CHAPTER 19
CLASH OF CULTURES
AN ENVELOPE JUTTED OUT OF my dusty mailbox—a red flag. I never got mail.
My Chinese and English names were scrawled in calligraphy on the front, revealing what was inside without my opening it.
I slipped my finger beneath the flap and tore it open quickly before I could convince myself otherwise. The paper sliced through my flesh, and a drop of blood soaked into the ebony cotton. It’s a cautionary sign from the ancestors, Nǎinai warned in my head. Previously, I would have laughed, but in this moment, her words sent a tremor through me.
The wedding invitation was red and gold (the Chinese celebratory colors) with half the text in English, half in Mandarin. I ran my fingertips over the embossed characters. My parents’ names were glaringly absent.
How far we had come from my childhood days, when my father would run around the house with me on his back as the xiao jī, Xing and my mother chasing behind as the laoyīng, the eagles trying to catch the little chicken. I would squeeze my father close, especially when he rounded the corners at full speed. Xing would squeal as he ran, one of the few times he didn’t have to be the responsible eldest son.
My chest ached with a mix of nostalgia, longing, and pain, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
For the first time at Chow Chow, I didn’t notice the stinky tofu smell. I was too focused on the sweat pooling in my pits and hands. There was too much weighing me down. Death by secrets or death by my parents.
A vaguely familiar middle-aged Chinese woman approached our table. My mother took over pleasantries, bowing and gushing over the friend’s haircut and outfit. “Goodness, we haven’t seen you in ages. When did you move back to town? Mei, you remember Joyce Āyí, of course.”
Joyce smiled at me. “Hello, Mei. It was a pleasure to see you that day at dim sum.”
With the words “dim sum,” I realized she had been the “stranger” staring at me from across the restaurant. Before I could protest, she continued, “I waved to you and Xing, but you must not have seen me.”
My father’s rice bowl, which had been against his lips moments before, fell to the table. If he were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of his ears.
Joyce backed away slowly, then scampered back to her table.
My parents began yelling at the same time, their words mixing into chaos. I opened and closed my mouth a few times but couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.
Their voices crescendoed, each one trying to be heard over the other. I grasped my head with my hands, partly to cover my ears and partly because I felt like it was going to explode.
My father threw his chopsticks to the ground, and an eerie silence followed.
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. But sorry about what, I didn’t know. There was too much. Sorry we’re so different. Sorry you don’t understand. Sorry I hurt you when I didn’t mean to.
“Did Xing pressure you to see him?” my mother asked, her face so creased with distress I wanted to do whatever it took to fix it. “Did you need help with something and didn’t feel comfortable coming to us? Did you bump into him?”
I could lie. Say our meeting was an accident. Say he came looking for me.
I could agree to stop seeing Xing and Darren, try harder in biology, stop teaching dance. . . . Except I couldn’t. I had already tried. And failed. If I lied, the real me would disappear. I’d become that hollow shell, nothing but the emptiness I saw in Dr. Chang.
I couldn’t keep the secrets anymore. They were already exploding around me. And now that one was out, it felt like the rest of the biānpào were set to blow regardless of what I wanted, regardless of what I did.
I gripped my glass so hard my knuckles turned white. “I saw Xing. On purpose. I reached out first.”
My father shook his head. “That can’t be.”
My mother’s voice was frantic. “Did you need to ask him about medical schools? Did you want advice on how to improve your application? Did you want to visit him at work so you could get excited about your future?” She was so desperate to find an excuse for me that I almost let her.
Almost.
She looked at me, and even though I was using all my energy to keep my face neutral, I knew she could sense my inner turmoil. “What is it, Mei? Just tell us.”
I opened my mouth and my tongue touched the tip of my teeth, my palate, my lip, but no words came out.
“You can tell us,” she repeated, softly this time.
I took a breath. “I reached out to Xing because I miss him. He’s my brother. I just wanted to see how he was doing, make sure he was okay. It had nothing to do with your conflict or taking sides or disrespecting you.” I paused. “I did also visit him at work, but . . . it was really hard. I wanted it to make me excited about my future. . . . I wanted that so much, but it did the opposite. I’m sure you’ve noticed how I have trouble with germs and—”
My father slapped the table. “Mei, this isn’t up for discussion.”
“Bǎbá’s right. We laid out your future because we only want the best for you. You haven’t even given it a try. A few hours doesn’t count.”
I shook my head. “But I have tried, and I know I can’t do it.”
My father straightened his spine. His voice was gravelly as he said, “Can’t? That’s not the daughter we raised. You can do anything. Where’s that passion you once had? You used to be just like Nǎinai. A hard worker. What happened? Mǎmá and I didn’t come to this country and work like dogs, giving up everything we wanted, just so you could throw it all away.”
The wave of guilt hit me full-on, wrapping around and restricting like a straitjacket. I had to muster all my strength to continue down this traitorous path. “I know you sacrificed so much, and I appreciate it. I’m not throwing anything away. I’m still going to have an MIT degree, just like you wanted. I’ll be able to get a good job. Please, just listen to me. I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”
“Stop talking.” His grating tone made me flinch.
But I ignored his command. “I just want to talk, like adults.”
“You’re a child.”
I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to see his sneer as I spoke. “I’m in college. I may be young, but it’s only because you pushed me and pushed me, making me skip a grade without asking what I wanted. I’m seventeen only when it suits you.”
“Have you no respect?” my mother whispered, aghast. “Haven’t we taught you better than this? You’re Chinese. Act like it.”
“I’m Chinese-American. America has culture too. Why can’t I identify with that also? What if I identify with it more?”
My mother’s usually poised face turned down, revealing the wrinkles she normally worked so hard to hide from the world.
Look, I told myself. Look at Mamá’s sad, pained eyes, the utter disappointment in the frown on her face. You caused that.
But why did I have to bear this burden? Why was I destined to be unhappy?
Life wasn’t fair.
My mother shook her head, eyes closed. “Mei, people need to know where they come from. They can’t know who they are without that. And traditions must be kept alive. Otherwise they die.”
“It makes sense that you and Bǎbá care about keeping traditions alive since you were born in Taiwan. But it’s different for me, for my generation. We were born here, live here. It’s Chinese culture at home, American culture everywhere else. Do you know how hard that is? Can’t we keep the traditions we like and alter the ones we don’t agree with? Don’t we get to choose who we are?”
Instead of answering my questions, my mother said, “First the boy and the”—she peered at my father—“candy bar wrapper, and, Mei, I found your ballet shoes and ribbons in your dorm room! And now this? Seeing your brother? Talking back to us? What’s gotten into you? You used to tīnghuà.”
I closed my eyes briefly to collect myself. “I can’t ignore what I want anymore. I can’t do whatever job you pick, marry whoever you choose, or cut my own brother out because of an outdated tradition I don’t agree with. That’s not who I am.”
The silence that followed was the heaviest and most painful of my life.
My father cleared his throat. His tone was even and practiced as he said, “Mei, you are not the daughter we raised you to be. I no longer claim you as my child. We will no longer be paying your tuition unless you come to your senses.”
I grabbed the edge of the table as a wave of vertigo hit. My vision obscured and I swayed side to side. My breath hitched, and my reply tumbled out, unguarded. “Please don’t do this. I’m trying. I’m doing the best I can. Can’t you see what this is doing to me? Please!”
My father stood. “You, you? What about the damage your words have done to us? When you stop thinking about only yourself, we’ll be here.”
I wanted to shove all the secrets back in. Back where they couldn’t hurt anyone except me. But the dumpling had exploded—meat, veggies, and secrets everywhere, unable to be gathered up and shoved back into hiding. And a tiny part of me was glad. I hated that piece of me. It was selfish, just like my father had said. It wanted the secrets out because I couldn’t handle it anymore.
My mother’s sobs shook her entire body, but her face was to the wall so our gazes wouldn’t meet. My father looked past me. To him, I didn’t exist anymore. As they left—my father confidently and my mother reluctantly—I prayed they would stop. Turn around. Tell me they love me, were willing to compromise, and that I wasn’t alone.
But, of course, they didn’t.
I was going to be sick. I fled from the restaurant, rounded the corner into the alley, and slumped against the brick wall, completely spent from the exchange. As my body curled into a ball, my mind removed me from reality to make it bearable.
I didn’t comprehend the magnitude of my actions until the SUV’s tires screeched down the street. How could they leave me here? Memories of Xing packing his suitcase at various ages surfaced. That’s right, my parents were experts at abandoning their children.
The ache of loneliness ballooned outward, engulfing every thought, a black hole. Eventually, the smell of the Dumpster and the creaking of the chain-link fence snapped me out of my haze, hitting me with another wave of dizziness as I transitioned back to the real world too quickly. I had forgotten my location (an abandoned alley) and my immediate surroundings (graffitied walls, decrepit furniture, and piles of rotting trash). But now aware of my horror-movie scenario, I hurried to the busy street. A screech of tires sparked a flicker of delusional hope, but it was merely a Porsche showing off, not my parents returning.
I jammed my palms into my eyes and told myself to get it together. I had to find a way home. Public transportation didn’t extend this far, and I didn’t have enough money for the long cab ride back.
Aren’t you an adult? I could hear my father sneer.
I called Xing.
He answered with a worried, “Is everything okay?”
I took a shaky breath. “No, I, uh, had a fight with . . . them . . . and now I’m, uh . . .”
“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
I didn’t need to ask how he knew what had happened. And it made the tears stream down again.
After what felt like hours, Xing pulled up in his navy Corolla—the one my parents had bought for him. Had they asked for their money back? Did I have to start cataloging all the tuition and fees they’d shake me down for even though they knew I had nothing?
I looked from the sympathetic smile on Xing’s face to the stuffed Doraemon doll in the passenger seat for me to hug. When I slid in and pulled the periwinkle cartoon cat into my lap, I traveled back in time to green-tea parties and make-believe—when I was young, naive, and happy. The weight on my chest lightened and I breathed easier.
“They’re supposed to love me,” I whispered.
“They do,” Xing said, his eyes not leaving the road.
When I didn’t respond, he sighed, then said gently, “I don’t want to push you. It’s been years for me, and I still don’t really want to hear it most of the time. You get to be sad because this sucks. It hurts like hell, and there really isn’t anything I can say to make it better.”
I faced him. “Do you ever wish we had parents like the ones in sitcoms? The ones who manage the perfect balance between discipline, trusting their child, and defending them? Ones who apologize?”
He let out a mix between a laugh and a grunt. “They don’t exist. It’ll be easier once you accept that.”
“Do you miss them?” My voice was as small as I felt.
“Every day.”
“Does it get easier?”
“Every day.”
The rest of the car ride was silent as I pressed my forehead to the window. The chill of the glass was refreshing, a contrast to the hot tears coursing down my cheeks.
That night, Nicolette’s ringing phone jolted me from sleep. As soon as I woke, the disownment was on my mind, having never left.
In the light of day (well, technically it was still night, but I had been asleep the past seven hours), I realized the disownment was just the tip of the Culture Gap Iceberg. That fight may have been small in the grand scheme of things, but it represented a whole lot more. There would always be another decision, bigger than the last, to fight about. And there was no compromising. I couldn’t become a semi-doctor or marry half of Eugene Huang or have part of a kid to please them.
There was no right or wrong here. No morality. Just two roads, leading in different directions but both ending in heartbreak. Life was, as I was finding out, Choose Your Own Adventure with most of the fun stripped away.
I didn’t move as Nicolette shut her phone off. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially her.
But she chose this moment to speak to me for the first time in who knows how long. “Hey, roomie.” I was going to feign sleep, maybe even fake snore, but then she said, “Stop pretending already. I know you’re up. You’re not doing that weird half-snore, half-gasp thing you do.”
I turned to glare at her and was met with a yelp.
“Holy shit, girl, what happened to you?”
I used my phone as a mirror. Tangled hair, puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks—my appearance reflected the mess I was inside. I threw a slipper at her, then immediately regretted it, not because it pathetically settled halfway between our beds, but because my slippers were so freaking dirty. As I broke out the sanitizer (yes, I keep some nearby at all times), I retorted, “At least I’m not a poster for the walk of shame.” Her smeared eyeliner and clumpy mascara were way worse than the bags under my eyes.
To my shock, Nicolette laughed—deep and jolly, not at all what I expected.
She sat up in bed. “Hello Kitty has claws!” Rude. Even if I did own maybe too much Hello Kitty apparel. “So? What happened? Gave it up for some guy only to have him dump you?”
I rolled over, facing the wall. “Not even close.”
“Oh, come on, it can’t be worse than chlamydia.” Her voice wavered on the last word, and I wondered if her overconfident aura was just an act.
“Are you okay?” I asked, still staring at the wall. I didn’t want to embarrass her any further.
“Yes.” A pause. “I don’t know what you think of me, but it’s probably wrong, just so you know.”
“I don’t think anything about you, good or bad.”
“Flatter me more, please. I just mean . . .” Her breathing deepened and she tossed in her sheets. “I was kind of a nerd in high school . . . and . . . no one ever looked at me. Then I got here, and I was cool somehow. Guys wanted to talk to and hang out with me. So I did, with most of them because I thought, Hey, I’m young, may as well get to know everyone before committing. But then, before I knew it, I had a bit of a reputation. So I played the part. I don’t really know why.”
I rolled back, and we faced each other across the room from our recumbent positions in bed. If the Goddess of Confidence had insecurities, then, jeez . . . maybe I wasn’t as much of an outsider as I originally thought. “It makes sense. If you own it, then you’re less of a target. Except people will still find a way to make fun of you.”
She pulled her covers up to her chin. “You had a hard time in high school, too, huh?”
“Not just high school. Always. I wore neon leggings and sweatshirts with misspelled English for the first ten years of my life. Bums Bunny and Butman made me a target no matter what I did.”
Nicolette laughed so hard our neighbor banged on the wall.
I glowered at her. “Thanks. I see you would’ve been one of my bullies.”
“Sorry, but come on, Butman? That’s hilarious!” She continued laughing, and I eventually joined in, but only for a second.
She flapped her comforter open, revealing a flash of navy-blue pajamas. “So I showed you mine; now show me yours. What happened last night?”
I hugged a pillow to my chest. “My parents disowned me.”
“What does that mean? Aren’t you eighteen?”
“Well, no, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I told them I don’t want to be a doctor—”
“Thank God!” she yelled at the ceiling. “That would’ve been like a dog trying to be a cat.”
“And . . . some other stuff, and they cut me off. Physically, emotionally, financially. But it’s more than just that. They think I’m a terrible person. Immoral. They’re ashamed of me.” I wanted to crawl under the covers and hide.
“If they’re getting their G-string in a twist over something that trivial, then I say fuck them! Who cares what they think? You’re the one who has to live your life, not them. And you’re at MIT, for Christ’s sake! How is that not enough? Now that I’m here, I could murder someone and my parents would still be proud of me.”
Her words pierced through my brainwashing and I felt a little better. I considered saying, Yeah, fuck them, but couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t actually believe the ancestors would strike me down, but I don’t know, why risk it?
“I don’t understand why making your own life decisions makes you immoral,” Nicolette said.
When I didn’t respond (I couldn’t), she flung her covers off and jumped out of bed. “Come on, we’re gonna take your mind off this shit. Get dressed.”
Both our heads turned as something banged against our door. Not a knock, just one single thud. I pointed to Nicolette to ask, Expecting anyone? to which she shook her head. Since I was closer, I dragged myself over.
My foot landed on an ice puck and slid out from under me, sending me headfirst into the wall.
Nicolette flung the door open. After a beat, she yelled, “What the fuck, Arthur! You made my roommate hit her head. You’re such an asshole!”
I peeked around Nicolette to see a torn Dixie Cup on the floor next to a red-haired boy wearing a Nu Delta sweatshirt.
“You’re the asshole!” he yelled, flinging the cup at Nicolette. “You gave me chlamydia!”
After flipping her off, he bolted, moving with intoxicated swerves and dulled reflexes.
Nicolette slammed the door. “What a loser. I can’t believe I ever thought he was cute.”
I picked the thin circle of ice up off the floor and tilted it this way and that. It caught the light overhead, reflecting a yellow tint. It also smelled. Like Chinatown. Holy Mother of . . . Did this kid freeze his pee and slide it under our door so it would melt into our carpet?
Screaming, I chucked the frozen puck as hard as I could toward Nicolette’s side. It shot under the bed, disappearing in a tangle of blankets. She scrambled over, grabbed the revenge pee, and hurled it out the door. It ricocheted down the hall, smacking against the wall periodically. Whack. Whack. Whack. Gross. There was a trail of chlamydia down the hallway now.
“Why have I held pee twice this year?” I screamed as I ran to the bathroom.
“Twice?” Nicolette’s voice called after me.
I washed my hands ten times, scrubbing for a minute each with the damn surgical scrubs I’d received from Urgent Care. If they believed it could cure herpes, maybe it could kill the chlamydia crawling up and down my fingers. For the first time in my life, I worried I might faint. My mother would be so proud, except for the fact that it confirmed once and for all I could never be a doctor.
“Are you ready?” Nicolette asked, her hands on the back of the chair I was in. We were in MIT’s secret tunnels—really, just underground corridors, but “secret tunnels” sounded infinitely cooler.
I was hanging over the precipice of a downslope, just one rolly wheel contacting the floor.
“Wait,” I said just as she let go.
My scream filled the passageway, reverberating back to me and making me whoop even louder. As I picked up speed, I clutched the seat to keep from flying off. My loose hair tangled in front of my eyes, but I didn’t dare let go to move it aside.
“Push yourself off the wall!” Nicolette screamed at me.
I flung my head to clear the hair from my vision and stuck my foot out just in time, pushing off and sending myself down the next hallway. My chair spun in a circle, making me giggle with dizziness. I felt so free. Free of secrets, if just for a moment.
As the incline decreased and the chair slowed, I finally let go and threw my hands in the air. I shrieked, feeling the anger, frustration, and disappointment escape my body through my lungs. The chair hit a bump. I tried to right myself, but it was too late. I went flying . . .
Straight into Darren.
He managed to wrap his arms around me as my momentum knocked him into the wall. The chair crashed and a wheel popped off. His messenger bag dug into my ribs, and I prayed that he didn’t have a laptop in there. He was probably on his way back from the library and using the tunnels to stay warm.
I was still catching my breath when Darren said, “Chair surfing?”
“How does everyone know about this but me?” I was still pressed against him, our faces inches apart, and he was the only thing I saw. Meaning, I didn’t see Nicolette approach. I had completely forgotten about her.
Her magenta lips turned up in a sly smile. “Well, well, what’ve we got here?”
I reluctantly stepped out of his arms and made introductions.
“We’re helping Mei forget about her overbearing parents,” Nicolette told him. “They disowned her earlier.”
I was partly relieved that Darren knew and I didn’t have to be the one to say it, but I was also peeved that Nicolette was speaking as if she were reciting the symptoms of a damaged sympathetic cervical trunk.
I gazed up at him. “Kiemasu, right?”
He smiled sadly, then nodded. “Kiemasu.”
Nicolette clapped him on the back. “Want a turn?”
“I think I’ll go flying immediately on account of these.” He waggled a long leg. “That’s a nice chair. Where’d you get it?”
She grinned proudly. “Did you see that Tech article about how three chairs went missing from the Reading Room?”
“That was you?”
“No, but it sounded like a good idea, so I went in and stole two more.”
Darren raised his eyebrows at me. “I need to be more careful around you. You’re running with the rough crowd.”
Nicolette laughed. “Yeah, that hack we pulled last week during the football game? Where we tricked those Crimson preppies into spelling out ‘Harvard Sucks’ in the stands? That was all me.”
“Hack” was MIT’s term for sneaky pranks, and it spawned the word computer geeks use today. We liked to play jokes on other schools and put weird things, like cop cars, onto MIT’s iconic Great Dome.
“Hey, is that where you are most nights?” I asked Nicolette. “Hacking?”
She nodded. “Yeah. What’d you think I was doing?”
“No idea,” I lied, then flashed an innocent smile. She chuckled. My first guess couldn’t be that far off; she hadn’t gotten chlamydia crawling in tunnels and climbing on pipes.
“Come on, big guy, Hello Kitty,” she said, nodding at each of us. (I rolled my eyes.) “You guys are in for a treat—just follow this hacker.”
After weaving through the tunnels, a basement, and too many stairs to count, we made it to the door. Which door, I had no idea. I lost track of our whereabouts hundreds of steps ago.
“Keep an eye out for cops,” Nicolette said as she turned the lock pick with expertise. “I just need another . . .”
Click.
“Ha!” she exclaimed as the door swung open. “Welcome to MIT’s famous domes.”
I followed Darren onto the roof of Building 7. From this height, the Boston skyline was visible both in the distance and reflected on the Charles River. Despite the lights on the horizon, the stars scattered across the dark sky shone brightly.
“Orion,” I whispered, pointing at the constellation’s three-pronged belt. My mother used to take me stargazing. The thought of her made my heart lurch.
Darren took my hand and we strolled toward the little dome. He ascended the neck-high platform first (chest level for him) and extended a palm down. I grabbed hold, thankful that it had warmed slightly the past few days and I was wearing my thin, flexible down coat (curated by scared-of-the-cold Mǎmá Lu, of course). With Darren’s help, I heaved myself onto the limestone.
I turned to assist Nicolette, but she was nowhere in sight. That sneaky wonderful girl. No wonder she had spouted off so much information on our journey over here—she hadn’t planned to come onto the roof with us.
Following Nicolette’s advice, we scooted up the dome on our butts. The height didn’t bother me, but I wondered what kinds of germs I was rubbing into my pants to bring home later. Bird poop? STDs from MIT students who’d once had sex here? There was definitely a picture making the rounds on Facebook of a couple doing it on the little dome. Maybe it was Nicolette, I realized. Maybe she did get chlamydia from hacking!
When we reached the local maximum (not the global one—that was the Great Dome), I snuggled against Darren for warmth. Just me and him, on top of the world, where nothing else could reach us.
“Saved anyone else recently?” he asked, staring at the stars overhead.
“Nope. The campus has been safe—no distress calls.” I pictured someone beaming a dumpling into the sky to ask for my help and had to stifle a laugh.
The teasing crinkle appeared, along with a new, unreadable tilt to his lips. “So you haven’t had to tell your Horny story again? How is Horny, by the way?”
My mouth slacked open. “You heard that?”
“Every word.”
We burst into laughter at the same time.
“Well, that’s mortifying,” I said when, really, it wasn’t. Back at Chow Chow all those weeks ago, I had thought Darren knowing about Horny would have been The Worst Thing, but now it was just funny.
When the laughs subsided, he said in his warm honey voice, “Actually, it made me notice you more.”
Seriously? He hadn’t looked my way once that day. The blonde popped into my head, and I shoved her out with a kick to her perfectly plump behind.
“Made you notice my weirdness maybe,” I said as lightheartedly as I could.
“I prefer to call it ‘uniqueness.’ ”
He leaned in to me, our knees interlacing and his sandalwood scent enveloping me. I wondered if he could smell my soap too.
He placed a hand over mine, and my palm immediately turned sticky, but propriety be damned—who said sweaty girls couldn’t get the guy? Confidently, I weaved my fingers through his.
We looked into each other’s eyes, no longer in the awkward way of stolen first glances, but in the I-truly-see-you kind of way. The chemistry between us was so strong I could practically see the forces—ionic, covalent, even van der Waals.
Our gazes wandered to other features, our path dictated by the moon’s illumination. I followed the light to his cheekbones to his nose to the mole beside his lip, a pinpoint speck. Had I been sitting farther, I might have mistaken it for a crumb. Somehow I felt like I knew him better now that I had noticed it. A landmark for me to anchor on to.
When his gaze passed over my features, I didn’t feel self-conscious. Just beautiful. The way Darren saw me. The way I now saw myself. It had come at a price, a steep one I still wasn’t fully sure I wanted to pay, but . . . I felt beautiful, completely měi, even down to the off-center mole on my forehead, which for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to hide.
He traced his index finger over the pale-pink scar on my chin.
“I tripped when I was little and there was broken glass on the ground,” I explained.
He leaned down and kissed the scar gently, his breath trailing across my cheek. It was so tender. So compassionate. I turned my head, and our mouths met in an explosion of heat.
I had spent countless hours worrying about how to act in a boy’s presence, reading elicit romance books to try to learn what my parents wouldn’t teach me . . . but now that it was happening, it felt so natural. I didn’t need to think.
I gave in to my impulses, resting my hands on either side of him and pressing my torso to his. I felt his chest heave against mine, and then he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him as if he needed me closer than physically possible. I curled into his lap seamlessly, our limbs entangling.
He ran a hand up my back and into my hair, cradling my head. My skin tingled everywhere he touched, little jolts of pleasure that danced through my synapses. And his lips. God, his lips. They were so soft, caressing mine like silk. The tip of my tongue glided gently along them, feeling, tasting.
I wanted more.
Our tongues met, electricity pulsing through me and sending the butterflies in my stomach into a flurry. Our heads, lips, bodies moved in sync, almost as if we were choreographed.
When he pulled away, my breath came out in heavy gasps, forming puffs of fog in the cold air. He brushed my hair back with one hand and trailed soft kisses along my forehead, ear, and cheek.
A siren on the street below startled us, jolting Darren’s jaw into my nose as we turned in different directions. I yelped in pain, then rubbed the sore spot with my fingers. Luckily, his arms had tightened at the noise and I hadn’t rolled off the dome. In that moment, I realized just how precariously balanced we were.
“I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. His cheeks were flushed—from embarrassment or passion, I wasn’t sure. He brushed a kiss along the bridge of my nose. “Are you okay?”
“Everything’s perfect,” I said, and meant it.
“Maybe we should get out of here before the sirens find us,” he said reluctantly. “And before we freeze.” He rubbed his hands over my arms.
As we slid down the dome on our pìgus, I said, “So . . . there’s this wedding next Saturday. . . .”
He perked up at the word “wedding” and stopped scooting. “I like weddings. Dinner, cake, dancing—what’s not to like?” He struck a pose with his hands, and I smiled, remembering his adorable, flailing jig from MIThenge.
“Would you want to be my plus one?”
“I’d be honored,” he said, the excitement on his face matching the energy in his voice. “Whose is it?”
“My brother’s.”
His face fell, the brightness disappearing like a candle being blown out. “Will that be awkward given everything with, you know, them?”
“My parents won’t be there,” I answered as I returned to scooting, needing the distraction. “They disowned Xing years ago because they don’t approve of his fiancée. That was actually a large part of my disagreement with them, in addition to the career stuff.”
As soon as we were back on solid ground, he took my hands with both of his, squeezing once. The warmth traveled from my palms to my heart. “I’m so sorry about your parents, Mei.”
Surprisingly, it was all I needed. I had thought my situation would require dissecting each piece, brainstorming my next step, maybe even creating a ten-step plan, but those simple words and a kind gesture were enough for now.
Maybe there was something magical about the dome. MIT. Darren.
He held on to my hand until we reached Burton Conner. As we walked, I ran my tongue along my swollen lips, feeling the tenderness to remind me of our kisses, that it wasn’t a dream.
We paused at the dorm’s entrance, where the front light illuminated everything. I snuck a glance at the dark, walled-off garden to the right, the complete opposite of the bright, public spot we stood in now. It felt too creepy to pull him in there, yet I didn’t want to sneak another kiss in the open.
His hands pressed the small of my back, pulling my lips to his. The electricity sparked again, and I sank into him. I no longer cared who could see us. I wouldn’t stop even if my mother were here, hands on hips, that cold stare boring into us.
Darren pulled away first, much too soon. “Chin up, Lady Almond. It’ll get better.”
“Kiemasu,” I whispered, then vanished into the dorm like a magic act.