by Pintip Dunn
I slide down a step. I’m still sitting above him, but our heads are now more or less level. Our eyes—and our lips—line up.
He swallows, his thumb moving in light circles against my skin. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just stick with the facts,” he says. “Fact: my mother didn’t go to Thailand to take care of her sick mother. Fact: my a-ma is pushing ninety, but she still walks in the garden every morning. Fact: my mother abandoned us. She met a man online and moved to Oklahoma to live with him and his kids. Fact: the divorce became final last year. Fact: I haven’t spoken to her since my birthday ten months ago.”
My mouth drops. “Oh, Mat. I’m sorry.” The words are hopelessly inadequate, but I don’t know how else to offer comfort. “Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning?”
“My dad asked me to lie. At the time, he was hurting so much. We were both reeling, and he just couldn’t deal with the dishonor on top of everything else.” His eyes tilt down. “You know as well as I do what a big scandal the truth would’ve been in our community. It was much easier to say she went home to take care of her mother, since it’s a common enough scenario.”
He stops talking. His thumb ceases to move. I count ten whole heartbeats before he speaks again.
“I can understand why Dad wanted to hide the truth. But I don’t think he understood what he was asking of me at that moment. What it cost me to lie. What I lost.”
“You were a kid,” I protest. “You did what your father asked. Your sins, as it were, are plenty forgivable.”
He fixes his eyes on our hands. “But I did much more than just lie. I also pushed you away.”
I blink. And blink again. I then pull my fingers out of his grasp. Not because I’m angry, but because I need to think, and I can’t do that while he’s touching me. “Are you saying that this is the reason our friendship ended?”
He nods miserably. “I didn’t plan it. If I had known our friendship would fall apart, I would never have agreed to lie. But I didn’t know that being around you would be so damn hard. Every day, at lunch, you would chatter about how much you missed my mom’s cooking. How she would be back before I knew it. When I finally stormed off, you followed me and apologized. You said you should’ve known that talking about her would make me miss her more. And I couldn’t look you in the eyes any longer. I just couldn’t.”
He takes a shaky breath. “I only wanted some distance. I didn’t mean for our break to be permanent. I thought maybe we’d go our separate ways for a couple of weeks. But you were so angry. So hurt. Our resentment of each other spiraled out of control, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”
I stare. Part of me feels so much for the little boy who lost his mother. That part wants to wrap him up tightly and hold him close, so that he can never be hurt again.
But I can’t forget the tears I cried. The countless nights I didn’t sleep. The loss of his friendship was the single most devastating event of my childhood. And he could’ve prevented it all with a few honest words.
“You didn’t know how to stop it,” I repeat. My voice is so brittle that it might shatter. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m sorry would’ve done the trick. Or let’s be friends again. Or even: scoot over, that’s my seat.”
“I did try,” he says. “After a few months, I was desperate to make things right. I had a speech all prepared, but when I came up to you, I panicked. Instead of apologizing, I pointed out the hole in your pants. Which was nothing out of the ordinary, because you always had a hole at your knees, from all that running and tripping you did. But you got really mad, and everything else I said just made it worse. We fell into this awful pattern, and, well…you know the rest of it.”
I scrutinize his straight eyebrows, the unfairly long lashes, and struggle to recalibrate the past. “Wasn’t it obvious that I wanted our friendship back?”
“Not to me. I was convinced you hated me. Anything I could say or do seemed too little, too late. Childhood friendships always end, they say. I guess that’s what I thought happened. We grew up and grew apart.”
He looks up, his eyes as black and fathomless as deep lake water. “I assumed you had abandoned me, too. Maybe that was the wrong conclusion, but after my mom left, it was hard for me to trust anybody. So I didn’t look too far beneath the surface. You told me, with every word and every action, that you didn’t want to be my friend anymore, and I believed you.”
“You underestimated both me and your mom,” I say quietly. “She loved you. I saw it in every lunch she packed, every time she pulled you in for a hug. I don’t know what your relationship is like now, but her leaving doesn’t negate the past. It doesn’t erase what you once had.
“As for me…” I take a deep breath. The words are harder now. The sentiments riskier. “I cried. More times than I want to admit. Because I lost you. I missed you.”
I drop my face into my hands, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions. Everything I’ve felt in the last four years crashes over me now, and I don’t know how to reach the top of this wave. I don’t know where to find the strength to fight this current.
Turns out, all I ever needed was a little help from him.
Gently, Mat pries away my hands and lifts up my chin so that we’re looking at each other. “I cried, too. If I listed every session, we’d be here all night.”
I choke out a laugh. “We were so awful to each other.”
“The worst.” He traces his finger along my cheek, scooping up a stray teardrop.
“The things I said to you.” I shake my head. “I made fun of everything—your clothes, your hair. Your mannerisms. Nothing was off-limits.”
“You don’t know how often I would try on a shirt and wonder what you would find to criticize.”
“I always found something wrong,” I say. “No matter what. I made up flaws if I had to. Which I did half the time.”
“Only half?” he teases.
My lips twitch. This banter is familiar territory. But with the removal of the barb, the absence of any malice, it feels wholly new. “Even monkeys get every fourth answer right on a multiple-choice exam.”
“So you’re saying my fashion sense is better than a monkey’s?”
“Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Finally. A compliment from Winnie.” He clutches his heart. “I’ll take it.”
We smile at each other, and then we lean back against the steps, studying the night sky. The silence is both awkward and nice.
I have no idea what the future holds. I don’t know what kind of friendship we can salvage. I’m even less sure how our fake dates will proceed. But I know one thing.
I’m very glad I wore the world’s ugliest sweater tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The doorbell rings on Monday morning, just as I’m arranging a couple of slices of toast on my plate. Mama had an early shift at the hospital, and she’s no longer trying to butter me up—which leaves me buttering my own breakfast.
“Can you get the door, Winnie?” Papa calls from upstairs. “I’m expecting a package.”
I stick a piece of toast in my mouth. Yum. I’ve prepared it the Thai way—buttered and sprinkled with sugar. Most of my American classmates think that’s weird, with the exception of Kavya, who doesn’t find anything weird. She’ll pop a fish eyeball (mm, both crunchy and tender) into her mouth without blinking—her own eyes or the fish’s. In comparison, my sweet-and-salty combo is much more innocuous. Waffles are served with butter and syrup. Biscuits pair with butter and honey. Why not sugar?
With the bread hanging from my lips, I open the door.
Ack. The toast falls from my mouth, and I hastily catch it, leaving my fingers both greasy and gritty. It’s not the mail after all, but the guy who has a habit of showing up where he’s least expected.
“Taran. What are you doing here?” I chuck the bread in a trash can and wipe my
fingers on a tissue.
But I hardly need to be self-conscious. Taran looks like hell. His bloodshot eyes sit above ink-dark smudges, and his hair sticks out in every cardinal direction. Even his bark-brown skin appears wan—a feat I didn’t realize was possible. He looks like he’s been hungover for the last day and a half. And maybe he has.
“I’m sorry, Winnie,” he says without preamble. “I almost don’t remember my behavior on Saturday night. But long, terrible sequences came back to me yesterday, while my head was hanging over the toilet. I’m absolutely mortified.”
I cross my arms, more to stiffen my resolve than because of any anger. He deserves every bit of my annoyance, but I can’t help but soften at his obvious misery.
“Did you get in trouble?” I ask. The reason I never saw his parents Saturday night was because they weren’t present. Mama informed me that she ran into the Tongdees at a local restaurant. I don’t blame them for wanting a quiet meal, but their absence at a wild high school party seems awfully trusting.
Taran nods sheepishly. “By the time my parents got home, I was passed out on the bathroom floor. They didn’t even try to move me. My mom just threw a comforter over me, and I spent the night on the cold tile.” He shrugs. “It was the first time I ever drank. My dad said my hangover was probably punishment enough, but they grounded me anyway. Otherwise, I would’ve come over yesterday.”
“Seems reasonable enough,” I say, my voice as stiff as my spine.
“The punch doesn’t excuse how I treated you. I’m not saying that.”
I sigh. The alcohol’s definitely not an excuse, but I’m suddenly so tired of being mad. The amount of energy it took to maintain my animosity toward Mat was exhausting. Now that Mat and I have finally crested the hill of forgiveness, the last thing I want is another enemy.
Besides, Taran did apologize. And it only took him thirty-six hours, instead of four years. That’s something.
I drop my arms. “I hope you apologized to Julie, too. I don’t know what went down between you two, but it probably wasn’t appropriate, given the circumstances.”
“Nothing happened, I swear. She was never waiting for me. I just said that. The truth is, I stumbled to the bathroom and went to sleep.” He shakes his head. “My first party at Lakewood, and not only did I get trashed, but I wasn’t even awake long enough to enjoy it.”
“Serves you right.” A smile ghosts over my lips.
“The important thing is: do you forgive me?”
“Might as well. I mean, life’s too short to hold a grudge.” My words may be flippant, but the wisdom cuts deep. That’s a lesson I wish I learned four years ago. But I can only move forward now and not back.
“You’re still mad.” He places his hand on the jamb, which makes me realize the door’s been open way too long. Mama’s a stickler for closing entryways—a lingering habit from her years in Thailand, where homes are cooled room by room—so I gesture for him to come inside.
“Is it because of that Julie comment?” he asks once I shut the door. “I swear to you I just made that up to make you jealous. I’m interested in you.”
I give a short laugh. A few days ago, I would’ve died to hear such a confession. Now, I feel almost nothing. “The point is moot. You’re too new in town to know about the Tech girls. Like I alluded to the other day, I’m not allowed to date. At least, not for real.”
He raises his brows. “Really? You and Mat seem awfully close. I know you said there was nothing between you, but he’s always around.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I like complex.” His eyes are warm, his face earnest. I can’t help but smile. For all his faults, Taran has an uplifting effect on people.
“Long story short. My sisters and I weren’t allowed to date in high school. But then they got to college and refused to consider the notion of getting engaged. So, Mama decided that I need to practice my relationship skills.” Never have air quotes been so exaggerated. “And Mat’s the person she’s picked for me to practice with.”
Laid out like that, the situation sounds ridiculous. But that’s Mama for you. “So unless you want to sign up to fake-date me, I’m a lost cause,” I say wryly. “I appreciate the interest, though.”
He leans against the wall, unfazed. “In that case, would you like to be friends?”
“Friends?” I test out the word on my lips. “I could go with that.”
He sticks out his hand, and we shake on it.
Papa walks by the foyer at that precise moment. He halts and does a comical double take. “Touching,” he gasps, as though he’s having a heart attack.
I jerk my hand out of Taran’s grasp. “Breathe, Papa. It’s just a handshake. You said you were facing reality, remember? So you’ll have to accept that I’ll have cause to touch someone sometimes.”
My throat rattles with the need to laugh. Taran, on the other hand, looks like he’s been caught pilfering the donation box at the wat. I’ll explain later, I mouth to him.
Composing himself, Taran lifts his hands into a prayerlike position and waies Papa. “Sawatdee krup. You must be Dr. Tech. I’m Taran Tongdee. My father says you went to med school together.”
Papa rubs his chin like he’s sizing Taran up.
“Papa,” I say sharply, hoping I don’t die from embarrassment. “Taran stopped by to say hello. What you saw was a friendly handshake. Because we’re friends. And that’s what friends do.”
“That’s right.” Taran nods vigorously. “When I see Winnie, all I can think is sister. Which is kind of weird, ’cause I only have brothers, and all I know is torment. Not that I want to torture Winnie.” He swipes a hand across his brow. “God, no. Nothing could be further from the truth.” He looks up at the raised beams on our ceiling. “I’d, uh, like to color pictures with her,” he bursts out. “With, you know, crayons.”
I giggle. He’s kinda cute when he flails. “Only if we were seven.”
“Whatever brothers and sisters do,” he corrects. “That’s what I want to do to her. I mean, with her. I mean…” He flushes. “Just give me crayons. Please.”
I crack up. This guy is exactly like me. How, oh, how does he exist?
Papa snaps his mouth shut, and color finally seeps back into his face. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he barks.
Taran’s face relaxes, as though he’s spotted familiar ground—and is making a mad dash toward it.
“A doctor, sir. Specifically, I would like to be a radiologist, like my father.”
Good answer. According to the Thai parent handbook, maybe the best answer he could have given.
“What did you score on the SATs?” The interrogation continues.
“Perfect on math. Seven hundred on the verbal section.”
Papa’s eyes flicker, as though he’s impressed but doesn’t want to be. “How many AP exams have you taken?”
“None, sir. They didn’t offer APs at my tiny school in Kansas. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ve been accepted early decision to Harvard.”
Papa’s eyes widen. He backs up a few steps. Hell, even I back up a little. Taran’s completely won him over now.
“Harvard, huh?” Papa scratches his chin. “You know, when we first came to this country, I stood on the steps of Widener Library and prayed that one day my children would attend school there. Why? Because that would mean I was right to move to this country. Right to uproot our lives. So that my children would have better opportunities than I did.”
His tone is soft, nostalgic. And one that I’ve rarely heard before.
“Really, Papa?” I ask. “You never told me that.”
“Because I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression,” he says. “Harvard is just a symbol of a better future. Nothing more. The truth is, I couldn’t be any prouder of the twins for going to Wash U. Couldn’t be any prouder of you for getti
ng into Northwestern. You’re all such incredible young women. Whatever I had to sacrifice to get you here, I would make again. In a heartbeat.”
“Oh, Papa.” My eyes misty, I hug him. He can be gruff. He might be absentminded, and he’s hugely overprotective. But he loves me through and through.
With one arm still around me, Papa nods at Taran. “Congratulations. And good luck to you.” He turns to me. “I got called in to the hospital. Can you take the bus to school or ask Kavya for a ride?”
“I can take her, Dr. Tech,” Taran offers. “I’m already heading there.”
Papa blinks rapidly. Even his newfound approval didn’t prepare him for this scenario.
“But the people,” he manages. “What would they say?”
I roll my eyes. The people again. For as long as I can remember, these anonymous, faceless people have dictated what I can or can’t do. I’ll have to invite them to my wedding, since they’ve played such a central role in my life.
“Pretty sure the people will never find out unless you call and tell them,” I say archly.
Papa chews on the inside of his mouth and then looks at his watch. “Fine,” he says reluctantly. “But remember—”
“I know, I know,” I interrupt. “We already shook hands, but if it will ease your mind, there will be no future touching.”
I scoop up my backpack. Taran wisely doesn’t say a word. We trip out the door and down the steps, hoping to get away before Papa can change his mind.
I’m just opening the door to Taran’s Honda Accord when Papa comes out on the porch.
“Winnie, wait.” He throws something at me. A pair of black leather gloves slaps me in the arm, tumbling to the ground.
“It’s almost sixty degrees,” I protest.
He adjusts his glasses. “Somewhere in the world, it’s cool enough to wear gloves.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he says firmly. “If you want that ride, put them on.”
Sighing, I pick up the gloves from the grass. And I put them on.