Chapter 14 Chryssy
Chapter 14
CHRYSSY
L ate mornings at the inn are usually the sweet spot of my day. Guests are either in sessions, gardening, or resting. The breakfast rush is over, with lunch a couple of hours out. This is the window of time when I can steal moments away from cooking for guests and working on our product line to do recipe testing. I have binders filled with TCM-inspired recipes for a future cookbook I’d love to create one day.
This morning, though, I’m working on a honey, lavender, and chrysanthemum egg tart recipe for the cooking segment for Sweet Dreams, Seattle . It’ll have a subtle flavor difference that allows me to spotlight In Full Bloom, and the egg tart molds already look like flowers. The tarts will be delicious and aesthetically pleasing, and they’ll give me talking points for what we do at the inn.
I glance at the rose illustration framed on the wall with 4G’s Chinese seal stamped in the corner, indicating his signature. He often drew the flowers, herbs, and roots he worked with. We keep it around us as a reminder of the long line of people we descend from who have helped others. Inspired, I sketch a chrysanthemum of my own in the margins of my recipe before getting to work.
I wrap an apron around my violet-colored dress and grab dried chrysanthemums and lavender buds from the apothecary cabinet, then move effortlessly through my recipe’s steps: mix the dough, steep the flowers, add honey. The custard filling proves to be a challenge. I haven’t gotten the ratio of evaporated milk and eggs quite right yet.
As I’m cracking eggs for a second batch of filling, I hear a door shut. It’s a little early for sessions to be over.
A blur of a human passes by the doorway. Vin?
He doubles back and storms into the kitchen.
“Are you looking for Leo? He just went into a session,” I say.
“Not Leo. Rose. Where is she?” Vin asks with an undercurrent of annoyance.
He has thin acupuncture needles sticking out of various points in his face, down his arms, and around his feet.
“Are you okay?” I ask, discarding an eggshell. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Rose just left me there,” he says, pointing behind him.
“Once she puts the needles in, you’re supposed to lie there for a while. She leaves to give you privacy. Did she explain that?” I ask.
Vin grunts. “Yes, but it’s been an hour at least.”
I glance at the clock. “Sessions started twenty minutes ago.”
“No way that’s true,” Vin says, holding his arms stiffly out in front of him. “I’m supposed to lie there? And do what?”
I wash my hands as Vin walks toward me, his entire body rigid.
“Some people fall asleep. You can meditate. You could try relaxing. You shouldn’t be moving around this much,” I tell him.
“No,” he says before adding a “thanks,” like he knows I’m the only one who can help him out of his situation right now.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “We always have scones on hand, or there’s lavender shortbread.” Yesterday’s recipe test.
“What’s that dough for?” Vin asks, distracted by my mess.
“It’s for the cooking show,” I say, remembering a question I had for him. It’s not the best time, but he also does need something from me…
“Thoughts on going with me?” I ask casually. “I thought we could use it as another way to be seen together. Keep up appearances.”
Vin’s entire body loosens by a tiny percentage, as though he’s forgotten his circumstances. Still, he hesitates. “Will there be cooking involved?” he asks.
“Considering it’s a cooking show, that would be a safe assumption,” I say, organizing the tart molds. “You can just pat the dough or something. Show off those wrists. Maybe wear that fancy watch.”
This gets a laugh out of Vin. “With all my new cooking skills?” he says. “Let me at least crack an egg.”
I smile. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”
Vin takes a whiff of my honey-lavender-chrysanthemum concoction and raises his eyebrows in a way that tells me he likes what he smells. “I don’t think so.”
“What? Why not?”
“The focus should be on you, not me. Or even us. This is your moment,” he says, frowning at me. “What’s wrong?”
My face feels scrunched with tension. “I just… I don’t want it to be all about me. What we do here is bigger than me, and it started with my aunties.” I add vanilla extract to the mixture. “I don’t really want to be alone on camera.”
“What about your aunties? Do they want to do it?” Vin asks.
I whisk the sweet-smelling filling. “They said they’d rather have their hearts broken all over again. They’re behind-the-scenes people.”
Vin taps his fingers along the countertop. “Oh. Then count me in.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t want to get in your way,” he says. “But if you’d like me to be there, then I’ll come.”
“Well, don’t get all the way in my way,” I joke.
“Spotlight’s all yours,” he says, smiling. “It’d be an honor to stand in your shadow.”
A warming sensation creeps up my neck while my heart throws itself against my chest. I glance at the stove, but the burners aren’t on. Nothing’s cooking. This is all me.
“Can I thank you with a cup of tea?” I offer.
“You can express your gratitude by getting these out of me,” he says, gesturing up and down his body.
He’s both flustered and impatient, two states of being that soften his typically hard features. It’s endearing, in a way.
“Okay, okay. Try to stay still,” I say, setting my whisk down. “I’ll help you remove them. Give me one second.”
I go back to Vin’s session room and grab a sharps container. Back in the kitchen, I approach Vin slowly as he stands stiffly in place. I guide him to the table, and we sit facing one another.
I start with his face, plucking out the needle between his eyebrows and behind one of his ears. Under his loose black T-shirt, his chest noticeably rises and falls.
“Did you do it yet?” he asks.
I show him the evidence. “It’s done.”
“Hmm,” he says. “I didn’t feel it.”
I drop the needles into the sharps container.
“These are hair-thin. When they’re inserted, you might feel a little zing and then tingling sensations. Some people don’t feel anything, though. Or it’s a dull sensation,” I explain.
“Then what’s the point if I can’t feel it?” he asks.
“Just because you can’t feel it doesn’t mean nothing’s happening,” I say. “We want to balance the flow of Qi in the body’s energy meridians. Get the blood circulating. There are hundreds of points, and we target the ones that correspond with what you’re experiencing. We’re treating the root causes of the pain or illness.”
“The pain’s in my arm. What does my face have to do with that?” Vin asks.
I jump at any opportunity to share more about what we do. “Usually, one point isn’t enough to do anything, so we combine points on a meridian. This is a common way to restore circulation. From the various points, I can see that Auntie Rose was targeting more than just your elbow pain. We can work on healing many health issues in each session. Auntie Rose knows there’s more going on with you.”
Vin laughs through his nose. “Is that why she asked me so many questions?”
I nod. “We want to understand not just what’s going on with you physically, but also emotionally and psychologically. It’s all about the mind-body connection. Even from just our short time together, I can tell that you likely experience anxiety and insomnia. Would you agree with that?”
On a reluctant-sounding exhale, Vin agrees.
“I’ll give you an example,” I say, pointing to the spot where I removed the needle between his eyebrows. He follows my finger with his eyes. “Yintang is an acupoint that can help relieve anxiety and stress, but also insomnia. There’s a lot of heat in this area that we want to clear out. Imbalances in the heart can cause anxiety and insomnia, so that’s what we want to regulate and help calm. And this point right here is called Large Intestine 11.” I remove the needle from the point located at the crease in his elbow.
“All the points relate to something specific?” Vin asks, surveying his body. “How do you remember what’s what, and where?”
“How do you play pieces without sheet music?” I ask.
One corner of his mouth pulls up into a half smile. He nods to himself, and then says to me, “I had a realization the other day.” Vin’s fingers tighten into fists, the muscles contracting up his forearms. “You inspire me,” he says as his eyes meet mine.
I slide the sharps container closer. “Me? How?”
“You were on this path in med school, but it wasn’t working for you,” Vin says. “Instead of forcing yourself to continue on, you transitioned into something you really love and that you’re passionate about. That was— you are —brave.”
“I don’t know if it was brave or necessary. I had to ask myself if anything was worth more than my health,” I say. “All I knew was that I couldn’t keep going down the path I was on. My body let me know that I had pushed myself too far, and I listened.”
I move on to the rest of the points along his arm. My eyes betray me as they take in Vin’s smooth skin, tracing the paths of his muscles and veins curving around his arms like ivy.
Vin watches me, like he’s studying my face for signs. Of what? I’m not sure.
He sucks in a sharp breath of air.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask.
“No. Is that… my music?” he asks, turning his head to find the source: my phone propped up on the counter. From its little speaker, classical music streams out at a low volume. He’s now relaxed enough to notice subtle sounds.
“You weren’t supposed to be in here right now, so I thought I’d do some catching up. Just in case anyone asks what my favorite song of yours is or something,” I justify.
And because when I can’t be around Vin himself, I’ve been finding other ways to be. It’s a new development that I’m not sure how to feel about. From the outside looking in, I know it looks like I’m becoming attached. Recording my podcast in his foamed-up room. Attempting to read the sheet music he leaves on the chairs as though it could bring me closer to what goes through his mind, even though I have no idea what each note sounds like. Listening to his music.
I almost burned a batch of scones last week looking at photos of us on my phone from the photoshoot. I’m acting like someone who has a crush, which I certainly do not . The fake relationship was—is—perfect exactly as it’s stated in its name. Fake. Pretend. Not real.
I tell myself I’m just getting to know my roommate. It’s for the betterment of everyone involved that we have a pleasant living situation while Leo heals. I talk myself into thinking that it doesn’t mean anything serious when Vin makes me rubbery eggs and dry blueberry muffins. That the secrets we’ve been trading are all part of creating a credible illusion.
I’ve almost convinced myself.
“This one sounds like classical, though. Don’t you guys do rock?” I ask. A new, way more energetic and intense song has started.
“This one’s Vivaldi’s Four Seasons . Summer, third movement.” Vin closes his eyes as he listens, his head making sharp jolts as though he’s performing it on a miniature scale.
“It’s like we’re back at the Prodigy Party all over again,” I say. “You stay away from the outlets.”
Vin smiles. “We rarely get to play these pieces anymore. I first heard it when I was six and immediately knew I was going to love playing it.”
“That’s not a sentence you hear every day,” I say. “In Vegas you mentioned wishing you got to play classical music more. Why don’t you?”
Vin takes a moment to respond. “We’re all about rock, and at this point, it fits our brand best,” he says with finality. “That’s what people come to see. We do try to put our own spin on the music we play.”
“Is that why you play the electric cello?”
“Yeah, that one’s fun to play. I also have a cello that was built in 1763. You can really hear the difference compared to modern cellos. There’s a rich depth of sound with it. It’s complex.” His eyes widen. “I’ll stop there before I start talking about how the strings used to be made out of animal intestines.”
It’s too sweet how excited Vin gets when he’s talking about music and old cellos.
“Anyway, we’ll be playing at some incredible historic venues on tour, and this song would be surreal to perform live,” he says. “One day, I’d love to play with various symphony orchestras around the world.”
“Right now it’s just you two?” I ask.
“Occasionally we have a drummer, but we arrange the music for just us two.” He thinks for a moment. “Leo and I get our names on the billboards, but to put on the type of shows we do, it pretty much takes an orchestra, as they say,” he says with a grin that quickly falls. “It’s why pushing rehearsals wasn’t so simple. Everyone who’s a part of this tour and their families rely on us to show up and do our job so that they can do theirs.”
I nod. That’s a lot of pressure to have so many people relying on you. My shoulders tighten at the thought of all the stress Vin carries. While I think this unexpected detour to the inn has some benefits for him, it’s also adding more weight to his already full plate.
“Anyway, with this one, I really am playing with an orchestra,” he says.
I actively listen to the song, noting the fluctuation of high and deep tones and the urgency present in every note. String instruments are played one after the other before they all come back together as one. Instead of just hearing an assortment of notes, I feel something. There’s a pull of excitement in my chest as my heartbeat quickens to match the rhythm.
I imagine the man in front of me playing this, and it gives me goose bumps. I’ve only caught glimpses of Vin playing at the Prodigy Party and then again on my laptop screen. I imagine the real thing must be spectacular.
“Whoa,” Vin says as I remove a needle from his wrist. “That spot felt… hot?”
“Nerve stimulation. That’s good. Gotta get that Qi moving,” I tell him. The last notes of the song fade away as it ends. “Wow. That was just… it’s beautiful. I’m sure it’s even more incredible live.” He smiles as I remove a few last needles from his ankles and do a quick check to make sure I got all of them. “You’re clear.”
“Thanks. My tendonitis flares up every now and then,” he says. “The first time was when we were in the middle of a tour and just getting started in our careers. I played through it.”
The thought of him in pain and pushing through it makes me ache.
“Physical injury can be the source of heartbreak for many people,” I tell him. “If you couldn’t play because of your arm pain, let’s say, but making music is a big part of your identity, you might start to feel aimless. Unfocused. Not good enough. Frustrated. You wouldn’t be doing something you love to the best of your ability. We’ve worked with ex–sports players who injured themselves to the point of no return on the field or the court. There’s heartbreak in that.”
Vin sighs. “Honestly, I’ve imagined that moment thousands of times. The moment it could all end. The potential performance anxiety. The unexplained vanishing of ability. So, yeah. That heartbreak I get.”
“You can do things differently this time. I’d like to help you if you’d let me,” I say. I reach for his arm, my hand landing on top of his wrist.
Vin’s eyes find mine. In even just three weeks, I can already see the small differences being here has had on him. His slowed-down demeanor. The way his hair is more tousled than tamed. One of many layers of exhaustion shed like an expired petal. A new openness to even consider acupuncture to begin with. A hairline crack in the perfection he strives for, whether he realizes it or not.
His mouth forms a firm line, but he nods. “Okay. I trust you.”
“We’ll try again tomorrow. Your tendons are inflamed, and acupuncture will create an anti-inflammatory response,” I explain. “We want to rebalance this area. Our job is to treat the cause. We want to help you prevent this, instead of always focusing on the cure.”
“And what does that look like?” Vin asks, holding eye contact.
I raise one eyebrow. “Things you probably don’t want to hear. More rest. More sleep. Relaxing for a change. Working on lowering your stress levels.”
“So, a full-on lifestyle change. Plus acupuncture, even though I hardly felt anything.”
“If you don’t want to keep pushing through the pain and risking this becoming chronic, yes,” I say. “You know how, when you listen to music, you can’t actually see the notes? Well, maybe you can, but people like me can’t. Acupuncture points are like music notes. Both are invisible, but they have an effect on the body. On our hearts. On our overall well-being. You may not always feel it in the moment, but they leave an impression.”
“Did you just relate acupuncture to music?” he says, his voice low. He leans in closer.
Vin’s lips aren’t in a firm line anymore. They’re curved slightly upward, and his body is relaxed.
“I figured that might really drive the point home,” I say, noticing my own voice softening. “Did it work?”
In our proximity, his thighs have found mine. It’s when he glances at his arm that I realize my fingers are still on his wrist. I don’t have to apply too much pressure to feel the rapid beat of his pulse.
He flips his hand so that the pads of my fingers fall onto his palm. I trace the lines until they reach his calloused fingertips. My fingers fold into his grasp, like we’re testing something out.
“I’d say so,” he says.
With my other hand, I unconsciously brush the one strand of hair that curls in on itself away from his forehead. Instead of bringing my arm back, I shock myself by stroking his cheek. I’m at ease in the quiet hum of the kitchen with the soothing sounds of classical music playing next to the stove, a honey-sweet mixture scenting the air.
Vin grunts and reaches forward, cupping my jaw in his hand. The act draws me toward him like a flower to the sun.
We bend forward in our chairs to close what’s left of the few inches between us, and our lips collide in a very different way than they did in Vegas. This kiss isn’t tentative. In fact, there’s no question about it. Vin glides his tongue over my bottom lip as I take his top one between my own. I run my hand down his neck to his chest, which is firm to the touch over the thin fabric of his T-shirt. His hand moves across my back, and my skin tingles at his touch.
Whatever this is isn’t for show. It’s just for us.
Vin kisses like a heartbreaker. When his tongue meets mine, he playfully flicks it before he pulls it back. He’s clearly as passionate when he kisses as he is when he plays. It’s no wonder he has a legendary status.
A thought pops into my mind that is so disruptive I can feel it all the way down in the depths of my chest. Do I like this man? My heart squeezes in response.
It’s official. I’ve caught feelings.
I sink into the kiss. If I’m going to be crushed, it might as well be fun.
Heat blooms across my chest, spreading to and stimulating every corner of my body.
I want to experience his body pressed against mine, to know what his heartbeat feels like against my own. Before we have a chance to, I hear Vin’s name being called out. Or is that me saying his name?
It’s me. I’m saying his name.
But it’s also someone else.
The voice grows louder, and we fling ourselves back against our chairs as Auntie Rose steps into the kitchen.
“There you are,” she says, huffing in exasperation. “Why are you out here? And where are the needles?”
“He couldn’t sit still,” I say, stealing a glance at him. There’s a light pink coloring his cheeks. I didn’t realize Vin Chao was capable of blushing.
Auntie Rose eyes the space between us, probably noting our poor attempt to make it look like we haven’t just been making out.
“Practicing?” she asks.
“She was explaining acupuncture to me,” Vin says, covering for us.
Auntie Rose sighs. “I meant the other kind of practicing.”
I follow her gaze to Vin’s hand where my fingers are still intertwined with his.
We pull our arms back at the same time. “Oh. Yeah,” I say. “We’re very committed to making this plan work.”
Auntie Rose just waves her hand over her head as she turns and leaves the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
Vin reaches for me again. I don’t object. As my skin burns under his touch, my brain floods with oxytocin. Mind-body connection.
Then Vin stands, and I do, too. When he leads me to the back door, down the steps, and toward the Dandelion, I follow.