Chances for Serendipity

by Natalie Chung

  I dashed to the living room, lit faintly by the kitchen lights, and snatched the remote off the sofa. Powering on the TV, I quickly lowered the volume—I didn’t want to wake up Mum or Max—and opened up the TV guide. Please show them playing. Please, please. Mum stopped subscribing to the paid TV sports channel after Dad passed away. I supposed it made sense. It wasn’t cheap, and the only sport I bothered watching was tennis. But now, I had to rely on good old free TV. At least Aiden was Australian, so that meant they were more likely to broadcast his match.

  I scanned through the TV guide. Australia Today—nope. CSI Miami—nope. US Open Tennis—yes! I mashed the remote button, my stomach churning as the screen flickered.

  “—hope it’s nothing serious. Andale isn’t known for taking medical timeouts, so this is a really rare occasion,” a commentator said.

  Aiden was lying on his back next to his bench. A medical trainer knelt beside him. He grimaced as he talked to them, but whatever he said couldn’t be heard on TV. Still, it wasn’t hard to guess that things weren’t going well when he started gesturing at his leg and the trainer pressed a hand on the spot he’d indicated. What was Aiden suffering from? A cramp? A sprain? It couldn’t be a broken bone, could it?

  “At five games all in the second set, it will be crucial for him now not to stumble. Especially after losing the first set,” a second commentator noted. “Can’t be too sure how this will play out now.”

  Oh no. I looked at the scoreboard on the bottom left of the screen. Crap. He’d lost the first set 6–7. If he didn’t secure a win in this set, then it would be two sets to love and pretty much game over.

  The scary question was, could he win it? It certainly didn’t look positive to me. Not when the medical trainer wrapped his knee in tight bandages. But Aiden didn’t falter, despite the pain on his face when the umpire called time. He stood and slowly made his way to the baseline, his leg movements stiff and careful, almost robotic. Instead of walking for his towel or the next ball, he motioned for the ball kids to hand them to him.

  It was his serve now. He needed to hold, then either break Monetti on his next game or win the subsequent tiebreak. It was all or nothing.

  Some part of me thought I should get my egg pudding and eat it. But I didn’t, too afraid to tear my eyes away from the screen for even a second. What if he didn’t win this game? Was he going to continue if his injury persisted? A serious knee injury was no joke. Aggravating it could mean taking a long time off tennis.

  His first serve fell into the net. So did his second, and my heart seemed to fall along with it. Double fault.

  “Love–15,” the umpire said.

  “Not good. Not good at all,” one of the commentators said.

  Aiden’s head hung low. He spun around a moment later, jerking his chin up at the nearest ball kid. They passed him another two balls.

  He took his time bouncing the ball before serving. I could almost feel the tension through the TV. A flutter of nerves rallied inside me. Was he feeling the same? I wouldn’t have an inkling of an idea what to do in his position.

  As he tossed the ball up and hit it, I chanted, Try your best. His serve made it in, and Monetti executed an easy return. Aiden hit it back. It continued for a short while until Monetti made a sneaky drop shot. Aiden ran for it, only to stop halfway to the net after realising the ball had already double bounced.

  “Love–30.”

  Crap, crap, crap.

  The umpire called out a time warning when Aiden failed to serve before the shot clock ran out. Boos jeered from off-screen. He raised his hand to silence the dissenting spectators, then limped his way back to the baseline.

  “Can Aiden Andale continue the match?” one of the commentators asked.

  “That limp says otherwise,” the other pointed out.

  Yes, that limp said it all. And if it didn’t, then his next slow first serve—at only 142 kilometres per hour—said the rest. He’d reached his limit, yet he was stubbornly refusing to go down without a fight.

  If there was any sympathy in Monetti’s heart, he certainly didn’t show it, mercilessly returning the ball and forcing Aiden to run crosscourt. I was sure he would collapse and give up.

  He didn’t. Like some kind of running machine that didn’t feel anything, he went straight for the ball despite the severe pain he must have been in. How did he do it? Was he crazily determined or determinedly crazy? Maybe he actually had a chance.

  No sooner had I thought this, Aiden rolled to the ground, leg visibly spasming, and all my hopes fizzled out. He clutched his knee, making no attempt to stand as his face scrunched in pain. I watched on hopelessly as an organiser came to talk to him. He nodded at something they said, teeth gritted and forehead wrinkled in obvious distress.

  After the umpire spoke with the organiser, he announced, “Mr Andale is retiring from the match.”

  A tear escaped from my eye. Then another. Soon my eyes brimmed with them. Stupid, emotional self. I swiped a tissue from the living room table and blew my nose. Snatching another, I dabbed at my tears. Through the blurriness of my vision, I watched Aiden slouch off the court, his limp more pronounced with each step he took.

  “This is the biggest disappointment of the year, isn’t it?” one of the commentators exclaimed.

  “Not a good day for our Australian,” the other agreed.

  I choked back a sob as more tears streamed down my face and coughed into another tissue. No, it wasn’t a good day at all. Not for him or for me.

  Sometimes, life sucked hard, and we just had to learn to live with it.

  Chapter 11

  One year later (23 years old)

  “I’m home,” I called out at the top of the staircase. I flung my heavy backpack off my sore shoulders and slipped out of my heeled shoes, my toes uncurling in relief at the pressure off them.

  “Welcome home, sweetie,” Mum said. She lounged on the living room sofa. Loud shouting in Cantonese came from the TV speakers, followed by a cacophony of sound effects. I glanced at the TV screen. Two long-haired men fought in mid-air. An old-style Hong Kong drama. Mum was into those lately.

  She angled her head to look at the clock on the wall as I took a seat beside her. “You’re late today.”

  “Mm-hmm.” It wasn’t anything unusual. Very much the contrary. Late nights were becoming the norm on workdays. I bit down on the need to complain, choosing instead to relish in the best news ever. “But it’s holiday time now!” I stretched my arms up and leaned back on the plush cushions on our sofa. My chest already felt ten times lighter. Holidays meant no more big responsibilities, no more shouting managers, and no more late work nights for the rest of the month. Yippee.

  Mum’s answering smile reflected all the excitement that burst inside me. “You deserve the break. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me to Hong Kong?”

  “Nah. I told you I’d look after the bakery while you’re gone.” It was the least I could do. I’d given up most of my bakery duties for the last two years, which had led to Mum hiring her baking assistant, Ming, as a permanent part-time employee.

  “I can’t wait to work with you again, Sere!” I turned around to spot Ming, Mum’s favourite shop assistant and hopefully future daughter-in-law, standing beside Max. She waved a soapy hand at me from the kitchen sink.

  “Ming, you’re here! You never seem to catch a break.” Fresh after finishing work at the bakery and she was still sticking around doing chores. I had no idea how she did it.

  Her face broke out into her trademark dimpled smile. “You can blame it on your brother.” She nudged Max. He grunted and gave her a pout she ignored. “Made me stay for din.”

  I chuckled and got up to walk over to her. I swore Ming was our guardian angel in disguise. Up close, she definitely looked the part. Her black hair was currently styled in a short bob cut. The ends curled inward, drawing attention to her oval face and sweet smile. She acted the part of an angel, too, simultaneously alleviating Mum’s stress while also encou
raging Max to no longer spend his whole life in front of a computer. He hovered beside her now, looking at her like an overly affectionate puppy as she washed the dishes, and he dried and packed them away. Ugh, they were sickeningly cute, but thank goodness Max had found an actual nice girl without any thorns.

  “We saved your din for you,” Ming said, her chin pointing to the dining table.

  I ran my hands through the oily strands of my black hair, and winced at how gross it felt. “Thanks. I’m going to take a shower first.”

  I did just that, losing sense of time as I lathered shampoo in my long, greasy hair and scrubbed. While I did this, I thought about things I hadn’t dared to tell Mum. Particularly, the problems at work which had caused me to come home late.

  Someone on my team had stuffed up half the client invoices this week. I’d spent the entire day helping him fix up his blunder. Well, more like fixing it for him, because he’d slithered out around 4:30pm without a goodbye. I knew the mistake wasn’t my fault, and I could’ve let it be, but the big boss, Mr Roberts, wouldn’t care about whose fault it was. He cared about results. If nobody delivered, then the shouting and blame… Yeah, that would fall on the whole team.

  I groaned as I stepped out of the shower and dried myself with a towel, shivering from the coolness of the air on my wet skin. I stared straight into my dry, red eyes in the fogged-up mirror. Would this be the rest of my life after I started my full-time graduate position next year? Wake up early, go to work, get home late, rinse and repeat. Why had I chosen law for my degree again? Oh yeah, because it paid big bucks. Even that was a lie. I had yet to rake in six figures, thanks. Maybe after another thousand years of stress and fixing other people’s mistakes. And then what for?

  If I was to ask Mum, she’d say, “Save for your future home, your future family!” Hah. Like that was happening. I’d sworn off relationships for a year now, and so far, so good. Mum’s meddling tactics didn’t work either since I’d steered clear of the bakery. So what future family was she talking about? One with me adopting dogs and cats? Sounded good to me. I could use a fluffy companion like Ming’s labradoodle, Teddy. Unlike some guys I knew, Teddy was friendly and loyal to a T.

  Ah well. No more whining. I blow-dried my hair, and tried to think of something positive instead. Christmas came in three weeks. Life was great. Until I went back to work. But I shoved those worries into my mental “come back later” pile.

  By the time I’d scarfed down my din, as Ming liked to call it, exhaustion had seeped deep into my bones. I sagged into a heap on my bed and took my phone out of my backpack. Tapping it on, I mindlessly scrolled through social media, catching up on the latest gossip.

  A few minutes later, my phone beeped. Warning: Low Battery (5%).

  Ugh, not now. My hand dropped to the floor, blindly grappling for the charger, only to be met with empty air. I poked my head down. Yep, no charger. Max must’ve stolen it again.

  I begrudgingly lifted myself off the bed. Should I tell him off for nabbing my belongings? Berating him in front of Ming would be a hilarious form of revenge. She sometimes joked that I acted as his big sister. But did I really want to annoy Max like that? He would probably end up permanently stealing my charger as payback if I did that to him. Not worth it.

  With that decision made, I crept to his room and turned on the light. As usual, my brother failed to clean up after himself. The blankets on his bed were flung haphazardly, half-hanging off the edge. Next to his bed, moonlight streamed through his clear, square window. I snapped the curtains shut before continuing my search. His computer desk, littered with gadgets and a crooked stack of books, was the worst mess of all. I shuddered at a neglected muesli bar wrapper lying next to his keyboard, along with some scrunched up tissues. And beside that—

  Yes! My charger! I snatched it up, causing something white from underneath to flutter to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. It was a plain envelope addressed to Max. But what caught my eye was a word on there—renovations.

  Instincts took over me and I slipped the letter out from the envelope, unfolding it.

  Dear Maximus Tsang,

  Thank you for your enquiry concerning your bakery’s desired renovations. Below you will find a quote…

  My pulse drummed in my ears. Renovations for the bakery? And they totalled… Oh my gosh. Almost forty-thousand dollars.

  I stalked to the living room, my fingers numb as I gripped the impossible letter. I needed answers, and I needed them now.

  Max slouched back on the sofa, laughing while Ming leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. She stopped short when she saw me.

  “What is this?” I thrusted the letter onto Max’s chest.

  “What—” He straightened before grabbing the letter and looking over it.

  “So?” I demanded. If this was what it looked like, he’d been hiding it from me for some time. I couldn’t believe it. He was aware of my lingering trust issues. Yet here he was, keeping a huge secret from me. “Why didn’t you tell me we were renovating?”

  “We’re not renovating,” he said.

  “Liar! Proof right here.” I jabbed at the letter he still held.

  He flinched and leaned back onto the sofa. “It’s only a quote, Dippy. Calm down. Nothing is concrete yet.”

  “Don’t Dippy me! You should tell me if you’re thinking of doing something big like this.”

  “Why? You don’t involve yourself in the bakery anymore.”

  His words were a huge slap in the face, hitting me harder than a physical slap would have. I took a moment to compose myself. Don’t get mad at him, don’t get mad at him. “That’s because I have a time-consuming job and—” Why was I even justifying it to him? “That’s beside the point. I did heaps to help before, and I’m going to help Ming starting Monday when Mum goes on holiday.”

  “Yeah, for this month. And then next year you’ll…” He trailed off, his nose scrunching. His glasses slid down at the action, and he adjusted them with an exasperated sigh. “Just go to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  I growled. I wouldn’t let him off that easily. “Let’s talk about it now!”

  He winced, clamping a hand around my arm. “Stop being so loud. You’ll wake Ma up. She doesn’t know either.”

  Wait… “She doesn’t?” I exhaled slowly.

  “No.” He released my arm, letting his hand fall to his lap. “Like I said, it’s only a quote. I was looking into ways to help fix up some stuff that’s been getting old. You know, like the floorboards in the storefront. But mostly fixing up the kitchen. Ma complains that there isn’t enough bench space, and the ovens are getting old. Things are rusting. Etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Okay. Okay, then,” I said.

  “Sere, Max wouldn’t go through with something this big without telling you first.” Ming stood up and placed a steady hand on my shoulder. Her thumb drew circles in the crook of my neck with a gentleness that made me think, Yep, she’s an angel. Unfortunately, her soft touch alone wasn’t enough to alleviate all my anger.

  “Wouldn’t he? Looks like he was gonna.” I dropped on the sofa beside him and glared, not ready to forgive him just yet. The idea of his betrayal by omission still burned deep.

  He held out his hands in a gesture of surrender. “If I’d told you early on, you would’ve told Ma in five seconds flat.”

  “Would not.” Well...unless she asked about it. “Okay, maybe I would have. But I promise I won’t now.”

  Max snorted, and Ming sat back down to give him a playful shove in the side.

  I sighed. “Sorry I overreacted. I just—the bakery means a lot to me, even if I don’t work in it every day anymore. I mean, the place is literally part of our home. Just let me pay for some of it if we do the renovations, okay?”

  “Yeah. Relax,” Max said. “You saw the cost. It’ll probably take a while to get the money for it, but I’ll put some of my savings in too.”

  “But why are you helping to pay for it?” He should’ve been
saving what he could for his own future home. Sydney housing prices were crazy expensive.

  “Uh…” He gulped and scratched his chin. “Remember one time when I asked you if you promised Ba anything?”

  “Yeah?” Vaguely. Life had changed a lot since then.

  “I promised him some things too,” he admitted.

  I knew it! I wanted to yell it out, but… I shut my mouth. That would most likely make him reconsider revealing it. I couldn’t risk that now that he was so close to coming clean about it.

  Max reached for Ming, pulling her close. She leaned into him, her concern evident in her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. She knew talking about Dad wasn’t easy for Max. Like me, he and Dad had been close. Really close. “I knew you’d want to know what I’d promised him, but I was embarrassed to tell you.”

  “Why? Pretty sure he wouldn’t have asked you to study hard like me.” Max had always been bad with his grades, to put it kindly.

  “No, of course not.” He rolled his eyes, then bit his lip. Contemplating whether or not to tell me. Finally, he said, “He made me promise him that I’d look after the bakery. That I would make sure it stayed alive.”

  I stopped breathing as his words sank in. Dad had made Max promise him that? All those times… The first few months after Dad passed, we’d even considered selling the bakery… “You—I can’t believe you—” I couldn’t believe he’d tried to take all that responsibility onto himself without telling me. “You’re not alone, you know. Don’t just go doing things on your own. No more secrets, okay? We’ll do this together.”

  He nodded slowly. “All right. Together.” Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Just make sure you don’t tell Ma.”

  I moved to punch his arm. But before I could, Ming launched herself at us, pulling us into a group hug. The heat of both their bodies enveloped me, calming me.

  I should stop worrying so much. Everything will be okay.