real? It’s all covered?”

  “This is the real deal. Just sign the papers, Michael honey.” Janelle’s eyes were warm and understanding, and Michael didn’t know how to react. This was too good to be true.

  No more medical bills. No more bills. No bills. Was that possible? Michael didn’t have this kind of luck. Bad things happened to him. Life for him was seeing how he could handle the punches and keep going. This had to be a scam.

  “How were we selected?” He almost couldn’t hear himself speak through the desperate cacophony of his heart.

  Janelle shook her head with a smile. “I’m not familiar with the selection process, but the program has made several families really happy today. Believe it, honey. It’s all official, and it’s happening.” She squeezed his hand before handing him a pen with a plastic daisy taped to the end.

  He read over the print one more time, picking up phrases like recognition of financial hardship and full medical coverage. There were no red flags, no requests for payment, no contingencies, no confusing clauses. This was legit. His gut told him it was legit. The tip of the pen rested inside a yellow highlighted area in the document.

  “How is this program funded?” he asked.

  “Private funding. You know this area and all the large philanthropic organizations. Go on and sign it already. You’re making me nervous.”

  His heart slowed, his hands steadied, and he scrawled his signature on the highlighted lines of page after page of legal verbiage.

  She gathered the papers together, filled a small paper cup with water from inside her office, and handed it to him. “Drink this. You’re looking faint. Go on back now and break the news to your mom. She’s in her regular exam room.”

  He tossed the water back and marched into the suite of exam rooms, going straight to the second room from the end. His mom was stretched out on the exam table with wires sneaking out from underneath her sweater to link to an EKG. A nurse printed readouts from the machine and made notes on his clipboard before he helped his mom peel the sensors off her chest.

  “How’s everything looking?” Michael asked as he sat down.

  “I’ll let the doctor tell you when she comes in.” The nurse smiled, gathered up his papers and machinery, and left the room.

  “It’s going to be good news.” His mom straightened the lilac cashmere sweater that actually matched with her pants—plain white—for once. “Mẹ feels good.”

  This seemed like too much good news for one day, but there was color in her cheeks, and the smudges under her eyes weren’t as pronounced.

  “Have you gained more weight?” he asked.

  “Three pounds.”

  That loosened some of the tension in Michael’s body. “That’s great.”

  “Stop worrying and trust Mẹ.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and his mom’s doctor stepped inside, a curvaceous woman with sandy shoulder-length hair and a demeanor that instantly put people at ease.

  “So it’s good news. I know I’ve shocked you again, Michael. Your mom is doing really well,” she said with a laugh before her focus returned to his mom. “Your last scans were stable, and we’re going to start spreading them out even further. We’ll keep your current dosages the same and do bloodwork every month. Of course, if anything changes, we want to see you right away, but I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Tell my son it’s okay if I work more. He and his sisters are trying to trap me at home.”

  Dr. Hennigan eyed him with an understanding smile. “If she wants to work, let her work, Michael. It’s healthy to stay active—both physically and mentally.”

  Michael crossed his arms. “Maybe instead of working, she should start dating.”

  “Oh no no no no no. No more men for me.” His mom made emphatic motions with her hands and shook her head. “I’m done.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows rose in a considering way. “He’s right. You could start dating, Anh. Might be fun.”

  His mom sent him a withering glance, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

  They left the exam room shortly thereafter and walked by the reception desk. Janelle grinned warmly, and his mom gave her a distracted wave.

  “Is she in shock?” Janelle asked.

  His mom frowned. “He wants me to get a boyfriend. Me. I’m almost sixty.”

  Janelle nodded sagely. “It’s never too late for true love.”

  “Bah. I just want to work. Money is better than men. I want a Hermès handbag.”

  “Well, maybe you can afford it now,” Janelle said with a wide grin.

  Michael ushered his mom out of the office before they could go into why she could afford it. As they got into his car and pulled out of the parking structure into the sun, he wished he could tell her about the program, but then he’d have to come clean about all the lies he’d told her regarding her excellent but nonexistent health insurance and how he’d been paying her medical bills all this time.

  The only one who would understand was Stella, but she was gone. No, he’d have to keep this to himself.

  * * *

  • • •

  Stella rested her forehead in her palm and methodically went over the attributes in herself she associated with her disorder: her sensitivities to sound, smell, and texture; her need for routine; her awkwardness in social situations; and her tendency toward obsession.

  Over the last week, she’d tackled all of them but the last two. She didn’t know how to tackle those. She could listen to awful music as she worked, wear perfume, take kitchen shears to the French seams of her shirts, and destroy her routines, but she couldn’t suddenly talk to people with ease, and she couldn’t not be obsessed with something she loved.

  Her mind spun around and around in circles, trying to figure out how to solve the problem. While she wasn’t great at talking, she had made marked improvement over the years. If she focused and watched what she said, she was able to interact with people without making them uncomfortable—mostly. That left obsession.

  How did one not obsess over something wonderful? How did one like something a reasonable amount? If she was being realistic with herself, she had to admit this simply wasn’t a possibility for her. She couldn’t like something halfway. She’d tried that with Michael and failed miserably. Did that mean she had to abstain completely from things she enjoyed?

  She supposed she could give up piano, martial arts movies, and Asian dramas. But what about her greatest passion?

  Econometrics?

  Giving that up would be the biggest sign of her commitment. Her work was such a pivotal part of her life that if she resigned, everything would change. She really would be a new person.

  She set her glasses on her desk and covered her eyes with her palm, giving up on the data on the screen. Her mind was simply too overwrought to focus. If she couldn’t do her work, maybe she should resign.

  Maybe she should devote herself to something with more concrete benefits to society. Like the medical field. She could be a doctor if she tried hard enough. She didn’t love physiology and chemistry, but what did that matter? Most doctors probably focused on the end results of their labor instead of the daily reality of their work. Truth be told, it was better if the work bored her. She wouldn’t obsess over it then.

  That was it. She had to quit her job.

  With stiff fingers and feverish determination, she began drafting a letter of resignation to her boss.

  Dear Albert,

  Thank you for the past five years. Being a part of your team was an invaluable experience to me. I cherished the opportunity not only to study fascinating, real market data but to effect measurable change in the economy through the application of econometric principles. However, I must leave because

  Because what? Albert would not understand any of the reasoning filling her brain right now. He was an economist. All he cared ab
out was economics.

  If she told him she was autistic, he wouldn’t care. It didn’t impact her effectiveness as an econometrician in a negative way. If anything, her obsessive tendency to hyperfocus for long periods of time, her love of routines and patterns, and her extremely logical mind that couldn’t comprehend casual conversation made her a stronger econometrician.

  It was a shame those same things made her unlovable.

  A discreet knocking sounded against the door, and she checked the clock before turning around to see Janie walk into her office. Right on schedule. She hurried to minimize the letter of resignation and stood up to face her internship candidate.

  Janie smiled, and though her lips trembled with nervousness, the action still reminded Stella so much of Michael that her heart squeezed.

  Belatedly, she shook Janie’s hand. “I’m so glad to see you. Please, have a seat.”

  Janie brushed her hands over her black skirt suit and sat. She tapped her toes for several seconds before she crossed her ankles. “Good to see you, too, Stella.”

  In the awkward silence that ensued, Stella absently scratched her neck. The opened seams of her shirt felt like lines of ants crawling on her skin.

  “How are you?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the itching.

  “Me? Er, I’m fine.” Janie wore her long hair loose today, and she tucked a dark brown tendril behind her ear as she looked down at her leather portfolio on Stella’s desk. “Michael is not fine.”

  Stella’s chest tightened, and the skin on her face prickled. “Oh no, why? What happened? Is your mom okay?”

  “My mom is fine. Don’t worry,” Janie said, making calming gestures with her hands. “Well, she’s upset with Michael. She wants him to quit coming to the shop, but he won’t. On top of that, he’s been intolerably grouchy lately, and he’s working nonstop. It’s like he’s possessed. We’re all worried and annoyed.”

  “I don’t—I don’t understand why he should be unhappy.” He couldn’t possibly be unhappy for the same reason she was. Hopelessness mixed with the abrasion of open seams on her skin, making her want to tear her shirt off and scream.