12
Jab, jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Cross. Cross. Cross.
Sweat trickled into Michael’s eyes, burning him, and he swiped a forearm over his face before slamming a fist into the punching bag again. Whenever thoughts crept back into his head, he hit harder. Too many fucking thoughts, too many fucking feelings.
Jab, dodge, hook. Jab, cross.
His arms burned, and he welcomed the pain, welcomed the way it seared everything out of his brain. There was nothing but the hard resistance of the sand in the bag and the jolting impact that shocked up his arm and down his leg.
Jab, jab, jab, cross, cross, cross. Harder. Could he punch the bag straight off its chains? Maybe. Cross, cross, cross, cross—
Loud knocks distracted him midpunch, and he glared at the front door. His annoyance quickly morphed into worry. Shit, was it the landlord?
Throwing a towel around his neck, he went to open the door.
“’Sup, cuz.” Quan brushed past him, set a six-pack of beer bottles on the coffee table, and tossed his motorcycle jacket on the couch. Without pausing to look at Michael, he strode into the kitchen and began digging through the fridge. “Got anything to eat?”
“You’re the one who works at a restaurant,” Michael said on his way back to his punching bag.
It still swung side to side from the pummeling he’d given it, and he steadied it before he drove a fist into the faded leather. As he got back into beating the shit out of the bag, he heard a series of beeps followed by the whirring of the microwave.
“I’m eating your leftovers,” Quan called out.
Michael ignored him and continued punching.
The microwave beeped, and shortly afterward, Quan carried a steaming bowl to the couch, sat, and proceeded to eat Michael’s dinner. Very noisily.
When Michael couldn’t take the slurping sounds any longer, he paused in his punching and said, “Most people eat at the kitchen table.”
Quan shrugged. “I like the couch better.” He shoved a forkful of noodles into his mouth and slurp-chewed, arching his eyebrows at Michael in a what gives? way.
Michael gritted his teeth and tried to find his rhythm again.
“You been hitting the weights hard lately? Your arms are bigger. They’re like grapefruits, man.”
Steadying the bag, Michael asked, “Why are you here?”
“You gonna apologize to me or what? Because you’re the shittiest cousin ever, Michael. You really are.”
He shut his eyes, exhaling. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna have to ask you to try that again.”
He pushed away from the bag and threw himself onto the couch next to his cousin. “I’m really sorry. It’s just complicated right now, and I—” He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his wrapped hands. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t get why you lied about not having a girlfriend. ‘No one special’ my ass. You scared she won’t like the family or what?” Quan asked with a sneer.
Michael resisted the urge to tear his hair out. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“The fuck, Michael.” Quan set his bowl on the coffee table next to the beer and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll leave, then.” He stalked to the door and grabbed the knob.
“Today was crappy, okay?” He began yanking the boxing wraps from his fists. “All my days are crap days, but today was worse. I thought my mom was dead. When I got there, she was stooped over in her chair, and it didn’t look like she was breathing. I lost my shit.”
Quan turned around, worry lining his face. “Is she okay? Why didn’t I hear about this earlier? Was it like the other two times when you found her in the bathroom? Is she in the hospital right now?”
One of the wraps came off, and Michael switched to his other hand, reliving the fear and the relief and the embarrassment. “She’s fine. She just fell asleep. When I went crazy, she woke up and yelled at me.”
Quan’s expression went from relieved to amused. “You’re such a momma’s boy, you know that?”
“Like you aren’t.”
“You should tell my mom that. Maybe she’ll stop being so mean.”
Michael rolled his eyes as he coiled his boxing wraps back up. “After that, someone came looking for my dad. They were trying to serve him. Not sure if it was the same person from before, or the IRS, or someone new. It’s always fun seeing people’s faces when I tell them yeah, I’m his son. I can see them sizing me up and making assumptions. And then when I tell them I have no idea where my dad is or if he’s even alive, I get the doubt or the pity. My mom spent the rest of the day repeating old stories about how fucked up he is.”
“You’re the only one she tells, you know. She won’t even talk to my mom about that stuff, and they’re like this.” Quan crossed two fingers. “You just gotta let her do it.”
“Yeah, I know.” He understood it was good for his mom to talk about it, and most times, he handled it pretty well. But lately, it had gotten harder for him. Because he was a selfish asshole.
Like father, like son.
He was tempted to take Stella up on her offer even though his gut told him he should say no. She would be better off spending her time with tech moguls and Nobel laureates—people who were actually good matches for her and could afford to be with her even when she wasn’t paying them.
Not like Michael. He would give almost anything to take the money out of their equation, but the bills didn’t stop, so he couldn’t, either.
“You want me to go, or you want me to stay?” Quan asked from where he stood in front of the door.
Michael took two beers out of the cardboard container, popped the top off one using the other, and set the open bottle on the coffee table. “Stay.”
Quan snatched the bottle on his way over and sat down next to Michael on the couch. After taking a deep swallow, he traded the beer for the noodles and took up where he’d left off, only not as loud now.
Michael popped the top off his own bottle with the edge of the table, turned on the TV, and drank as he absently flipped through the channels.
“So, about your girl . . .” Quan said. “How long you been seeing her?”
Michael took a long drag from his bottle. He needed to be buzzed if he was going to talk about this. “Stella’s not really ‘my girl.’ It’s only been a few weeks.”
“Whatever, man, you’ve got serious pussy mojo. If you want a girl, she’s yours.”
Michael snorted and drank more. “I don’t want a girl who likes me just because I fuck her right.”
He wanted a girl who liked him for him.
“You’re so full of shit.” Quan swapped his empty bowl for his beer and took a swig. “She almost cried when that blonde plastered herself to your face. She’s into you.”
Michael’s heart threatened all sorts of dramatic gymnastics at his cousin’s words, and he gave himself a stern mental shake as he stared into his beer bottle. It probably wasn’t what he thought. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. “That’s cool.”
“That’s cool?” Quan arched an eyebrow. “You’re not in seventh grade anymore. You should be like, that’s awesome, man, thanks for telling me, I can’t see from inside my ass. Do you need sex advice? Because I know shit.”
Michael couldn’t stop the laughter from cracking out of his lungs. “No, I’m good on the sex advice. Thanks. But if you ever need some tips . . .”
Quan fingered the raised letters on the side of his beer bottle like he had something to say but was trying to figure out how. Pinning Michael with a weighted gaze, he finally asked, “Have you ever thought she’s kinda like Khai?”
Michael smiled slightly. “Yeah, just a little, though.” Stella was on the socially awkward side like Khai, but she was far more expressive and sensitive. “Why do you ask?”
Quan arched his eyebrows and drank his beer. “No reason.” After a moment of consideration, he pointed his bottle at Michael. “So have you two . . . you know?”
Michael took a long drag of beer. “Nope.”
“Really?” Quan grimaced. “Is she a virgin? Shit, is she saving it for marriage? Run like my mom is after you.”
Michael shrugged. “She needs me to go slow. I don’t mind. I kinda like it.” Every new response he earned from Stella felt special, just like in the old eBay commercials. It’s better when you win it. Maybe because it had always been so easy for him before.
“Fucking liar. You’re probably jacking off ten times a day.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t jacking off.”
Quan shot forward to the front of the couch. “Oh fuck, am I sitting on your come cushions?”
“Do you really wanna know?” Michael asked with a smirk.
“You’re disgusting. You know that?” Quan got up and sat on the coffee table, brushing at himself like he’d been contaminated.
Michael laughed, and the two of them spent a moment contemplating their beers.
When he couldn’t hold back any longer, Michael asked, “What did you think of Stella? Did you like her?” He braced himself for the answer, realizing he cared about his cousin’s opinion.
How stupid was that? Even if he did accept Stella’s proposal, he’d only be her practice boyfriend. Their practice relationship would end as soon as she gained the confidence to enter a real relationship with someone better.
“Yeah, she’s cute, a lot sweeter than the girls you used to go for. Your mom is going to go nuts over her.”
Michael downed the rest of his beer. Not fucking likely. They’d have to meet first, and he couldn’t see that happening.
“What’s her last name? Stella what?” Quan asked as he pulled out his phone.
“Why?”
“I wanna see if she has a LinkedIn profile. I do this with every guy my sister dates. Aren’t you curious?”
Yeah, he was curious. “Lane, Stella Lane.”
A persistent buzzing dragged Stella out of yet another heated Michael dream. For this entire past week, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
At work, she tried to focus on her data, but the words and numbers turned into body parts that fit together in fascinating ways. She fantasized about his hands, his mouth, his smile, his eyes, his words, his laugh, his presence.
When she slept, dreams of Michael plagued her, so intense the craving of her body woke her at odd hours of the night.
Last Friday had tipped her over the line. There was no doubt about it.
Stella was officially obsessed with Michael.
And they might never see each other again. It was Friday now, and he still hadn’t texted or called. Was this one of those situations where no news meant no? Her heart sank, and her limbs went heavy with sadness.
The infernal buzzing continued, distracting her. She groped at the nightstand until she located her phone. Squinting at the screen, she saw it was her housekeeper.
She coughed to clear her throat of the sound of hot dream sex. “Hello?”
“Ms. Lane, I can’t make it today. My daughter is sick, and the daycare won’t take her.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for calling. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Can I make it up next week?”
“Sure, no problem.” She glanced at the clock, and her heart almost stopped. It was just short of eight o’clock. She was usually sitting at her desk by now.
She’d almost hit the end button when she heard her housekeeper say, “Oh, Ms. Lane, you’ll want to take your clothes to the dry cleaners since I can’t do it.”
“Oh, all right. Thanks for reminding me.”
“No problem. Good-bye.”
Stella considered skipping the dry cleaners. Not only did she not know which one she used, she didn’t like the idea of ruining her morning routine by adding an extra step. It was . . . irritating and anxiety-causing. New place. New people. And after the disaster at the club, her tolerance for new things was at an all-time low.
In the end, it was the idea of having the wrong number of skirts and shirts hanging in her closet that had her perusing Yelp for nearby dry cleaners. She settled on an establishment that was ranked above all the others even though it was a little out of the way.
Off routine and harried for time—her boss would probably call the police when he didn’t see her in the office first thing—she drove east down El Camino Real, leaving Palo Alto and entering Mountain View. After about five minutes, she turned into the parking lot of a small strip mall with well-maintained wooden shingle siding and oak trees along the front sidewalk. Old-fashioned signs labeled a coffee shop, a martial arts studio, a sandwich place, and Paris Dry Cleaning and Tailors.
She looped her purse and bag of clothes over her shoulder and clicked over the asphalt toward the dry cleaners. A tiny old lady with a hunched back, chipmunk cheeks, and sunken lips stood before the doors. A paisley scarf had been folded along the diagonal, wrapped around her head, and tied beneath her chin. She was quite possibly the cutest grown human Stella had ever seen.
She held a massive pair of lawn shears in her gnarled hands, brandishing them ineffectually at the oak tree in front of the store.
When Stella halted, bewildered and amazed by the sight, the old lady flipped the shears around with a dangerous swinging motion, nearly slicing her own leg off in the process, and offered the handles to her. She pointed at Stella and then the tree.
Stella looked over her shoulder, but, as she’d suspected, the old lady truly meant her. “I don’t think I should . . .”
The old lady pointed at a low branch on the tree. “Cut.”
Stella searched about the parking lot, but there wasn’t anyone else here. She stepped onto the sidewalk and took the giant and very heavy shears from the lady. These things were a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Maybe we should call the landscaping company. They’d probably be happy to send someone . . .”
The old lady shook her head. Once again, she pointed at Stella’s chest and then the tree. “Cut.”
“Cut this?” She indicated the low branch with the tip of the shears.
“Mmmmm.” The old lady nodded enthusiastically, her black eyes shining within her wrinkled face.
It appeared Stella had no choice. If she didn’t do it, she feared the old lady would try doing it herself and mortally wound herself in the process. How she managed to hold the shears without slipping all the discs in her spine was a mystery.
Moving awkwardly in her high heels with her bags over her shoulder and enormous shears in her hands, she prepared to step into the landscaping at the base of the tree so she could get near enough to cut the branch down.
“No no no no no.”
Stella froze with one foot in the air, her heart hopping around her chest like a Mexican jumping bean.
The old lady pointed at the landscaping, which, now that she looked more closely, was not landscaping at all. It looked like . . . an herb garden.
Teetering, Stella dropped her foot in the dirt between plants.
“Mmmmm,” the old lady murmured before pointing at the branch again. “You cut.”
Through a miracle or adrenaline-induced superhuman strength, Stella lifted the shears above her head, wedged them around the base of the small branch, and snipped it free. The branch fell onto the cement sidewalk like a felled bird. When the old lady set a hand on her knee and prepared to bend over to retrieve it, Stella hurried away from the tree and grabbed it for her.
The old lady smiled as she took the branch and patted Stella’s shoulder. Then she eyed Stella’s laundry bag, pulled the lip open so she could peer inside, and placed her hand on the strap, steering Stella toward the front doors of the dry cleaners. The old lady pushed the glass door open with surprising strength. After Stella entered, the old lady snatched the shears, hid them behind her back like no one would notice them there, and disappeared through a door behind the vacant front counter.
Stella gazed about, taking in the two headless mannequins in the window display who modeled a precisely constructed black tux and a form-fitting lace wedding gown. The interior of the store was calming blue-gray walls, soft white draping curtains, and lots of natural light.
A fitting was going on in an adjacent room. A respectable-looking matron in a sleeveless white jumpsuit stood on a raised platform before a trifold of mirrors.
Stella went numb with astonishment.
At the woman’s feet kneeled Michael.
He wore loose jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretched around his biceps, looking wholesome and beautiful and completely at home. A measuring tape looped behind his neck and dangled down his chest, and his sculpted wrist sported a small pincushion, replete with dozens of protruding pins. Balanced over his right ear was a blue chalk pencil.
“What kind of heels are you planning to wear with this?” he asked.
“I was planning on these, actually.” The lady pulled her pant leg up to reveal regular white pumps.
“You should go open toe, Margie. And one inch higher.”
Margie’s lips thinned, and she angled her foot, turned it side to side. After a moment, she nodded. “You’re right. I have just the pair.”
“I’m going to add another inch to the hem, then. How does the waist feel?”
“It’s too comfortable.”
“I figured you planned to eat in this.”
“My tailor thinks of everything.” She pivoted and stared at the profile of her pinned-up waistline in the mirrors.
Michael rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “Remember the lipstick.”
“Yes, yes, how could I forget? Fire-engine red. You’ll have this ready by next Friday?”
“Yeah, it’ll be ready.”
“Excellent.”
She slinked off to a changing room in the jumpsuit, and Michael picked up a floral print garment that had been draped over the back of a chair. He adjusted the pins and snatched the chalk pencil from above his ear to mark the fabric, his eyes focused and his hands competent.
Inside Stella’s mind, missing pieces clicked into place. This was Michael in his natural state. This was what he did when he wasn’t escorting. Michael was a tailor.
He shook the garment out and draped it over his arm before turning to retrieve yet another pin-strewn piece.
Catching sight of her from his peripheral vision, he said, “I’ll be with you in a sec—” His eyes locked on hers, and his face went slack.
He froze.
She froze.
“How did you . . . ?” He glanced out the front windows like maybe he’d find the answer to his unfinished question outside.
Her heart pitter-pattered. This had to look really bad—stalker bad. Not fair, not fair. She’d only just realized she was obsessed with him today. She hadn’t had time to stalk him like a fanatic. Now, she’d cost herself whatever slim chance she’d had at a full-time arrangement.
She backed up a step. “I’ll go.”
He strode quickly across the room and caught her hand before she could leave. “Stella . . .”
Her whole arm jumped in response to his touch, and she wanted to cry. “I just needed my clothes dry-cleaned. I didn’t know you worked here. I-I’m not stalking. I know it looks bad.”
His expression softened. “It actually looks like you have clothes in need of dry cleaning.” He lifted the bag of clothes from her shoulder. “Let me ring you up.”
He took her things to the front counter and began counting shirts with professional efficiency. His cheeks, however, were unusually pink.
“Is this awkward?” she asked, hating that she was making him uncomfortable.
“A little. Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve run into a client here. Seven shirts. I’m assuming seven skirts, too.” He counted them out into a separate pile and searched her face. “Do you work every day?”
She nodded jerkily. “I prefer the office on the weekends.”
His mouth tilted up at the corner. “You would.” There was no judgment from him, no criticism, no advice that it was bad for her health and her social life. He didn’t think there was something wrong with her. Stella wanted to leap over the counter and throw herself into his arms.
He began to set the laundry bag aside when he noticed there was still something inside. As he upended it, the blue dress tumbled out.
His eyes lifted to hers and smoldered.
Stella gripped the counter as ice cream memories flickered through her head. Chilled silken lips, mint chocolate chip, and the taste of his mouth. Unhurried kisses in a room full of people.
“Do you have any special directions for your clothes?” he asked in a rough voice.
Blinking away her memories, she forced her mind into the present. “No starch. I don’t like the feel of it on—”
“Your skin,” he finished, running his thumb over the back of her hand.
She nodded and searched for something to say. Her gaze landed on the blue cocktail dress. “I bought this dress because I liked the color and the fabric.” With its crisp silk texture and structure, it must have complemented Michael’s gorgeous suit nicely . . . “The suit,” she whispered. “Did you make it?”
His eyelashes swept downward, and a boyish grin covered his face. “Yeah.”
Her mouth fell open. If he could do that, then why in the world was he escorting?
“My grandfather was a tailor. Apparently, it runs in my blood. I like making clothes.”
“Would you make clothes for me?”
“You’d have to stand still for a long time. It’s not sexy. Would you really want that?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but the look in his eyes was not. It took Stella a moment before she realized it was vulnerability.
Was it possible Michael didn’t think someone could be interested in him for more than his body?
“I’ve had clothes made for me before, remember? I know what it’s like. It’s worth it to me. You’re talented. I want your designs.”
“That’s right. I forgot.” That boyish grin flashed again, looking almost shy, and she wanted to wrap herself around him and hold him forever.
“I’ve been expecting news from you,” she whispered.
His smile faded as his expression went serious. “I needed to think about it.”
“Are you accepting my proposal?” Please don’t say no.
“Are you sure you still want to issue it?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have changed her mind.
“No sex?”
She took a breath and nodded. “That’s right.”
Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “So you can be sure the next man to kiss you or touch you only does it because he wants to?”
“Y-yes.” She leaned toward him as she anticipated his answer, almost afraid to exhale.
“I accept.”
She smiled in dizzying relief. “Thank—”
He tipped her face upward with a hand on her jaw and kissed her. Electric sensation crackled through her. If it weren’t for the counter, she would have fallen. At her murmur, he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth with his tongue in the same way she wanted him to—
The door behind the counter opened, and someone marched out.
They tore apart like guilty teenagers. Michael cleared his throat and busied himself with the clothes on the counter. Stella pursed her lips, tasted Michael on her skin, and wiped the moisture away with the back of her hand.
From the look on the older woman’s face, she’d seen everything . . . and was curious. Round-lensed glasses perched on the top of her head at a gravity-defying angle, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, though several strands stood out in busy disarray. She wore a hound’s-tooth sweater and green plaid pants. Like Michael, she wore a measuring tape around her neck.
The woman held out a deconstructed garment and pointed to a section of a seam. The two of them proceeded to speak in a rapid, tonal language that had to be Vietnamese.
As he bent over the garment with that sexy thinking look on his face, the woman aimed a distracted smile at Stella and patted Michael’s arm. “I taught him when he was little, and now he teaches me back.”
Stella eked out a smile. Had his mother just caught them kissing? She tried to find similarities between them, but nothing stuck out. Michael’s facial features were a striking balance of eastern edges and western angles. Broad shouldered, thick, and vital, he towered over the petite woman.
Stella pushed her glasses up and smoothed her hands over her skirt, wishing she had a white lab coat and a stethoscope.
On the other side of the open back door, racks of in-process clothes and various commercial sewing machines cluttered a large workspace. A mechanized circular rack carrying clothes in plastic wrap occupied the far left side of the room, and countless spools of thread in every shade imaginable lined the walls. The little old lady from earlier sat on a worn couch in the right corner, watching muted television on an ancient CRT. The lawn shears were nowhere in sight.
“What do you do for a living? Are you a doctor?” the woman asked with ill-disguised hope.
“No, I’m an econometrician.” Stella linked her fingers together and stared at the tips of her shoes, awaiting disappointment.
“Is that economics?”
Stella’s eyes darted back up in surprise. “Yes, it is, but with more math.”
“Has your girlfriend met Janie yet?” she asked Michael.
Michael looked up from his garment, his expression worried. “Mom, no, she hasn’t met Janie, and she isn’t my—” He stopped speaking, and his gaze jumped from his mom to Stella.
His dilemma was perfectly clear. What did they call one another in public situations now?
“She’s not what?” his mom asked in confusion.
He cleared his throat as he focused on the garment in his hands. “She hasn’t met Janie.”
Warmth splashed at Stella’s body in unexpected waves. He didn’t correct his mom. Did that mean they were going by boyfriend and girlfriend in public situations?
A desperate yearning gripped Stella, surprising her in its intensity.
“Who’s Janie?” Stella managed to ask. She remembered that name from before.
“Janie is his sister.” There was a thinking slant to his mom’s eyes before she brightened and said, “You should come to our house for dinner tonight. Talk to Janie about economics, ah? She’s studying that at Stanford and is trying to get a job. His other sisters will want to meet you, too. We didn’t know he had a new girlfriend.”
His mom’s words swamped whatever giddiness she’d experienced from being called Michael’s girlfriend. House. Dinner. Sisters. The words rattled around in her head, refusing to make sense.
“Just come, ah? Even if you two have plans, you still have to eat. Michael can make bún. His bún is very good . . . I forgot to ask. What is your name?”
Dazed, she said, “Stella, Stella Lane.”
“Call me Mẹ.” It sounded like meh, but with an unusual tonal dip in the middle.
“Mẹ?” Stella repeated.
His mother smiled her approval. “Don’t eat anything before you come, ah? We have lots of food.” With that, she brushed her hands together like business was settled, filled out the invoice slip for Stella’s clothes, and handed it to her. “This will be ready Tuesday morning.”
In a state of panic, Stella stuffed the slip into her purse, murmured a quiet thank-you, and walked out to her car, passing by his grandmother’s herb garden—at least, she assumed the old lady was his grandmother. As she sat down in the driver’s seat, his mom’s words repeated in her head.
House. Dinner. Sisters.
The front door swung open and Michael jogged to her side. She opened the window, and he propped his hands on the side of the car. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” A notch formed between his eyebrows as he hesitated. “But maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” she heard herself ask.
“Maybe it’s the kind of practice you wanted.”
“You’d let me practice with your family?” The fact that he trusted her with the important people in his life touched her in ways she didn’t understand, made her feel off-kilter. That yearning from earlier returned.
“Would you be good to them?” he asked with a searching gaze.
“Yes, of course.” She always strove to be good to people.
“And keep our arrangement between us? They don’t know about . . . what I do.”
She nodded. That went without saying.
“Then I’m okay with it. If you want to. Do you?”
“Yes, I do.” But not because she wanted practice.
“Let’s do it, then.” His eyes fell to her lips. “Come closer.”
She leaned toward him but glanced at the front of the shop. “She might be watch—”
He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. Just one. And he pulled away. “See you tonight.”