Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 11 Vin

Chapter 11

VIN

I’ m not only trapped on an island, but a muddy one at that.

Clamming day turns out to be overcast. The beach, water, and low-lying land in the distance look like they’re covered in gray filters.

The weather is fitting for the state of my life, actually. Where it’s typically very clear what my routine and purpose are, now it just feels like I’m living in one big gray zone.

I desperately want to work, want to rehearse with Leo, want to be anywhere but here. I want the comforting sounds of home, of the steady hum of New York City traffic. The crescendo of rush hour. The rattling of the subway underground. The loud, improvisational music of the city.

What I don’t want is the type of stillness that comes with being here.

It’s too damn quiet on this island. Squeaking brakes have been replaced by chirping birds. Winds whistling down the avenues are now light breezes blowing through tall grass. The door buzzer announcing my takeout has become Chryssy clanging pots and pans when she’s cooking.

I used to love silence. Especially the kind that happens the moment before a performance when the audience falls quiet. Everyone holding their breath, swallowing down coughs and sneezes, waiting in anticipation for the first note.

But now, in the quiet, I hear too many of my own thoughts.

I listen carefully for something, anything, that might take me out of my own head. Waves breaking on land is a good start. Nearby, unleashed dogs chase balls and kick up sand while kids scream back and forth to one another while digging for edible buried treasures. For a few seconds, thoughts of work drift away and I’m brought back to the muddy present.

With a bucket and shovel in hand, I trudge over wet sand in my tall rubber boots to catch up with Chryssy and the rest of the group. She’s kneeling, surrounded by Leo, her three aunties, a slender white man in a “Remain Clam” T-shirt, and a few guests staying at the inn who wanted to join in on a day of what many of them have been calling fun.

Chryssy explains that we should look for the dimples in the sand, which indicate where the clam is buried. She demonstrates digging a hole with a clam tube and pulling it up.

After her demo, the “Remain Clam” man extends his hand for a shake. “You must be the other Chao brother,” he says. “I’m Dan, Chryssy’s old man.”

“Vin,” I say, returning the shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“You and your brother are both welcome to the restaurant anytime. Lunch is on me,” Dan says.

I thank him for the invite as Leo kicks my bucket with his mud-caked boot.

“Five bucks says I’ll get more clams than you,” Leo wagers.

I nod. “You’re on.”

A little friendly competition adds a bright spot to this day. Seeing Chryssy again isn’t so bad, either. After the Dragon Boat Festival, I made a stop in LA to review our latest film-scoring project and to take some meetings about the tour. I’ve also had to field questions from the media wanting to know Leo’s whereabouts and more about me and Chryssy. How serious are we? What do we do when we’re together? Is Chryssy trying to fix me, or is the Heartbreak Herbalist going to be left heartbroken? No doubt everyone’s bets are on the latter.

“I’m glad you came,” Leo says when we break away from the group. “I was worried you’d be holed up practicing the entire time. Glad you’re socializing.”

“I wouldn’t say I came to socialize, but I’m here,” I say. “How’s everything at the inn going?”

“It’s been a total one-eighty from our real life, man,” Leo says. “It’s a little surreal. The aunties are sticking me with needles and doing this thing called cupping? Painful but it works. I’m eating better food than all that takeout. Chryssy really knows how to cook. We talk about what we’re going through, and I’ve even planted my own herbs. You need to join us for a sunrise Qigong one morning. It’s beyond relaxing.”

“Okay, that sounds… promising,” I say, which it does, even if I don’t fully understand what most of it means. “What about your heart?”

“There are specific acupoints Auntie Rose focuses on during my sessions,” he explains. “I’ve been out of balance for a long time. We both have been. I’m still sad, but physically I’m starting to feel better.”

“Okay,” I exhale. “Good. That’s good.”

“It’ll be a journey,” he says. “This is just the beginning, but I’m glad I didn’t ignore it. Thank you for bringing me here, and for staying.”

“I’m here for you,” I say.

“I know this puts a lot of pressure on you and our schedule,” Leo adds. “They won’t admit it, but I think the aunties have been fielding calls from the tabloids.”

I run my hand across the back of my neck. “People are curious about where you are,” I admit, leaving out the news I learned in LA about how we also secured the Acropolis after selling out the Colosseum. Our booking more venues is the last thing Leo needs to hear right now, especially when we’re not slated to start practicing until the end of the month.

“I’m starting to like the idea of being a man of mystery,” Leo says. “I guess you start to want that more when your life is always so exposed. But I do want to help since you’ve been so supportive.” He hesitates for a moment. “You know that photoshoot we have next week? I’ll do it.”

“Is that really a good idea?” I ask. “You’re making progress.”

Leo keeps his focus on the sand. “It won’t require playing, and if you’re about to break up with Chryssy, I need to show my face somewhere. We can figure out a new excuse later.”

The conversation’s over when Leo suddenly remembers our bet and runs over to a dimple in the sand. He lunges for it with his tube and claims the spot. I don’t fight him on the clam or the photoshoot. If he makes an appearance, it’ll hopefully take some pressure off the headlines about Chryssy and me. We can get back to focusing on the music.

Chryssy yells “Clam!” and snaps me back to the moment. She hands me the clam tube, and I push it into the sand directly over the dime-size indent, twisting as quickly as I can so the clam doesn’t tunnel deeper beneath the surface. I cover my thumb over the hole of the tube like she taught us and pull up. The sand around it dries out as water is suctioned away. I reach for the razor clam, whose long bronze body spans the length of my palm.

“You got it!” Chryssy says while I rinse off the clam in the swash that rushes up the sand after the wave breaks. “You’re a natural.”

When the water recedes, the only evidence of its existence is the foam residue on our boots.

“Think I can make a career out of this, too?” I ask.

“You can call it Cellos and Clams. A cello bar where there are live clams,” she jokes. “Or a clam bar where there are live cellos.”

“That sounds like an interesting retirement plan. Don’t tell your dad and give him any ideas,” I say, turning the clam. I admire the amber shell and count the dark rings to tell its age. (“Like the rings on a tree,” Chryssy mentioned earlier, during the demonstration.) “Do these help calm the spirit, too?”

Chryssy smiles. “Clam shells help clear heat and have cooling properties. Very Yin,” she says.

“Must be why this one’s giving me the cold shoulder,” I joke.

“Say clammy!” Violet says, getting up in our faces with her phone camera. With the surf to our backs, I hold up the clam. Chryssy lifts the bucket and tilts her head into my shoulder as she poses beside me.

Violet gives us a thumbs-up and walks back to Daisy, Rose, and Leo, who’s working the clam tube into the sand. He’s committed to the task, looking proud when he finds another clam. Leo radiates ease and has gained back the few pounds he’d lost. He looks like he’s finally slept through the night. It’s a comfort knowing that he might be starting to heal.

I set the clam in the bucket, and we continue our hunt. A little farther down the beach, I point a short distance ahead of us. “What’s that over there?” I ask. “Is that a big clam?”

She squints into the distance. “Looks like trash,” she says. “People can be disgusting.”

“Yeah, people are, but I don’t know,” I say. “Looks like a clam to me. Maybe we should check it out.”

“Uh, sure. Okay, let’s go look,” she says, walking over to the lump in the sand. “See? Trash. Not a clam.”

“Can you pick it up?”

I am not good at this.

“Can I… pick up that trash? Without gloves?” Chryssy asks, giving me a look. “It’s a wet bag. You pick it up.”

“I’m not picking that up. Are you sure it’s not a clam? Just look to be sure,” I press.

“Okaaay,” Chryssy says, lifting the bag with her pointer finger and thumb. “If I catch something…”

Chryssy holds up the clear bag with a rolled T-shirt inside. “What is this?”

I take the bucket from her. “Are you sure it’s not a clam? Maybe you should open it up to make sure.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Is this yours?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I really just think you should open it up and make sure it’s not a clam.”

Chryssy sighs with a smile, opening the bag. “Oh, wait. You know what? You’re right. I think this is a clam.”

She removes the shirt and unrolls it to reveal me and Leo on the front holding cellos, with flames shooting up behind us.

“It’s sample tour merch,” I say. “In case you ever get tired of the Piano Man.”

Her eyes take on a glossy sheen. “You brought me a sleepy shirt?” she asks softly before clearing her throat. “This is, um, thank you.”

Oh shit.

“Is this like hand-holding or kissing?” I ask. “You don’t have to wear it to sleep. You can wear it grocery shopping. Changing the oil in your car. Gardening. Whatever you want.”

“No, this is nice. This is a kiss, Vin,” she says, holding the shirt against her. “A good one. What’s the name of the tour? The Chao Brothers, Flame-Kissed?”

I smile. “I was worried we looked a little too well-done.”

We continue strolling down the beach.

“Are there any other clams we need to go find?” she asks. “Or is this a new tour promo strategy?”

“There was a tour beanie,” I say, “but someone beat you to it.”

There’s that laugh again, the notes catching in the shell of my ear.

We pass by Chryssy’s dad holding up a clam in front of Leo. “He’s probably talking about adductor muscles,” Chryssy says, following my line of sight.

I move around a pile of washed-up seaweed. “What was it about seafood that compelled your dad to open an oyster bar?” I ask.

“Oh, well, he’s a chef and had always wanted to live abroad and work in the best restaurants around the world. He never got to do it, so he brought his dream here,” she says. “He loves how interactive oyster bars are. His place gets booked out almost immediately at the beginning of every month.”

“Wow. I’ll have to take him up on his offer before we leave,” I say.

“You should! The food is delicious,” Chryssy says, swinging the bucket back and forth. “He and my mom first met when she came into the restaurant where he was the poissonnier. My mom’s fish was still raw, so she sent the dish back. The restaurant manager made my dad apologize. She made a joke about how she was a cardiologist and how dare he deprive her of a heart-healthy meal. The next day, she came back and ordered the same dish, this time complaining that my dad left out a very important ingredient: his phone number.”

I smirk. “Nice. I didn’t realize your mom’s a cardiologist. That’s what you went to school for.”

Chryssy nods. “She’s not thrilled I didn’t finish school, but I think it has less to do with me following in her footsteps than it is about stability. Funny that, in very different ways, we both work with hearts.” She crouches to assess a divot that turns out to be a false lead. “To this day, my dad’s favorite trip he’s ever taken is the babymoon he and my mom went on before I was born. They went to Paris for New Year’s. Apparently, during that time of year, there are pop-up oyster stalls on the streets. He’d have his oysters raw with a heavy squeeze of lemon and mignonette, and my mom would catch up at dinner eating them fully cooked au gratin with loads of butter and herbs and breadcrumbs. So much for heart-healthy, right?” Her smile disappears. “After their divorce, Dad opened Pearl. I haven’t seen Mom eat an oyster since.”

When I hear this, I think of the songs written about lost loves and ex-partners. Pearl almost sounds like Chryssy’s dad’s love song to her mom.

“I was a little surprised to see your dad,” I admit. “I guess I thought with all the Hua women being left that your partners were the bad ones.”

“There have been bad people, but they’re not all villains,” she says. “My dad was the one who initiated the divorce, but he was affected by their marriage ending. I was ten, and it was the first time I’d ever seen him cry. I’ll never forget it.” She drags her boot across the wet sand, the imprint dissolving almost immediately. “Hence why my aunties say that even heartbreakers can be heartbroken. Their empathy runs deep. Sometimes I forget that while the women are left, we’re not the only ones who hurt. Yes, my dad broke my mom’s heart. But he broke his own, too.”

“I imagine it would be hard for him to see you get your heart broken. Does he know about… this? Us?” I ask, not sure how exactly to phrase it.

Chryssy looks back toward her dad. “I told him we’re casually seeing each other but it’s not serious, which is technically true,” she says. “He thinks the curse has already created enough instability and drama. I think he’s just happy I haven’t completely given up on dating. Have you told your parents?”

“I haven’t had a chance to call them back after they texted about the event photos,” I say. “They also worry about me.”

Chryssy glances up at me. “What’s their romantic origin story?”

“It surprisingly wasn’t too romantic for people who have been together for almost thirty-five years,” I say. “They were both violinists, playing small gigs and working odd jobs to pay the bills. My mom’s dream was to secure a seat in a touring chamber orchestra. Her family didn’t have a lot, so she never got to travel. That was her ticket to seeing the world. But on the way to the audition, the subway broke down, and she missed it.”

Chryssy gasps. She’s stopped to face me, her head tilted in captivation like she’s right there on the subway with my mom decades ago.

“The lights only flickered, but it was just enough time for someone to grab my mom’s violin,” I continue. “She chased him through the subway cars but lost him when she tripped over my dad’s violin case. The guy was gone. So was her violin. She took it as a sign it wasn’t meant to be, and violins aren’t cheap. She couldn’t afford another one.”

Chryssy groans, her hand placed over her heart. “But to run into your dad like that!”

“Right. He offered to take her to a pastry shop nearby to buy her a comfort croissant, but she had to file a police report. He couldn’t wait, though.”

“But not because he didn’t want to, I imagine?”

“Because he had to get to the audition—”

“No! Don’t say it!” Chryssy pleads.

“—that my mom was going to. He had a later time slot.” I involuntarily grin. “This is where it does get a little romantic.”

Chryssy spins back to me. “Ew, no!” she says dramatically before changing her tune. “Tell me.”

“They get to the symphony hall, and my dad gives my mom his time slot. She plays his violin.”

Just like any good song that requires tension, I let a long silence pass.

Chryssy shakes her head. “And?”

“And she didn’t get a seat.”

Chryssy’s mouth forms a small oval. “But the point was that they met, and that they tried, right?” she says, nailing the moral of the story.

“Within the year, they were married,” I say. It’s only once I reach the end of this story that I realize I’ve never shared it with anyone before.

“All these years later, here we are,” Chryssy says, looking down at a small pile of shells.

“Yeah. They’re having a big thirty-five-year anniversary in a couple of weeks,” I say.

“Unbelievable. Literally,” she says, her gaze lingering on me as she seems to disappear into her thoughts. “But I love that for them.”

I grunt. “You’re making that face again. The one where you analyze me.”

Chryssy casts her eyes away from me.

“What did you learn from looking at me that time?” I ask, half-amused.

She twists her lips to the side. “I think that story tells me a lot more about you than it does about them.”

I don’t ask for clarification because I know what she’d say.

That I feel some sort of responsibility for honoring my parents’ musical dreams, which they never got to live out.

That I work to be the best so that their sacrifices to put us through lessons and saving up for instruments and tours were worth it.

That I want my parents to have everything now that they didn’t get to have then.

After our hotel room confessional, she’s probably even connecting the dots that I want a love-song kind of love story. That I want a love like theirs.

And she’d be right.

But heartbreakers don’t get stories like that. We get some of what we want, but we don’t get everything.

Chryssy leaves it at that, letting her epiphany float away on the wind, and we continue walking side by side. Enough of the afternoon passes, and slowly, the tide rises. We splash through the ankle-deep water rushing up and down the beach.

I take a deep inhale as I look out into the distance, following the receding water all the way out to the bay and then past the horizon. I can practically feel my eyes and mind stretching after staring at screens and sheet music for what feels like my whole life.

“Can you make our breakup as memorable as your parents’ love story? I want a powerful loved story like that to tell,” Chryssy asks. She holds the tour shirt tighter against her chest.

Like my boots in the sand, my heart sinks a little at this. “You deserve the best breakup. I may need a little more time, though, to figure out something memorable. Our second date kind of snuck up on me.”

Chryssy presses her lips together as she watches a bird circle above us. “What if—what if we didn’t stop quite yet?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ve already planted the seed, and you’re here with Leo anyway,” she says slowly, as though she’s thinking out loud. “We could just… keep going?”

My eyebrows pull together. “Like, what if we kept dating?” I ask. “Is there another race your family needs a drummer for?”

Chryssy smiles. “Trust me, if there were, you’d be the first person we’d all call.” She takes a big gulp of air. “It’s just that this worked really well. Us dating. Yes, we have more preorders than we know what to do with, but we’re already working on solving that. And I saw on your website that you added a few more tour dates and locations. I hear Greece is lovely in September.”

I kick at the sand, considering Chryssy’s proposal. “It would give us an excuse for where Leo and I are.”

“Right,” she says.

“How long would we have to date?”

“I resent your use of have to ,” Chryssy says, mock-insulted.

I hold up my hands. “Sorry, sorry. How long would I get to date you ?” I correct.

A pleased look appears on Chryssy’s face. “We could date until the end of June. Then I’ll focus on In Full Bloom, and you’ll start rehearsals.”

“We’d need to be in New York that week,” I confirm, processing her proposition. “It would be double the time of my usual relationship.”

“It’ll look like we’re more serious this way,” she says. “And you still need to break up with me?”

“It’s what people expect,” I say, looking away from her.

Chryssy turns to me. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but if we date for longer, it’d be an even bigger breakup for you.”

“I suppose it would get more attention.”

“Which makes me wonder,” Chryssy says. “You’d be getting guaranteed heartbreak out of this, but more preorders for our tea isn’t necessarily a sure thing, despite how things have gone so far.”

“What would be a sure thing?” I ask.

Chryssy points to a small depression in the sand, and I dig up the clam.

“You being our brand ambassador,” she says quickly. “You learned the flower benefits very fast, and I think it helped that you’re not an obvious choice. And now we know you look good in pink. You’d need to drink our tea, talk it up. Maybe we take some pictures of you with it.”

“You know I get paid millions to represent brands, right?” I inform her.

Chryssy scrunches her nose. “What’s my fake love worth to you?” she asks.

I rub my chin as I pretend to think hard about it. “Probably all the fake money in the world.”

She lets out a laugh and gently swings the bucket toward me.

“The preorders are one part of the equation,” she says. “You bring attention to what we’re doing and how we can help. But people won’t just listen to me. That’s where the ambassador—you—comes in. Brands wouldn’t pay you so much if you didn’t sell things. If people didn’t trust you. It’s like when one person believes something about you, more start to.”

“I know it very well.”

“And even heartbreakers experience heartbreak, right?” Chryssy says.

“Turns out we do.” I spot Leo across the beach chatting with another guest. His healing process seems to be going in the right direction, and we’re not leaving quite yet. Chryssy and I have seen tangible benefits already. What’s a few more weeks? “You really want to do this?”

Chryssy glances at her aunties. “I know, with our family curse, we can’t stop the women in our family from being heartbroken, but we want to at least try to help others with their own broken hearts. The more people we can help, the better, and you only get to launch once.”

She’s the answer to my problem, and it looks like I’m the solution to hers.

“It’s settled then,” I say. “We keep up appearances, and then I’ll rehearse, you’ll launch your product line, and Leo will hopefully be in a better place.”

“That’s a little grim,” Chryssy says, her eyebrows pinching.

I frown. “Let me rephrase. Leo will hopefully be less heartbroken and back to playing again.”

Chryssy grins. “Better. We’ll squeeze in as many events as we can, but we can supplement that with photos on social media.”

“Makes sense. We shouldn’t only be seen together at public outings,” I reason.

“I’d shake on it, but I’ve been burned by handshake agreements before,” she says. “And something tells me I can trust you.”

“We’ll do a verbal agreement then,” I say.

The clams rattle against the sides of the bucket as it bumps between our legs. Chryssy’s eyes sparkle in the bright overcast light as they lock with mine.

I take a step back from her, giving whatever is happening between us right now some breathing room. She turns away from me and focuses intently on a dime-size indent.

I look out toward the strip of land in the distance. “I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the fact that we’re on an island.”

Ahead of me, Chryssy nods. “I feel both connected and disconnected at the same time.”

A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have understood what she meant. Now her vague comment actually makes a little bit of sense, even though I still don’t love being completely surrounded by water.

“I think I’m a little stuck,” I say.

“There’s a bridge that connects the island to the mainland,” she says, looking out at the trees across the water. “I’m surprised you haven’t made your great escape yet.”

“I would if I could move.”

“Yeah, I feel stagnant, too, sometimes,” Chryssy says, still not looking at me. “We have less than a month left. If we can just get through it, a lot will become unblocked for us.”

“No,” I say. “I’m literally stuck.”

Chryssy turns around and notices my left foot that’s sunk halfway down into the mud. “Here!” she says, springing into action and setting the bucket on the ground. “Use this to stabilize yourself.”

I bend over to grip the sides of the bucket. I lift my left leg, trying to remove my shin-deep boot. Chryssy stands in front of me, holding my shoulders to help steady me.

I pull my leg up harder, in turn pushing too firmly against the bucket. It slides in the mud, and before I can exert any control over myself or the situation, I lose my balance and fall forward. Without thinking, I twist my body to try to avoid tumbling into Chryssy as I go down, but her hold on me was too tight, and she’s thrown off balance, too.

Chryssy crashes onto my chest, her entire body flat against me. Next to us, clams spill out of the tipped-over bucket.

“Are you okay?” she asks, remaining very still. Her face is inches from mine.

“My foot’s no longer stuck, but my entire body might be,” I say, my back cool from the water seeping through my clothes. A second cooling sensation runs down the length of my spine. My body feels the curves of hers, and naturally, it’s reacting. I shiver in response to all of it.

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, accidentally leaving a trail of mud in my fingers’ wake.

I groan. “Tell me I didn’t just make it worse.”

Chryssy laughs. “Cleaning your pores and digging for clams. Your ambition knows no bounds, Vinny.”

I flop my head back against the sand, signifying defeat. “They say multitasking can’t be done, but look at me now.”

“Might as well make sand angels while we’re down here,” Chryssy says, climbing off me and collapsing onto her own back in solidarity.

It’s an out-of-body experience imagining what we must look like. The rumbling first starts in my stomach before making its way up my chest and throat. My laughter spills out of me, receding with the waves. Chryssy cracks up, too, her entire body shuddering next to mine. The sounds of our laughter overlap, creating a new melody I very much like the sound of, even though it’s slightly off-key. Both this tune, along with Chryssy’s bright smile against this gray day, burrow their way deeper into me.

None of this is attractive or comfortable, and I really don’t love being covered in mud, but, just like the Dragon Boat Race, this is fun. And between gasps of amusement, I think I start to understand what Leo meant by us being out of balance. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.

“Water’s coming in,” Chryssy says, quickly but carefully standing. She reaches her hand down to help pull me up. We’re off the sand right as the water splashes against us, the thrill of the narrow escape bursting through me. We scramble to collect our scattered clams while a few of them get swept away.

There’s wet sand caked in my hair and covering my entire backside. I’m as muddy as the dogs sprinting down the beach and the children chasing them. It’s such a little thing, to be covered in mud. But never before have I been messy like this. I didn’t spend my youth outdoors getting dirty or scratched. My mess looked like out-of-tune scales and half-memorized compositions. Poor techniques that I cleaned up with practice.

We take turns changing—me into an extra “Remain Clam” shirt that Dan brought for everyone and Chryssy in the one with my face on it—before heading back to the group.

I’m feeling both calm and like an actual clam, taking the directives of my T-shirt too literally.

This afternoon got me out of my head and my element.

And even though I’ve committed myself to another three weeks with Chryssy, I also begin to feel a little less stuck.