Chances for Serendipity

by Natalie Chung

  She slammed the phone down on her thigh and jabbed the end call button. “Freaking hell,” she muttered.

  “What’s—”

  “Don’t ask,” she cut me off, glaring. I cringed, causing her face to immediately soften. “Sorry. I wanted to enjoy today, but of course I can’t. I need to go home.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, because someone can’t be left by themselves for five freaking seconds.”

  Was she talking about Ellie? Although tempting to ask, it wouldn’t help the situation. If she wanted to talk about it… “Text me when you get home.”

  “Sure. Sorry again.” She said one last farewell and promptly left when the gates opened during the next changeover.

  I quickly texted Jere.

  Hey babe, can you pick me up later? Liz had to leave.

  As the rest of the match went on, I couldn’t get into it again. My head felt strangely heavy after Liz’s phone call, and the mugginess of the closed arena bore down on me. Had it been this humid the whole time?

  I shifted restlessly in my seat, constantly checking my phone. Jere still hadn’t texted me back after twenty minutes. I called him, but it went to voicemail. Thanks to the match delays from the rain this morning, it was already nearing midnight. He’d probably fallen asleep already. But that also meant no trains going home by the time this match ended.

  Well, here goes my last resort. I messaged Max.

  Can you please pick me up from the arena? Liz had to leave early.

  I saw him pop up online and start typing an answer.

  If you promise not to skip any more of your Saturday shifts.

  What the heck? I didn’t have much of a choice. Jere wasn’t answering, and I wasn’t going to call a taxi or driving service to pick me up. That would cost way too much.

  Fine.

  I waited as he typed again.

  K what time then?

  I looked at the current scoreboard: 6–4, 3–1, 30–15 on Aiden’s serve. The match would most likely be Aiden’s win with straight sets, so I told him to drive now. I yawned. Waiting too long for him would be torturous when I was halfway to falling asleep.

  Sure enough, before I knew it, the score reached 5–3, on Aiden’s serve. 40–15. Pretty much game over. Match point. Not that you could see it on Aiden’s face or in his movements.

  He stood with a serious focus as though this would just be another serve, not potentially one that would end the match. Straight-faced. A true pro. He tossed the ball, back arching, racket snapping back.

  Bam. The ball shot over the net and down the T in a flash. Monetti’s racket didn’t even touch it—he hadn’t had time to react.

  An ace.

  Shouts and clapping washed over the arena as Aiden threw his arms up in celebration.

  “Game, set and match. Andale wins two sets to love, 6–4, 6–3.”

  “Embrace the unknown!” Aiden yelled into the microphone.

  Everyone cheered and hooted. The large LCD screen mounted high above the umpire’s chair displayed Aiden’s face as he held up his translucent, vase-like trophy.

  “First, I’d like to say congrats to Vincenzo. He played really well this week to make it to the finals, real top-level. Today I was the luckier one, but I’m sure he’ll continue to do well in the Australian Open next week.”

  Vincenzo gave a polite nod.

  “Next, I want to thank my team. My dad, for coaching me. My physio, Trev, and my trainer, Mike. I wouldn’t be able to do all this without their help. Thanks to the ball kids, the sponsors, and organisers of this event. Nothing would be possible without you too.

  “Man, what a great start to my year. I was born in Sydney, so to win the actual Sydney International...it means the world. So thanks everyone for coming out today. I appreciate all your support. See you in Melbourne next week.”

  Melbourne next week. My heart threatened to burst out from my chest at the painful reminder. Dad had loved Melbourne Park and the Australian Open more than anything. What would he have made of Aiden Andale and his victory today? There was only one possible answer.

  Happy. Dad would’ve been happy. And the thought of that brought a sad smile to my face as Aiden lifted his trophy in victory again and I joined in on the applause.

  Max’s car slowed to a stop on the curb. I opened the front passenger door and jumped in. “Hey, Gor Gor. Thanks for picking me up.”

  “Meeeh,” he said, dragging out the one syllable for as long as humanly possible. “Just make sure you keep your promise. What’s up with you and Ma anyway? You’re usually the goody-two-shoes.”

  “She said mean things about Jere, so I’m punishing her.”

  “Seriously?” He slapped his hands on the top of the steering wheel. “More like you’re punishing me. She’s making me do those Saturday shifts now. Gosh, Dippy. Grow up.”

  Grow up? That was hilarious coming from him, the guy who spent ninety percent of his free time in front of a computer. And why was he complaining so much? Mum had recently employed Ming to help out with the baking, so it wasn’t like the pressure was all on him. But I kept my mouth shut because I wasn’t in the mood to start an argument. “Whatever. I won’t skip again.”

  He huffed. “Better not.” Flicking on his right indicator, he did a head check, pulling out of the curb and onto the main road. “Who won, by the way?”

  I stared outside my window at the blurry shadows of buildings and trees as we sped past them. “Aiden Andale.”

  “Woo, go ’Straya,” he said like a true patriot. “So was it what you expected?”

  “Yeah.” I’d predicted Aiden would win. That, I’d expected. But Liz’s strange behaviour, her edginess and annoyance at her sister, her abrupt departure after the random phone call—I hadn’t expected that tonight at all.

  I tried to push aside my worries for her as my brain slowly drifted off. Who knew what our lives were coming to? Maybe Aiden’s catchphrase was right. Maybe we should embrace the unknown more. Though how exactly did one embrace the unknown?

  Chapter 10

  8 months later (22 years old)

  “Whyyyy? Why would he do that?” I wailed as sad melancholic background music played from my laptop. This was the worst romance movie ever. It shouldn’t even have been classed as romance. More like tragic sacrifice.

  I paused the video player and let my head collapse onto the bed. Balling my hands into fists, I pummelled my pillow repeatedly like a punching bag. “Useless. Stupid. Idiot.” Yeah, I wasn’t talking about the movie anymore.

  Someone knocked on my door and slid it open, interrupting my tirade. I suppressed a yelp at the dark head that poked in through the gap. “What was that noise? What are you doing in the dark?” Mum’s voice closed in on me as she approached. Shadows eclipsed half of her face, the other half lit eerily by the light from my laptop screen.

  “Noth-thing,” I lied, my voice hacking in coughs midway.

  She shook her head firmly. “You should be resting if you’re sick.”

  I made a show of grabbing a tissue and blowing my nose loudly into it. Ugh, no use. One wasn’t enough. Grabbing another tissue, I blew some more. When I finally felt like my nose was temporarily semi-clear again, I said, “I am resting. I already slept half the day away.”

  “Watching a sad love story won’t help.” How did she—

  I turned to my laptop. A still image of the video showcased the pretty, crying heroine clutching desperately onto the fallen hero pierced by his own sword. Oh… I guess it was kind of obvious.

  “You’re still not over him?”

  I winced at her bluntness. She didn’t need to say who him was. We both knew. “No, I’m over it. I don’t need him.” I’d meant the words to come out convincing, but they sounded lame and despairing in my scratchy, cold-induced voice.

  “That boy was no good anyway,” Mum went on, as though she didn’t believe me and I needed another reminder. “Didn’t eat meat, distracted you from studying, stopped you from helping me, alw
ays asking you out and wasting money—”

  “Mum!” She was so not helping.

  “You’ll see. It’s better without him.” She said it like she was talking about leaving out some suggested extra ingredient in a recipe. What she didn’t know was that he’d sunken his way into my heart, became as important as flour in buns. How did I continue on now without the most essential ingredient in my life?

  Of course I didn’t say all that to her. “Yeah, thanks Mum. It’s late. You should go back to bed.” I shooed her out, leaving me to drown silently in my sorrows. Or anger. Whichever it was. Probably both.

  I moved the laptop to my bedside desk and snapped the lid shut with a sigh. Just as I settled back onto my bed in the welcoming darkness, my mobile phone chimed and a notification popped up.

  Liz: Please answer me. Let me explain what…

  The rest of the message was hidden from the preview, waiting for me to unlock my phone to view it. I didn’t. Because however mad I was toward my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, I grudgingly corrected myself—multiply that times ten for Liz.

  A burning hot sensation ignited in my chest, spreading through my whole body like an inner inferno. My best friend. She’d been my best friend. Or so I’d blindly thought. Best friends didn’t betray each other. A heavy pain pounded in my head. I clamped my eyelids closed and smoothed a hand over my temple. I totally did not need this drama when I was sick.

  Chucking the phone on my pillow, I sprawled my arms and legs out like a starfish. Forget about Liz. She didn’t deserve a chance to explain. What was there to explain anyway? Nothing she said would change what had already happened. I hoped she was feeling miserable for what she’d done.

  Nope. I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t be the pitiful girl who wanted sympathy. I needed out.

  I slowly peeled myself off the bed, teeth chattering. It felt like a freaking ice age outside the heated confines of my electric blanket. I threw on a woolly jumper and exited my room, padding across the darkened hallway.

  Max’s bedroom door was closed, no light visible in the small gap underneath between the floorboards. Well, well. Surprisingly asleep for once. Thankfully, he was avoiding me like the plague after Mum told him I wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t need him silently appraising my depressing behaviour. Mum’s take on it was enough to last me a lifetime.

  Pitch black surroundings greeted me when I reached the kitchen. I fumbled for the switch and flicked it on. Bright kitchen lights winked to life, stabbing my eyes. I whipped around and blinked several times, slowly adjusting to the vibrance. My gaze automatically went to the kitchen bench, a long shadow cast atop it.

  For a moment, I forgot it was my shadow and thought… I shook my head. How could I have thought my own shadow was Dad? My throat swelled up, and I wasn’t sure if it was a symptom from my cold or something else. I swallowed once. Twice.

  My mind worked in strange ways. I’d made meals in this kitchen countless times over the years. Nowadays, my mind hardly ever strayed to images of Dad. But I felt guilty when I remembered him occasionally, like I was being bad for forgetting him all those other times. And when I did remember him, it hit me hard like a tank. Like right now, I could almost imagine his back from here, wearing a dirty white apron, a plain coloured T-shirt underneath, and tracksuit pants. Dad loved his tracksuit pants. He’d be making something one of us liked. Fish soup for Mum. Steamed spare ribs with black beans for Max. Barbecue pork for me.

  My stomach growled at the thought of nice food, and a strong urge overtook me.

  I wanted to make something. Anything. What should I make though? That was the big question. A proper meal would have been the good thing to make, but I wasn’t in the mood to be good. I wanted dessert.

  Egg tarts, maybe? It was one of my favourites in our bakery after all, and I hadn’t touched one since trying to stay vegan. But no, that was a dumb idea. Egg tarts were Liz’s number one favourite too. Did I want a constant reminder of her while baking them? No thanks.

  The pressure in my head built up from thinking about her again. I silently cursed, going to our kitchen drawer with all the meds. Finding a bottle of pain relievers, I popped a tablet in my mouth and gulped it down with a glass of water. Hopefully the pain would subside in an hour if I was lucky.

  Now what could I make? Something that wouldn’t be too time-consuming and adventurous while I was supposed to be confined to bed. Nothing too filling. Mum had already made me Chinese congee today.

  I looked around the kitchen for inspiration. Glass fruit bowls lined the bench. A bunch of ripe bananas sat in one of them. Banana bread, maybe? That was easy enough. My stomach seemed to disagree though. As soon as I picked up a banana and sniffed it, bile rose in my throat. I pushed it down, reflexively gagging. No banana bread then. My eyes trailed over to the next fruit bowl. Apples. That didn’t sound appetising either.

  What did I feel like? I walked over to the cupboard. Please have something nice I can use. Mum’s stock for the bakery was strictly for the bakery only, so I couldn’t go downstairs and take anything, not that there was anything much to take that I’d want to use. It was mainly piles of sugar, flour, and eggs, which I made sure to stock in our upstairs kitchen.

  I pulled the cupboard door open, browsing the shelves. My eyes stopped on a carton of eggs. Hmm… I’d felt like egg tarts, but steamed egg pudding sounded nice too. Dad used to randomly make it as a slightly sweet dessert. Steamed egg pudding it is, then.

  Seeing as I couldn’t go without some good music whenever I cooked or baked, I tiptoed back to my room and got my wireless headphones and phone. What would be a good song to put on repeat while cooking? My thumb hovered over my most recently created playlist: Breakup. Yep, I know. I was so original. Whatever.

  I hit shuffle on the playlist. A steady stream of music flowed from my headphones. The lyrics hit me deep in my gut as I listened while gathering all the ingredients and utensils. Why did the song sound like me? Why was I so pathetic to cling onto everything when Jere had already moved on with someone else? Was it because I still loved him?

  I paused midway through filling a saucepan with water. Placing it down, I took off my headphones and I wrung my hands together, my breathing growing heavy. This time I couldn't stop the onslaught of this week’s most horrible moment from playing in my head again.

  “Sere, we need to talk,” Jere had said to me. We were at his house. He walked me to the sofa and gestured for me to sit.

  I sank into the plush leather, but its soft comfort did nothing to placate my worries. “Why are you being so serious?” A list of possibilities rattled off in my mind. Was he arguing with his parents again? Did he fail a subject and hide it from me? Did Mum snub him when I wasn’t there?

  He stared me right in the eyes. “I need to tell you the truth. I can’t hide it from you anymore. It’s killing me.”

  His words confused me. Unsettled me. But it was the tormented expression he wore on his face that grabbed my attention. He was dead serious.

  “Killing you? What’s going on? What’s killing you?”

  He turned away from me as if he could no longer bear to face me directly. Chickening out. His next words cut me straight through the heart like a sharp kitchen knife. “I’m sorry, Sere. I—I can’t be with you anymore. I love someone else.”

  No, I had thought at the time. No, no, no. Lies. Not the truth. How could he love someone else? He was supposed to love me.

  Even when all the pieces had fallen into place, after he’d tried explaining how it was better for the both of us, I refused to believe him. Even after I lost everything in a single night, I still couldn’t bring myself to accept the words he’d uttered. Why was I so stupid? Had I been the only one in love the whole time when he never felt the same way? Why had he ever asked me out and told me he’d liked me in the first place? Why had he let me fall in love with him like it meant nothing to him?

  I couldn’t banish those thoughts. My chest caved in on itself, and I gripped the kitchen b
ench, the edges digging into my skin. Stop thinking about it, Sere. Stop thinking about him. He probably hadn’t thought about me since that night. Probably all he thought about now was her. That boyfriend stealer.

  Suddenly possessed by an uncontrollable bout of anger, I hurled a tea towel across the kitchen, watching as it whacked a cupboard and flopped onto the floor. Thrown away. Discarded. Just like me. I wrapped my arms around myself, squeezing tight, holding in the sob before it could come out. Get yourself together.

  I retrieved the towel and folded it back on the bench. Thinking about it all again would do nothing except make me upset. I didn’t want to be pitiful. Wasn’t that the whole reason why I got out of bed? I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. Dessert would make me feel better, so I willed myself to cook it.

  Setting a saucepan on low heat, I mixed in some sugar with water until it fully dissolved. When that was done, I switched off the stove and went over to the bench to crack an egg. I beat it until it hit a nice, fluffy consistency. I took the milk from the fridge and I poured some into the sugared water. Then I combined the two together and stirred.

  By the time I wrapped the finished mixtures with aluminium foil and put them in a steamer, I felt slightly better. Like I could breathe a bit again. “Cooking is the best therapy,” Dad once said. He was so right.

  A short while later, I took out the finished products from the steamer—three little bowls of pale yellow, glossy, and jiggly smooth egg puddings. Yum. I packed away two in the fridge for Mum and Max, then prepared to dig into my own.

  Just as I scraped a spoonful of my egg pudding, my phone beeped. The blob of pudding lay on my tongue, but the decadently eggy taste did nothing to tame the annoyance burning inside me. If this was another message from her—

  But it wasn’t. A notification from my sports updates app popped up instead.

  Andale v Monetti

  See live scores now for the US Open

  Aiden Andale versus Vincenzo Monetti again? Talk about deja vu. I’d been feeling so unwell and lazy these past few days that I hadn’t kept track of the US Open. But this was definitely a match I didn’t want to miss.