by Helen Hoang
I’m about to protest, but the jacket is deliciously warm and it smells like him. I thread my arms into the sleeves and pull the front portion over my nose, so I can breathe in his scent. “Are you sure you don’t need it?”
“Nah, my temperature runs hot. I’m good.” He zips me up and nods with satisfaction, and I laugh awkwardly as I wiggle my arms, making the too-big sleeves flap like wings.
“I must look pretty funny like this.”
“You look perfect.” To prove it, he leans in and kisses me on the lips. It’s a short kiss, but it goes to my head anyway. His lips are cool, his breath warm. When he pulls away, it takes me a moment to reorient myself, and he grins as he rolls one of his jacket sleeves up to my wrist.
“I can do this myself,” I say, not used to people helping me with something like this—or anything, really.
He simply shakes his head and continues working on the other sleeve. “I like to.”
That’s a novel concept to me. In the world unique to my workaholic, success-driven family, self-sufficiency is key. I vividly remember a time when I was sick during grade school. My dad handed me a Tylenol bottle and instructed me to read the directions as he rushed out the door to catch a flight for a business trip, leaving me to manage my fever on my own. I was old enough that it wasn’t illegal to be home alone (I think), and clearly, I managed just fine. But I lost something that day. Or maybe I just grew up. I don’t know.
What I do know is that right now, as Quan does this trivial thing for me, I feel downright spoiled. And I love it.
He puts his own helmet on, climbs onto the motorcycle, and motions for me to join him. “Put your feet here and wrap your arms around my waist.”
Once I’m behind him, holding on tightly, excitement, both good and bad, rushes through my veins. It’s like I have carbonation in my blood.
“Ready?” he asks, looking back at me over his shoulder.
I nod, and he smiles at me and revs the engine.
My stomach dips as we pull away from the curb, and every muscle in my body tenses. There’s nothing between me and the giant metal vehicles hurtling down the street. I can feel the wind on my legs, on my hands, on my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut as terror seizes me. If the end is coming, I don’t want to see it.
The end doesn’t come, though. Not in a minute. Not in two, three, four, or five. The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.
Even though I understand I could still get in an accident at any moment, my fear recedes, and I open my eyes. It’s too much to take in at first. We’re going fast, and the world around me is a blur. But eventually, I catch my breath, and my heartbeat slows a notch.
The city is alive. Streetlights shine, taillights blink, a cloud of exhaust from a passing truck washes over my face. Somehow everything is sharper, brighter.
I get my bearings. I’ve walked these streets. I know where I am. Especially when he turns onto Franklin Street. The modern geometric design of the Davies Symphony Hall comes into view. It’s the back of the building so it’s not as impressive, but it feels like home to me. I’ve missed it.
Next, we pass the War Memorial Opera House and the San Francisco Ballet, glimpse the back of the grand rounded dome of city hall, and continue north. I assume we’re heading to the ocean, somewhere I never go unless I’m introducing the city to someone from out of town, but he turns before we get there. We head down quiet side streets lined with trees, upscale apartments, and parks, and I realize he’s steering clear of the busy parts of town. He’s being careful, just as he promised. He’s keeping me safe.
Gratitude and something else swell in my chest, and I hug him tighter. This is when I become aware of our physical proximity. Our bodies are pressed against each other, his back to my chest, my thighs to his, my arms around his waist. He’s solid against me, a steady anchor in this whirlwind chaos. My focus narrows to him. I watch, captivated, as he competently steers us through the traffic. He doesn’t speed. He signals when he turns. He doesn’t run the yellow lights. He’s not trying to show off—he’s confident enough that he doesn’t need to—and I really, really like that.
He stops across the street from a park and helps me climb off the motorcycle and remove my helmet, asking, “How was that? How are you doing?”
“That was . . . I don’t have words,” I say. I’m trembling slightly, but I can’t stop smiling.
“Good, then?” he asks just to be sure.
“Yes.” I smile wider. “Thank you.”
He nods, pleased by my response, before looking at the park across the way. “Have you ever been here? It’s best at night.”
“No. I mean, I’ve gone past it a bunch of times, I knew it was here, but I never stopped to walk around and explore,” I say.
“Come on. I think you’ll like it,” he says.
As he takes my hand and crosses the street with me, I take in the view, seeing the Palace of Fine Arts with new eyes. A fountain sprays within a lagoon surrounded by drowsy weeping willows, and beyond it, Roman colonnades rise, leading to a soaring rotunda that glows golden beneath clever nighttime illumination. It looks, I decide, like a fairy-tale setting.
There’s a large stretch of open grass before the water, dotted here and there with blooming trees. I can’t see the color of the flowers in the dark, but when the breeze picks up, petals fall like snowflakes, lending a honey scent to the air. Couples amble along the pathways. A stranger takes a group photo for a family of six (two parents and four little girls of varying ages with matching dresses and pigtails) and hands the phone back to them. A shaggy dog barks enthusiastically as it hurtles by, its leash dragging on the grass. Several yards behind, a harried man races after the dog, yelling, “Bad boy! No chasing!”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and Quan squeezes my hand. “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” I say automatically. The ride was such a good distraction that it takes me a few seconds to remember why I was unhappy before, but as soon as I recall my recent discussion with Priscilla, heaviness settles on my shoulders. “My sister thinks I’m trying to use the diagnosis as an excuse for my failures.”
He grimaces. “What the fff—heck?”
I shake my head at him, smiling despite the tightness in my chest. “You can swear around me, you know. I’m a grown-up.”
“You never do,” he says.
“I would if I was better at it, but the words sound wrong when I say them. Also, why are they so bad anyway? One is just . . . feces, which every healthy person makes. The other is sex, and most people really like sex, so . . .”
“Says the person who can’t tell me what she likes in bed,” he whispers in my ear, sending a shiver down my neck.
“Okay, you have a point.” I squirm internally as my face heats to a thousand degrees.
He gives me a good-natured yet knowing kind of look before switching back to the original topic. “What did you say to your sister after she said that? Did you get mad?”
“No, mad is never okay. It’s disrespectful, you know? I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t really listen. I don’t know what to do now. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am just looking for excuses.”
“Fuck that,” he says abruptly. “You’re not like that.”
“Is autism right for me, though? She said I’m hurting real autistic people when I claim it for myself.”
“What?” he says in disgust. “You’re not hurting anyone. If a diagnosis can help improve your life, it’s the right one for you, and only you can know that. What do you think? Does it help you or not?”
“I think . . . it helps.”
“Then your therapist is right,” he says simply, like it’s all settled.
“But what do I do when my family doesn’t believe me?” I ask.
His
mouth twists like there’s a bad taste on his tongue. “Ignore what they say, and live your life the way you need to.”
I release a heavy sigh. “That’s not easy to do.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s a weariness in his expression that implies he really does understand. “I believe you, though. That’s something, right?”
“Yes,” I whisper. That is something. Right now, it feels like everything.
SEVENTEEN
Quan
It’s kind of corny, but the Palace of Fine Arts is one of my favorite places in the city. I love the columns and the lights and the water. It’s romantic. Lots of people do their weddings here, and yeah, I like weddings. Sometimes I get teary when people say their vows—if they’re good vows or they’re said with feeling. It gets me every time when old dads cry, maybe because I wish my dad cared about me that way.
“This place doesn’t look real,” Anna says as she looks around with wonder, reverently touching her fingertips to the reddish stone on one of the columns while we walk through the gardens.
“It gets better this way,” I say, and lead her down the colonnade to the rotunda.
Inside, she tilts her head back and gazes at the intricate geometric patterns on the ceiling. Light reflects off the surface of the water outside, and waves ripple over the hexagonal shapes overhead. It’s a work of architectural genius, but what captivates me is Anna’s profile, the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, how much I like seeing her in my jacket.
“I’ve always wanted to kiss a girl in the middle of this room,” I confess, feeling determined and a little bit queasy at what I’m planning to do.
She grins at me, and light dances in her eyes. “I bet you’ve taken lots of girls here.”
“I have.” I stride to the exact center of the echoing space.
“Do you kiss them all right there?” she asks, hanging close to the walls, away from me.
“Nah,” I say.
“Why?”
“It never felt right before.”
She tries to smile, but her lips won’t quite cooperate. “Maybe with the right person.”
I hold my hand out toward her, inviting her to join me here in the center. “The view is best right here. It’s perfectly symmetrical.” I have a feeling she loves symmetry like cats love catnip.
She takes a few steps toward me but stops out of my reach. Looking up at the ceiling, she smiles and says, “You’re right. The view is better here. I love this.”
“You’re not in the middle, Anna.”
She bites her lip and takes one more step toward me.
I capture one of her hands and gently pull her to the middle with me. “You don’t want to stand next to me?”
She meets my eyes for the barest fraction of a second before glancing away. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to . . . do things with me.”
“I don’t.”
A smile flashes on her mouth as she nods. “Okay, good.”
Courage, I tell myself. She sent me a heart emoji. I can do this. Steeling myself, I tuck a tendril of her hair behind her ear. When her cheek twitches, I ask, “Do you mind when I do that?”
She starts to shake her head, but stops. “I like the sentiment.”
“But?” I ask.
With her gaze trained up at the ceiling, she adds, “But . . . it bothers me when people touch my hair.”
I store that information away and run the backs of my fingers along her cheek and cup her jaw in my hand, bringing her attention back to me. “What about when I touch you like this?”
She takes a shaky breath and exhales. “It’s okay.”
“Okay good, or okay bad?”
Her lips curve. “Okay good.”
“Good to know.” I lean down, aching to press my mouth to hers, but I only allow my nose to graze against the bridge of hers, a caress that makes her eyes drift shut.
I brush my lips over hers, and when she moves as if to prolong contact, my control snaps and I take her mouth the way I’ve been craving to. She makes a tiny sound in her throat, and I’m lost. I kiss her like I’m drowning.
I wanted to memorize everything about this moment, kissing her in this place, but her mouth is all I can think about. Her intoxicating softness, her taste, the way she seems to draw me deeper. I can’t get enough. I can’t stop.
She’s the one who pulls away, her hands gripping my shoulders tightly. “Can we get arrested for lewd kissing in public?”
A gruff laugh comes out of me. “I don’t think so? And you think this is lewd? You haven’t seen anything yet.” I slide my palms down her back, grip her hips, and arch against her, so she can feel what she does to me.
She gasps and hides her face against my neck, saying my name like it’s a protest, and I chuckle.
This is the right time, so I say it.
“I really like you, Anna.”
“I like you, too,” she says, and there’s a weight to her words that tells me she means it.
“I don’t want this to be our last night together,” I confess. “I want to keep seeing you after this. Instead of trying to have a one-night stand . . . why don’t we just date and see where things go?” I ask, having difficulty hearing my voice over the loud crashing of my heart.
She draws in a sharp breath and steps away from me. “Does that mean you want to be my boyfriend?”
“We don’t need to put labels on things if it makes you uncomfortable.” But I’m not sure if I’m saying that for me or for her. If we’re in a committed relationship, I have to be up front with her about things, and that isn’t easy, even though she’s been open with me about her own issues. I want to be her rock, someone she’s not afraid to depend on. I need her to see me as whole.
“My boyfriend and I . . .” She frowns and brushes the hair away from her face with an impatient swipe of her hand. “He wanted us to be in an open relationship. I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t know that we would—that you would—that I—” She gives up trying to explain.
It takes me a moment to understand what she’s saying, but then a weird mixture of feelings boils inside me. I was wrong. She wasn’t trying to get over someone. She just wanted to try something new. Because her shitty boyfriend was. It stings that she didn’t tell me, but I get why she didn’t. We were never supposed to be anything.
“Are you angry?” she asks.
Hell if I know the answer to that, so I ask the only question that really matters right now: “Do you still want to be with him?”
She worries her bottom lip and then shakes her head slowly but decisively. “I don’t.”
My heart jumps. My hands ache to touch her, but I keep them down at my sides. “Do you want—”
“I want to be with you,” she says, holding my gaze in a way she rarely has before.
I take a step toward her. “How long have you guys been . . . doing this?”
“Basically since you and I met. It’s surprisingly easy to be apart,” she says. “For the record, there’s only been you.”
I have to smile at that. I’m the only one she hid from in the bathroom.
“Since we’re being honest with each other . . .” Nausea washes over me, and I exhale through my mouth, trying to breathe it away.
She watches me with a frown, waiting for me to speak.
“I didn’t have some kind of injury before. I was sick.” My nausea increases until I’m almost dizzy, and I force the ugly words out. “I had testicular cancer, and they had to remove one. Some people would say I’m only half the—”
She presses her fingers to my lips to silence the rest of my words. “Don’t say that.”
I’m not done. There’s more to drag into the open. But my eyes are watery, and there’s a fist lodged in my throat. No matter how many times I swallow, it refuses to go away. I don’t want to be like
this in front of her. I want to be the person she thought I was, a confident motherfucker who wouldn’t give a shit about any of this. But I do give a shit. I want to be enough—for her, for me, for the people in my life.
She touches my face like I did to her earlier, her eyes creased with concern. “Does it hurt?”
“Not at all. I’ve been healed and cancer-free for a while now.”
A brilliant smile stretches across her face. “That’s the best news.”
“Not quite the best news. I don’t look the way I should down there. It’s not—”
She breaks into laughter, surprising me. Honestly, it burns a little.
“Sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” she says. “But really, I don’t care what you look like down there. I’ve read books where women are obsessed with how a guy’s balls look, and I never understood it. ‘Nice’ ones, ‘not nice’ ones, they’re all the same to me. I don’t, uh, know how to appreciate them.”
I could get angry, I realize. Her words are insensitive in a way. But I know she doesn’t mean them to be. She wants me to know that she doesn’t care if I’m more lopsided than I should be, that it really doesn’t matter to her.
So I let it go.
I choose to be angry at the situation, at cancer, and not at her.
I imagine her puzzling over elaborate descriptions of hairy balls, maybe looking at a mosaic of scrotums as she tries to understand their appeal, and I can’t help being amused. She has a point. Before I had the surgery, my doctor encouraged me to get a silicone prosthesis to replace what they were removing, and I said no. After having cancer, I didn’t want fake junk in my junk. I told myself that I could handle looking different and no one cared anyway. But that was before, when I hadn’t lost anything yet. After the surgery, I felt vulnerable in a way I’d never experienced. I still haven’t gotten over it.
But I want to. Maybe I’m finally on my way.
“You keep talking about these books that you’re reading,” I say. “What kind of books are they?”
She purses her lips, stubbornly silent, though a smile hints at the corners of her mouth, and I sigh and touch my forehead to hers.