Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 16 Vin

Chapter 16

VIN

W e arrive at the Sweet Dreams, Seattle studios in downtown Seattle an hour before we go live. The producer, Nancy, leads us to the set, which looks like a real kitchen. The sage-green island has ample counter space for Chryssy to do her thing. Behind the kitchen is a staircase, windows, and a dining room off to the side to give the illusion that we’re in a home. This set in particular reminds me of the comedy Leo and I made a cameo in, but in that movie I didn’t have to cook.

Overhead, twenty or so lights are positioned at different angles, casting a cool blue over us. Because the show airs for late-night viewers, we’re meant to look like we’re cooking in the glow of moonlight. The atmosphere simultaneously feels so real and so… fake.

The ingredients for Chryssy’s egg tarts are already set up, premeasured and prepoured. A crew member brings over prebaked egg tarts, per Chryssy’s recipe, for her to taste-test and to ensure that they look as they should.

As we near the top of the hour, we’re informed about how everything will work with timing and movements.

“We have a few viewer-submitted questions and recent, most-searched questions just for fun. See how much you really know about each other,” Nancy explains, pointing to the teleprompter in front of the counter. “They’re questions we think viewers are up all night thinking about. Hence the segment, Up All Night .”

“That’s not what we had prepared for today,” Chryssy tells Nancy.

She looks at us curiously. “Did you need to prepare for things you would already know about each other?”

There’s a too-long silence before Chryssy finally spits out a too-hard, nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’m sure we can get through a few questions about each other. Right?” she says, reaching to link her arm through mine in a display of affection. The casual touch feels anything but, especially after what happened between us two days ago.

But we’re here. Might as well put any other doubts to rest.

“Vin,” Chryssy whispers when Nancy leaves, “quick, what’s your favorite color? Wait, I think I know. Is it black?”

“You think they’re going to ask us basic questions like that? It’s probably going to be the deep shit,” I say, irritated. The plan was to cook and cook only. “Stuff like, what’s your greatest fear in life.”

“Ending up alone,” she answers. “Just tell me. Favorite color. Go!”

“Hey, this will be okay,” I say softly, giving her arm a squeeze. “We know things about each other, Chryssy.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she mumbles. “This won’t be edited, though.”

“If you need to make up something in the moment, I’ll go along with it,” I offer. “I had a pet hedgehog? You bet I did. Even named him Sonic. I have a tattoo of Bach on my back? Got it when I was nineteen.”

Chryssy’s expression softens. “Bach, really?” she asks with a smirk. “I think I’d have remembered that from…”

She tries to hide her smile by looking down at the ground, but I still catch it.

My cheeks heat at the reference to our afternoon together. I step closer to Chryssy as I answer her. “Actually, I hate needles,” I admit.

She looks up at me, confused. “But the other day. The acupuncture.”

“I promised you I’d try,” I say. “And I couldn’t say no to Rose.”

Across the studio, the thud of a dropped box startles us. I become more aware of all the movement in the studio. Gaffers adjust the lighting while cameramen frame their shots. Producers fast-walk across the kitchen set. Showtime is approaching.

“Hey, if you don’t want to do this or need more time, I can pretend I had a spoiled sandwich earlier,” I say, throwing out a lifeline. “Do you want to smell my invisible flowers?”

My attempt to make Chryssy laugh works.

“That’s a kind offer, but I’m okay,” she says. “I jumped off a building attached to you. I can do this. I’ve visualized this moment for days, but it only now hit me that this is going to be live. There are so many people who watch this show.”

Now she’s rambling.

I step closer to Chryssy, hoping the proximity calms her. “Before performances, I still get nervous, too,” I admit.

“You do?” she asks. “Huh. I guess I figured you’d be used to it by now after all these years. Do you have some kind of quirky preshow ritual?”

“I like to oil myself up and then roll around in glitter,” I joke. “But yeah, I still get preshow jitters. The fact that people have taken the time to come see us and have paid hard-earned money to be there means a lot. I want to give them everything they expect and then some. There is something else I do that helps ground me, besides, you know, the glitter. Do you want to do it with me?”

Chryssy studies me before agreeing. “Glitter me up.”

I shift my footing before revealing myself to her. “I like to peek out at the audience, find one person, and make up a name and backstory for them,” I share. “At the Sydney Opera House, there was Lucas who designed theater sets, competed in amateur ice-sculpting competitions, and had a time-share in Bora-Bora. Then there was Matilda at Carnegie Hall, who was one of five siblings. She was a data engineer by day, a jazz pianist by night, and had a soft spot for Classical Chinese poetry.”

Chryssy looks surprised. “That’s… not what I expected you to say.”

I nod. “I know people have expectations of me, of the Chao Brothers. If I can feel connected to at least one person in the room in a city I don’t know anyone in, it makes the need to impress more manageable. I need to win over Lucas and Matilda, not every single person there. Otherwise, I’m performing to a sea of faces and strangers I’ll never know the names of.”

“I kind of love that,” Chryssy says softly.

“It helps, I promise. Want to try?” I ask. “It’s better for it to be more rooted in reality than in your imagination, and we can’t see viewers on the other side of the camera. We can see people in this room, though.” I point to a crew member busy setting up coffee on the craft services table. “Who’s that?”

Chryssy looks from the crew member back to me. “You just make something up?”

“Let’s start with a name.”

“That’s Azalea,” Chryssy says after a few seconds.

“And what does Azalea do? Besides provide food for everyone to stay energized on set,” I ask.

Chryssy’s breathing steadies as she thinks. “Azalea has a food-styling business on the side, has a fondness for yacht rock, and bakes angel cake every year on the first day of spring.”

“You nailed it on your first try,” I say, impressed.

“When we’re live, I’ll be teaching Azalea how to make egg tarts,” Chryssy says, the worry lines between her eyebrows softening.

“Exactly.”

“Thank you, Vin,” she says, taking a step closer. I pull her in for a hug that she returns. “Did they put lavender cream on you?”

I clench my jaw, resisting a smirk. “No.”

She looks around for the source of the scent. “Whatever it is, it’s soothing.” Another whiff passes under our noses and Chryssy sniffs the air. “Where is that coming—”

“It’s me, okay?” I say between gritted teeth.

She gasps under her breath. “You did not.”

I avoid Chryssy’s eyes. “I told you I fucking love bath bombs.”

“It works for you,” she says. “You smell like fields of lavender baked in the sun, and not at all like dish soap.”

I grin back at her. “I… like it, too.”

A musical laugh escapes her, seemingly shaking loose any remaining nerves she has. I hope they fizzle away like the bath bomb I enjoyed earlier today.

Before the top of the hour, we’ve changed into our outfits and had hair and makeup done. Nancy begins the countdown to showtime verbally and with her fingers. “We’re rolling in three…”

Next to me, Chryssy takes a deep breath in and shifts her focus to Azalea.

“Two…”

Behind the island, I place my hand on the small of her back, circling the spot with my thumb. Chryssy straightens her shoulders and looks directly into the camera.

One , Nancy mouths.

A green light blinks on. And we’re live.

“Welcome to Sweet Dreams, Seattle . I’m Chrysanthemum Hua Williams, also known as the Heartbreak Herbalist, and I’m here with my boyfriend, Vin Chao,” Chryssy says, the words rolling easily off her tongue. I wave to the camera as I lean against the island.

“Also known as the Heartbreaker of Cello Rock,” I say with a little shrug.

Chryssy shares what we’ll be making tonight and explains the benefits of honey, lavender, and chrysanthemums.

We start with the dough and mix flour, butter, and cold water together. Chryssy teaches me—and in turn the viewers—how to cube the butter and work it in until the dough forms coarse crumbs.

I take lead with the ingredients while Chryssy focuses on the instructions. It requires everything in me not to tuck the strand of hair that’s come loose from Chryssy’s low bun behind her ear as she brings the dough together.

The dough needs to rest half an hour to absorb moisture, but because we don’t have that kind of time, various stages of dough have already been prepped by the show’s crew.

More TV magic.

Chryssy removes the rested dough from the set’s fridge behind us and shows viewers how to roll it out. There are a series of folds and more rolling to create the right amount of flakiness. As she does this, I ask the first question of the show.

“Who is Vin Chao’s girlfriend?” I read from the teleprompter.

“You want to take this one?” Chryssy asks.

I face the camera. “Well, her name is Chrysanthemum, which you already know.” I succinctly describe the work Chryssy and her aunties do at the inn and talk about In Full Bloom like the good brand ambassador that I am, complete with a full spelling-out of the online shop website where they can preorder.

“I didn’t even have to pay him to say that,” Chryssy says. The crew behind the cameras chuckle. If only they knew.

Before she can ask me a question, I hear myself adding more to my answer.

“But beyond work and labels,” I say, “Chryssy is incredibly empathetic and kind. She cares a lot about people, whether you’re being treated by her or not. She’s inspiring as hell, and she makes the best food I’ve ever eaten. In fact, Chryssy loves healing ingredients so much that she once went as a piece of ginger for Halloween. And if you ever need a Billy Joel song rec, she’s your go-to.”

They’re details that will add to the illusion of our relationship. At the thought of this, I don’t know which word, in particular, to believe. Illusion or relationship?

Chryssy grins up at me as her fingers sink into the dough.

“So yeah,” I say, inhaling deeply. “That’s my girlfriend.”

“You inspire me, too,” she whispers to me.

She makes a quarter turn in the dough and continues rolling it out, this time asking me a question.

“Where’s Leo?” she reads out loud. My mind pictures Leo in a red-and-white-striped shirt and hat, wearing glasses and holding a cello, like he’s a musical version of Waldo. To the Chaobreakers, that’s how it must feel.

I straighten. “I’ve had to go to the Wildflower Inn to heal my tendonitis before our world tour. I’m lucky that it affords me time to spend with Chryssy. Leo accompanied me there, but he’s been heads down with new music and rehearsing. Stay tuned.” I cringe at my pun.

Chryssy gives me a nod of support. That should cover it. I sigh in relief, and Chryssy moves on, explaining as she washes her hands that we’re going to let the dough rest for another half hour. By now, I’m sure viewers know that we have a slab of well-rested dough waiting for us in the fridge.

“In the meantime, we’ll make our filling,” Chryssy says, her breath catching. I follow her gaze to the glass of hot water containing only lavender buds… because there aren’t any chrysanthemums. In the whirlwind hour leading up to the show, we didn’t double-check to make sure they had everything we needed.

“We’ll have to uh, do a little imagining,” Chryssy says. “We have lavender, but we’ll need to pretend that there are also chrysanthemum flowers steeping in this hot water.” She then proceeds to describe what mums look like, using her hands to depict the bloom.

“I might have something,” I interject.

I disappear from the set, returning a few seconds later with one of the In Full Bloom packaged flowers Chryssy gave me. I tear it open and add the dried chrysanthemum to the hot water, watching as the stringy petals bob up and down.

“The product is great,” I say. “I carry it with me everywhere I go. See how the flowers bloom?” I then, nearly word-for-word, re-explain the benefits of chrysanthemums that I learned from Chryssy.

There’s a flicker of surprise on Chryssy’s face, but she moves on to the next question as we give the chrysanthemum time to steep.

“How do you know when you’re mad at each other?” she asks, not hesitating with her answer. “When you’re mad, you clench your jaw.”

I don’t waver, either. “You do this wriggling thing with your nose. It scrunches. Twitches. It’s quick and subtle, but it’s your tell.”

“What, like I’m working magic?” Her finger flies to the tip of her nose.

“Yes, but your spells are recipes,” I say, catching on to her Bewitched reference. “And you don’t think so, but I’m convinced you also make love potions.”

She shakes her head as she strains the flowers and adds honey to the water. “Either way, I’m just trying to make my troubles go away,” she says playfully.

I smirk. “It’ll take a lot more than a nose twitch to get rid of me.”

Like a preset expiration date.

“Maybe my jaw clench and your nose twitch aren’t so far off from one another,” I say, running my hand along my chin. “Frustrating people exacerbate it.”

“Oh yeah?” She narrows her eyes at me and dramatically wriggles her nose, as though she’s pretending to try to make me disappear.

An amused noise slips out of me.

I’m buzzing with excited energy and realize I should’ve found a person of my own to create a backstory about. Something to focus on other than Chryssy. Somewhere in the depths of my brain I’ve been collecting tidbits of information about her, safekeeping them for later. Surely not for a moment like this, but it doesn’t hurt. And somewhere in her, too, whether she meant to or not, she’s been storing pieces of me.

Per my request, I get to crack all the eggs. Chryssy whisks them together with the evaporated milk, vanilla, and honey-flower mixture to create a custard while I work on rolling out the premade dough. We’re able to answer more questions as we cut out circles and line them in the molds.

“Viewer Amanda is wondering what our best date was,” Chryssy says. A look of worry etches into her expression. She thinks we’ll have to do some seriously heavy improv lifting here. We’ve never gone on a proper date.

I gently push dough circles into the molds, but my eyes are on Chryssy.

“I don’t know that I can speak for Chryssy on this one, but I know for me one of our most memorable dates was this one night when we ordered room service and watched Sleepless in Seattle ,” I start, describing our Yin Night. I say this directly to her, as though the cameras and crew aren’t around us. The people in headsets, in director’s chairs, and all the equipment fall away. I’m just here cooking with Chryssy in the way we have almost every night this past week. What felt overly fabricated at first is now, without a doubt, more real.

“We were up way too late talking and stuffing ourselves with fries,” I continue as Chryssy’s mouth parts. “I think it was the closest I’d ever come to perfect.”

A tight breath escapes her lips. She might think I’m embellishing my feelings to make this convincing, but as I talk about our Yin Night, it strikes me that it really was perfect. I hope we get more nights like it.

“We have one last question before we bake the egg tarts and call it a night,” Chryssy says, straining the mixture. She explains the next steps about baking the egg tarts and for how long while I execute, carefully pouring the filling into each shallow mold until they reach just below the lip. “Very nice, Vin.”

“Thank you, Chef,” I say, moving to the next mold.

Her face beams with pride. “Here we go. Final question. Viewer Miranda wants to know if Chrysanthemum’s family is cursed to never find lasting love and Vin is a heartbreaker, do two negatives cancel each other out?”

The words come out of Chryssy’s mouth before she seems to process what she’s said.

Chryssy stares at the camera, stunned into silence.

I’m midpour when I freeze, too. Her family’s curse has been exposed. On live television.

I recover first, ignoring the overflowing mixture now dripping onto the counter. “By cursed, you probably mean, Miranda, that by dating me, she’s cursed for a breakup.” I set the bowl down and spread my hands over the counter. “And normally, that would be true. But not this time. So, if you’re looking for the secret to lasting love, it’s this: Find a woman like Chryssy. And that breakup you’re all expecting? It’s not gonna happen.” I turn to her. “At least not on my end. I think I’d be the biggest fool in the world to ever let a woman like Chryssy go.”

I steal a glance at Chryssy, who looks as surprised as I feel. For four excruciating seconds, the studio is quiet. It’s dead air and live television is unforgiving, but no one says a thing. I can’t take the words back now even if I try—but strangely, I don’t feel the desire to take anything back.

Chryssy’s lungs seem to finally remember their job, and she takes an audible breath.

She slowly turns back to the camera and says, meekly, “We—You heard it here first.”