Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 6 Chryssy

Chapter 6

CHRYSSY

A re you sleepless in Seattle?” a low voice asks outside the edge of the garden, startling both me and Goji. I spin around, holding my shovel up in front of me for protection.

I peer over the flowers to find Vin lying on his leather jacket on the grass, his arms crossed behind his head.

“You scared me!” I say, my heart hammering. “And I’m actually sleepless just outside of Seattle.”

Vin stands and pulls his jacket on, his eyes narrowing when he sees the shovel. I wonder how seeing me in my Billy Joel sleepy shirt, dirt-covered leggings, and slippers, with a shovel and a bunny accomplice, changes his idea of who I am.

Now that we’re set to go on two dates while also simultaneously living together, the tension between us has taken on a new shape.

“Your hair’s wet,” I blurt out to fill the silence.

“I figured I’d shower while you were out,” he says. “I didn’t want to get in your way.”

“No, that’s fine,” I say, lowering the shovel. “It’s just, Auntie Violet’s always telling me not to go to bed with wet hair. You have to keep the back of your neck warm and dry to prevent wind invasions. It’s a vulnerable spot.”

“Uh, okay,” Vin says, pushing his fingers through the damp strands. “I’ll dry it. I can’t take any chances. I don’t have time to get sick.” He directs his attention to the hole I’ve dug, his mouth tightening into a firmer line. “If that’s for me, you’ve got a ways to go. Is it because of all the noise?”

“In case you weren’t aware, you’ve been practicing all night,” I say. “But no. You’re safe tonight.”

He nods. “I seem to always be intruding on your space. Sorry. I’ll leave you be. Good night.”

“Or is it good morning?” I pose.

Vin pushes back his sleeve, noting the time on his fancy-looking watch. “One a.m. It’s the in-between hours, so neither?”

In the low light, I can barely make out Vin’s features until he steps closer to me. The solar-powered lights faintly brighten his face from below.

“I’m going to finish… this.” I redirect my attention, bending down to push the wrapped-up writing box into the dug-out space.

“Here, let me help,” Vin says, entering the garden through a metal circular opening. He looks up at it and raises his eyebrows. “Moon gate?”

“You can’t have a moon garden without a moon gate,” I say. “I’d show you the moonflowers, but they haven’t bloomed yet.” I nod toward the white peonies. “Those, though, are close. I’m hoping they’ll open in a few weeks.”

Vin kneels beside me as Goji hops over to him. He wiggles the writing box until it fits, the lid a foot below ground level, and then shovels dirt over the top until it’s fully covered.

“Thanks,” I say, watching the veins in Vin’s hands swell with each movement. “Glad to know you’re a bury-the-box type of roommate.”

He taps the top of the dirt before laying the shovel down next to it. “You want to tell me why we’re burying this thing behind a bush in the middle of the night, early morning? And I don’t think it’s actually because you have too many cookbooks.”

I sigh. “It’s better you don’t know.”

“Chryssy, if we’re going to be fake-dating each other, it needs to be based on a foundation of truth and trust,” Vin says in a mock-serious tone.

“Hilarious,” I say, laughing despite myself. “I don’t know how else to say this, Vin, so I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I’m cursed goods.”

I have no idea what compels me to reveal this to Vin so easily, but I do. I feel relief when he doesn’t laugh or look at me like I’m being overly dramatic.

“What kind of curse are we talking here? Like, what’s the degree of cursage?” Vin asks, his concern genuine sounding.

Where do I even start?

According to the family legend, the curse goes like this: The women of the Hua family are doomed to never find lasting love.

The origin of how this came to be varies slightly from person to person, but the common thread of the story is that my great-great-great-great-grandmother, Lily, stole an herbal blend from 4G, my great-great-great-great-grandfather, and destroyed the recipe. Deprived of the blend, the people in town cast her out, condemning her to never find long-lasting love again after what she did.

Lily left her husband and her children, and ran away with the blend to profit on her own. No one knows what happened to her after that, but her fate lived on through the children she left behind. It was from that point forward that the Hua women were cursed to being brokenhearted. Lily became known to us as èyùn. Bad luck. Misfortune. The cause of denying us happy-ever-afters. The curse even followed my great-grandmother to America in the 1900s. So much for a clean start.

If someone had told me this about their own family, I don’t know that I’d have believed them. I’d think it was the stuff of folklore and bitter family drama and gossip. But I believe in my family’s curse because I haven’t ever been given a reason not to. Not only have I experienced breakup after breakup, but I’ve seen the curse come true with my own eyes, from my parents’ divorce to every single other relationship a Hua woman has ever had.

Auntie Rose and her wife’s values didn’t align, and one morning, she woke up in an empty bed.

Auntie Violet’s husband died young.

Auntie Daisy’s boyfriend just wanted a wife, but she wanted to work.

Auntie Primrose’s husband was in the relationship for her money.

Auntie Marigold’s husband cheated.

Great-Aunt Angelica’s husband had a secret second family.

My cousin Cassia’s ex couldn’t handle long distance.

My second cousin Poppy was dumped for the prom queen on prom night.

As for my parents and their divorce, my mom simply blames the curse.

So on and so forth. We’ve seen and heard it all through the generations. As for my uncles? They all have happy, long relationships and marriages.

Every time the Hua women see each other’s heartbreak, we’re affirmed in our beliefs. Kind of like a collective fool-me-once mentality. Instead of trading beauty secrets, we trade tips about how to protect our hearts.

The rule I now live by? Prevention is the cure. It’s a key TCM principle that I think applies perfectly to our situation.

Prevent yourself from falling in love, and you avoid the pain.

Prevent yourself from making future plans with someone, and you don’t end up bitter and hurt.

“As a Hua woman, I’ll never find lasting love,” I share. “Every last one of us has been broken up with.”

I elaborate with details about my family’s herbal blend, the betrayal, and the long line of heartbreak through the generations.

“And you’re trying to bury the curse?” Vin asks, eyeing the fresh burial spot.

“That’s the Curse Box. Apparently, it’s filled with èyùn’s belongings and reminders of why we are the way we are. We don’t look at it or touch it or open it. Apparently, the last time someone—Auntie Chamomile, maybe?—opened it, her husband left her a week later. It was clearly a little too discoverable,” I explain. “This way it won’t be.”

He processes what I’ve said. “You really believe in it? The curse?”

I scrunch my nose at the bluntness of his question. I don’t mind the straightforwardness, but it’s strange hearing him say those words. For him to know that such a thing exists for me, for my family. It’s freeing, in a way, not having to hide it from someone outside of the Hua bloodline.

“I have no reason not to,” I answer honestly. “I’ve never spoken about this with anyone other than family. One of my aunties loves to talk about it, but beyond a small circle of people, it’s private.” I peek up at Vin to analyze his reaction. “It was all my mom talked about with my dad, so I thought that if I did the opposite in the relationships I’ve had, maybe that would do the trick. Not that we’re in a relationship. Or even a fake one.” I give him a look. “But that doesn’t work, either.”

“Is that why you agreed to me breaking up with you?” he asks, tilting his head back. “What was it your auntie said? You have nothing to lose.”

“What’s one more breakup?”

Vin watches me for a second, his eyes not judging but surprisingly kind. “I don’t take the responsibility of knowing lightly,” he says, brushing dirt off his hands.

“You’re not skeptical. Why?”

Vin looks up at the moon, and I steal those few seconds to take in his face. “In classical music, there’s the Curse of the Ninth from the late Romantic period. A belief that the Ninth Symphony is the composer’s last. They’re destined to die writing it or right after. Beethoven. Schubert. Mahler.” He shrugs. “Is it superstition? I have no clue. It was a somewhat small number of composers, just like this curse is limited to your family. Still, real people died.” Vin tucks his hands into his pockets as he exhales. Finally, in a gravelly voice he says, “And I was a prodigy. That in and of itself was like a curse.”

This admission surprises me. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

“As you know, you learn to live with it,” he says. After a few long beats, he adds, “So, this garden. You created it?”

I’m thankful for the change in conversation. “I wanted it to be more of an escape,” I share. “When I first came to live here, I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just a me thing. Many of the guests who come through can’t sleep when they’re heartbroken. I wanted to create a place where people could come at night and have something pretty to look at.”

I lift my quilt off the ground and pull it around myself. We stroll between rows of low-growing candytuft flowers, their bright white petals gleaming in the sliver of moonlight. Above us, more dimly lit stars come into view as my eyes adjust to the darkness.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, looking around. “Those ones are practically glowing.” Vin takes a few steps over to the honeysuckle and leans down to get a closer look.

“I like that this garden forces you to be more present. Where you step, what’s around you, what your heightened senses are telling you. You’re forced to pay closer attention,” I say, looking at the surrounding plants. There’s just enough moonlight to see the white flowering quince in full bloom. “How often do we spend time in the dark when we’re awake?”

“I don’t know. I think we try to avoid the darkness,” Vin says, dropping one knee to the ground.

With his arm draped over his thigh, he looks up at me and smiles. His entire face lights up, the creases around his eyes shadowed by the garden lights. Goji hops over to Vin as he slowly reaches out and strokes the fur on Goji’s nose and between his ears. Goji leans into it, closing his eyes more with each pet.

The smile on Vin’s face grows, revealing a row of straight white teeth. Goji hops into his lap, and Vin lets him.

He takes Goji in his arms, then stands to face me. His typically straight posture is slightly bent, resembling the way he positions himself around his cello. For someone who doesn’t rest, it almost looks like he’s… relaxed? Goji looks as content as Vin does.

“Being in the moon garden helps me view things differently,” I say, guiding Vin around. “The plants and flowers take on different shapes, textures, and colors if you pay close enough attention. It’s active out here, yet still peacefully quiet.”

“Peaceful?” Vin stops walking and closes his eyes. “This place is too quiet.”

“One of the perks of being on an island,” I say.

Vin opens one of his eyes and keeps the other one squinted shut. “And now you’ve reminded me that I’m trapped,” he says with a smirk. “Thanks for that.”

I smile in return. “Depends on how good of a swimmer you are. Though your cello wouldn’t make the journey, I’m afraid. Guess you’re stuck here with me.”

Vin holds my eye contact. “If I had to be stuck on an island, I’d want it to be with you.”

My heart takes on a mind of its own and skips a beat. But then Vin says, “Because you know how to cook with plants. We’d survive anywhere.”

I take a deep breath to calm my elevated heart rate. “Glad I can be of practical use to you. If I were stuck with you, at least I’d know I’d die to good music.”

“Everyone needs an exit song,” Vin jokes.

We walk side by side through the garden, unintentionally bumping each other every few steps. To my left, white ranunculus with multilayered petals float cloudlike against a sky of dark green leaves.

“What are you trying to view differently?” Vin asks, disrupting the quiet.

I fill my lungs with cool night air before exhaling sharply. “Kind of everything? Truthfully, I can’t believe I agreed to pretend to date you so quickly. In my line of work, I’m so careful about fakes,” I say. “I spend a lot of time thinking about what we consume. There are a lot of fake foods out there. Honey, cheese, olive oil, meat, seafood, spices. Even tea! A lot of tea out there is stale, contains artificial additives, glue, billions of microplastics. And that’s just in one tea bag. Then there are promises and plans that turn out to be fake. And, you know, a lot of people think what I do is fake.”

“TCM?” Vin asks.

I nod. “Some call it a pseudoscience. And don’t even get me started on acupuncture.”

Vin looks up at the night sky for so long I think he’s started counting the stars. “I can understand the hesitation around pretending. For your work to be undervalued and misunderstood, that’s tough,” he says cryptically.

“Really?” I ask, watching his expression remain serious. “People think you’re amazing for being able to play the way you do. No way people can doubt your skills.”

“Can they doubt yours? Last I checked, you’re good at what you do.”

“Yeah. There’s so much skepticism around TCM. Especially in America, it doesn’t fit into people’s idea of what medicine is or should be,” I explain as we continue our garden stroll. “That’s why I love working at the inn. People come to us here. We don’t have to explain ourselves as much. We can focus on helping people.”

“What about your product?” Vin asks. “That’ll be going out to a lot more people than the ones who visit you here.”

“Yeah, I hope. Even though we’re selling flower tea, I expect pushback still, given the brand, the inn, Qi,” I admit.

He absentmindedly reaches under his forearm, which Goji’s nestled on. He squeezes as though it might be irritated.

“You okay?” I ask before realizing I’ve given away that I’ve been watching. “I have a balm that will relax your muscles.”

“I’m fine,” he says, quickly moving his hand away from his arm.

It’s here in the darkness, next to the snowdrops, their bell-shaped heads drooping as though they’ve fallen asleep standing up, that Vin comes into focus a little clearer. My heightened senses about him are slowly sharpening. The reputation, the music, the label—could these be the source of his heartbreak?

With Vin staying here and us going on dates, maybe I’ll have a chance to find out.

Being in the garden activates a memory. “A couple of years ago, Auntie Daisy planted dahlias in the main garden,” I say, gesturing across the field. “She wanted to surprise my great-aunt Angelica with flower garlands for her birthday. The snails were hungry that year and ate all the young dahlia leaves. It needed reviving, so we planted a bunch of rosemary next to it. Last year, there were no problems.”

Vin looks lost. “Congratulations?”

“Companion planting,” I say. “It’s when different plant species are grown together. The idea is that they’ll benefit each other and support the overall growth. Rosemary has a strong scent that repels pests from damaging the dahlias, while the dahlias are aesthetically pleasing and pop against the green herb.”

“Great idea,” Vin says. “And?”

“I know it’s just two events, but it’s kind of like we’re dahlias and rosemary,” I clarify.

Vin looks over at me. “Who’s the arm candy and who’s the one with the strong smell?”

“I think we both know the answer to that,” I retort.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

I stifle a laugh. “I’m saying maybe the lavender-mint bath bomb might be a good idea.”

Vin flashes me a fake smile. “I didn’t realize comedy hour started at midnight.”

“We’re different, but maybe with these dates, we actually will help each other,” I say.

Vin gently pets a sleeping Goji in his arms. A shiver runs down my spine at the sight, and I pull the quilt tighter against myself as a shield from what must be the dropping temperature.

“The charity event is in Vegas, and it’s their biggest fundraiser of the year,” Vin says. “We should get a lot of eyes on us.”

“Same with my family event,” I say. “Great-Aunt Angelica loves to talk, so word about us will spread. One of my second cousins—she’s a social media influencer—will be streaming the whole thing, too.”

“We just need to be seen. We’ll keep it as surface level as Wikipedia,” Vin says, shrugging. “You practically know everything you need to.”

We’ve rounded back to the moonflowers. I hold the cone-shaped bud of one against the palm of my hand.

For someone whose life is so out in the open, Vin is a mystery to me. I want to know more about the man behind the prodigy persona. None of my research told me that Vin only opens up late at night, hates lavender, and doesn’t own a couch. An urge flows through me to get to the heart of Vin, and maybe a small part of me wants to see if I’m right that there’s a little bit of breakage there.

I stand here in my slippers next to the unbloomed moonflowers, facing a man holding my bunny, and hear myself say, “I can promise you this. Even though it won’t be real, I won’t phone it in. I’ll be such a good date.”

Vin’s mouth quirks before he full-on smiles, and it nearly splits me in two. The way his eyes crinkle tells me there’s nothing fake about it.

“I don’t love the lying aspect of this, but for what it’s worth, maybe sometimes fake can be good?” he says. “I heard somewhere that fake plants and pictures of nature can have a positive impact on our moods, so it’s also a scientific fact.”

Under the stars, I beam at him. “That was episode five. I thought you said you only listened to one or two episodes of my podcast.”

Vin’s muscle flexes down the length of his jaw. “Yeah. That was one of the two.”

“Riiiight,” I say, biting down a smile.

“Right,” he echoes, rocking back on his heels.

Goji stirs in Vin’s arms, and he lets him down on the ground. As he does, Vin’s usual strand of hair flops across his forehead, altering the way the moonlight falls over it.

Seeing Vin in this way suddenly feels too intimate.

All I have to do is get through two dates with this man and endure yet another breakup.

My cursed love life has been training me for this moment.

I’ve totally got this.