5 Adam
5 Adam
H ? Chí Minh City, Vi ? t Nam
two weeks later
It physically pains Adam to be late for anything. Lateness means that you lost control of time. That you swerved away from
carefully laid plans into a terrain of chaos and melting watches, like one of those trippy Dalí landscapes. When he runs even
a few minutes past an agreed-upon hour, he can feel the self-disappointment needling under his rib cage, sharp and punishing.
But today, the lateness can’t be helped. The elder Quy ? n—Ba, to Adam and Ruby—calls just as he is leaving the LYT offices, as if he knows exactly which timing will inconvenience
Adam most. The purpose of the call is the usual buffet of pleasantries: Ba berating the company’s lack of investors, questioning
Adam’s financial projections, wondering if he will be attending his mother’s sixty-fifth birthday gala in the fall, a monstrously
extravagant event at which Lana and her fiancé will surely appear. In any case, Adam’s input is reduced to a series of apologetic
grunts.
Ba doesn’t like to talk with his children; he likes to talk at them. Usually, the conversation would last an indeterminate amount of time, until Ba ran out of oxygen or tobacco for his
pipe, but tonight is the night of the tour welcome festivities, so Adam hastily ends the call first, hearing an echo of belligerence
down the line as he taps the phone off.
Ruby has been welcoming the guests all day at the hotel, but Adam, like a coward, hunkered down in his office with a giant coffee and a silenced cell phone until the very last minute. Social events aren’t a draw for him unless there’s a specific purpose for them. She’ll have his head if he misses the welcome cocktail hour too.
He hasn’t picked up his dry cleaning yet, but there’s just enough time if traffic isn’t too congested. The only thing worse
than being late is being underdressed.
He pulls his leather driving jacket over his button-down, hops on his motorbike, and enters the long stream of cabs and motorbikes
in District 2. He hopes that he can screech in front of the dry cleaners right before they close. The smog hangs low, a crepe
sheet over the street, twining around the motorists and sedans. His helmet shield begins to fog from the humidity.
Just a few more blocks. The minutes are counting down. This dry cleaner never, ever stays open a moment past closing time.
He revs the engine, earning an obscene gesture from a granny with a flower cart, and starts to make a turn toward a back-alley
shortcut.
At that moment, a woman in a hot-pink dress steps into the street, leaning down to scoop something into her arms. Adam slams
on the brakes with a loud screech and a gust of putrid diesel, earning a surprised look as the woman glances up with a pair
of uncommonly large, prolifically lashed brown eyes. Then, almost without thinking, Adam pivots his motorbike so it forms
a fenced blockade around her bent body. Drivers and bikers honk past them, then wind back into formation, leaving Adam with
a humming engine and a thunderous heart rate. But now he’s stuck between the sidewalk and the ceaseless flow of traffic, consigned
to watching the woman nonchalantly amble back onto the sidewalk with—what is that—a rooster?
She smiles— grins —and gives a little wrist-twiddling wave, the irate rooster squawking in her arms. “Xin l ? i, Chú.”
Chú?
That’s the last straw. This clueless woman used the honorific reserved for mole-speckled great-uncles with rheumy eyes and a penchant
for dried tamarind. Adam considers himself at least a decade away from chú-dom.
He pulls the bike out of traffic, removes his helmet, and yells, “What the hell are you thinking?”
She frowns, patting the wriggling rooster in her arms. “This guy wandered onto the road.”
Now that he’s closer, he can see that she’s youngish—his age—with dark hair and petal-pink lips and an impractical dress that
rides up her distractingly long legs. But he won’t be pulled in by her looks. He can spot her kind a mile away—a Vi ? t Ki ? u, one of those loud, indecorous Vietnamese Americans who come looking for a cheap vacation without bothering to learn a single
thing about the culture they left behind. Who else would interrupt traffic for an animal that had probably ambled off the
chopping block to begin with, expecting people to part like the Red Sea for her? The idiocy. The entitlement.
He switches to English. “So you wandered in with him? Do you know how insane that is? This is Vi ? t Nam. Any other motorist would have run you over.”
“But the rooster—”
“Was going to be someone’s dinner anyway.”
She squints at the clucking mass in her arms. “He seems kind of scrawny for a meal.”
“That’s because he’s not full of GMOs,” Adam begins, then shakes his head. Why is he getting so distracted? Her eyes blink
innocently at him. He returns to his tirade. “That’s not the point! Why would you risk your life for something so stupid?
My life, for that matter?”
Her face clouds, nonchalance finally broken. “Listen here, you leather-clad Lothario. There was plenty of clearance between
me and the street.”
“Centimeters,” he retorts. “Inches, to you.”
Why is he arguing with her? Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the way she stands with a hip jutting out, that ridiculous bony rooster
still in her arms, that furious look in her eyes. He wants to push her buttons, the way she pushed his. Anger puts the fire in his blood. He senses the same stubbornness in her that
he has, and it lights him up inside. A challenge.
And she doesn’t back down. “Anyone with eyeballs could see that it was going to be just fine. You were clearly overreacting.”
“Excuse me? I saved your life.”
“To save a life, it would have to be in danger in the first place. Look, Chú—”
He grits his teeth.
She continues, “I’ll thank you for your unnecessary help, but now, why don’t you hop back on your little bike”—here, she makes
a dismissive gesture with her fingertips—“and go back to terrorizing people on the streets?”
“Little bike,” he sputters. His Kawasaki is his pride and joy. He’s put in many weekend hours cleaning and upgrading it with
custom treatments and paint. It is the only one of its kind.
Then, before he can complete his thought, a vendor in a blood-splattered apron with a cleaver stalks onto the street, cornering
them. The young woman in pink backs away, trying to offer the struggling rooster to the vendor, who shouts in a string of
profanity-laced Vietnamese. The rooster’s flapping sends up a flurry of red-gold feathers before it deflates, resigned to
its fate.
The young woman stares down at the bird, now a limp mess of wing and scaly claw in her arms. Chagrined, she asks, “Is it playing
dead?”
Again, another flurry of Vietnamese from the vendor, each syllable climbing in decibels so that curious pedestrians slow their
stride to stare.
Adam suppresses his laughter. “She’s saying you owe her sixty ?? ng for her rooster. Among other things.”
“Sixty ?? ng?” Panic dances across her face.
He shrugs. “A bit high, you’re right. You could always haggle the price down.”
“But I don’t want it. What am I going to do with a goddamn rooster?”
“Should have thought of that before you nearly killed yourself for it.”
With one last glance at her seething expression, he smirks and hops back on his bike, returning her finger-waggling wave mockingly
as she opens her mouth, fuming. By now, the traffic has cleared marginally, and he zips back into it, making his way down
the side alley he was originally aiming for. A burble of laughter emerges in his throat. When was he last so irritated and
amused at the same time?
Even as he rides farther and farther from the woman, he can’t help but think of her furrowed brow, that really short pink dress, the damn rooster. Whoever she was, she at least kept his evening from complete, soul-crushing boredom.
Small mercies.
Minutes later, he squeezes into the dry-cleaning shop just as the owner gets up to change the sign. The little bell dings
as he enters. It’s nearly dinnertime, and he can see the children in the store hopping all over the shop owner, their mother
or grandmother, ready to go home. Holding up his hands in a gesture of apology, Adam fumbles for his receipt. The owner, an
older woman with a tight bun, appraises him in silence, eyeing his expensive watch, the foppish way his hair falls over one
eyebrow.
“Payment?” she asks, her voice monotone.
He never feels more like a bumbling kid than when he falls under the gaze of a retail auntie, that terrifying mixture of sweet-faced
pleasantry and blade-sharp negotiation. “For your trouble, Auntie,” he says, handing over the money along with a large tip.
She gives a quick snort before handing him his freshly laundered and ironed shirts and slacks. “I wouldn’t be troubled if
you didn’t come at closing time,” she huffs.
Adam should be accustomed to this by now, the way the aunties and uncles eye him in disapproval, pegging him as a playboy
before he’s even spoken, but it still smarts, to be seen as a black sheep before you’ve even opened your mouth.
Sometimes it’s easier to play into those beliefs. Don’t let them have the chance to pierce that armor.
But nevertheless, Adam remembers his manners and says with a small bow, “Thank you, Auntie. And good evening.”
He leans down to ruffle the hair of one of the young children at his feet, a boy who looks up with a beaming, hero-worshipping
smile. One secret: Adam adores children, and they, for all his stony posturing, are drawn to him like moths to flame. He hopes
Ruby and Th?ng will have children soon, so he can spoil them, though he can’t imagine Th?ng as a father.
He flicks the kids each a coin. “Be good for your family.”
The kids stare at their coins, then the boy holds his back up. “You keep it. You need this more than we do.”
The shop owner smirks before inclining her head toward the door, a not-so-subtle reminder that he’s interrupted her evening.
Adam doesn’t know why he bothered dry-cleaning his clothes, since he’ll only have to shove them into his suitcase for the
tour, but it’s like habit to him now, all these little things you do to get through life. Routine, order. Schedules he thrives
on. You attend the family dinners, where your mother questions you relentlessly about your love life and your father grunts
disapprovingly through each course. Grab a beer with your friend who finds your impending participation in a matchmaking tour
both uproarious and unbelievable. Get the dry cleaning, because you’re still the CMO of your sister’s business and must make
a good impression at tonight’s welcome dinner, and every day thereafter on the matchmaking tour of your nightmares.
Inside the hotel lobby, the lights are dim and the music is quiet, elegant. It’s a contrast to the roil of emotion in his
stomach. He follows the signs for Love Yêu Tours, then enters a room with wall-to-wall carpeting decorated in whorls of gold
and an immense crystal chandelier. There’s a steady hum of conversation, polite yet bristling with built-up tension. As it
should be before a matchmaking tour.
Already the crowd has separated into smaller groups, everyone evaluating each other, silently labeling viable candidates.
He sees Ruby frowning at him, tapping on her watch face as she speaks to a woman with a shoulder-length bob. There are about
twenty men and women in the room, evenly dispersed by gender, all wearing the same cocktail dresses and slacks, their smiles
awkward but hopeful. They’re all attractive and, Adam realizes, entirely forgettable.
Not that it matters. He’s here on business, not on any sparkly quest for love.
Adam knows he should introduce himself and socialize, but instead, he veers right toward the bar.
He leans over to the young man pouring drinks and says in Vietnamese, “I’ll have a gin and tonic. Extra limes. Extra cold.”
“He will not,” says an annoyed voice to his left, in Vietnamese as well.
The crowd here is composed of expats and native-born men and women, but the assumption is that all Love Yêu activities are
conducted in English. Easiest for all involved, though the majority of the clients are bilingual, at least.
Standing next to him is a tall woman wearing the shortest, skimpiest dress he’s ever seen. It’s hot pink, made of some cheap
spandex, and hugs her curves intimately, skimming her waist and cleavage plastered on display. With a start, he realizes—it’s
the rooster woman.
He doesn’t know how he could have missed her in the room. Her long hair sweeps over one shoulder and toward her waist, curling
slightly at her forehead from the damp weather. Begrudgingly, he makes note of her lush features, the soft flush spreading
across her cheeks.
Ah , he thinks, trying to ignore the sizzle of attraction in his gut. Of fucking course.
“You cut me in line,” she continues. “You can wait your damn turn. Or are you not accustomed to polite society?”
He blinks. She blinks back at him slowly, mockingly. Adam tries not to notice that her eyes are a gorgeous honey color, lit
deeply from the inside and ringed by thick lashes. She has a tiny freckle below her left eye, offset like a cascading star.
Without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
And she probably knows it , he says to himself with a scowl.
“Where’s your rooster?” he asks in English, watching recognition dawn in her eyes.
To her credit, she doesn’t miss a beat as she switches languages. “Where’s the chip on your shoulder?”
“Do you know who I am?” The words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them. What. An. Asshole.
“No clue,” she says in a bored tone. She turns to the bartender with a dazzling smile that makes Adam’s stomach clench, despite
himself. “I’ll take that glass of riesling now.”
The baffled bartender hands over her wine, and she takes a large glug. A tiny drop lingers on her lips. Adam stares down at her, mesmerized and irritated at the same time.
“I’m the CMO of Love Yêu,” he says haughtily.
“Am I supposed to be impressed by that?” she asks with an upward tick of her mouth.
“I don’t like to wait.”
“That makes two of us.”
She drops a tip in the bartender’s glass and turns on her heel—wearing a pair of rugged combat boots instead of the expected
stilettos, Adam notes—melding into a group of women who seem to part for her, as if stunned by her too.
He feels a flicker of vexation in his stomach, mixed with something more puzzling. A sense of nerves? Anticipation? When he
looks at her, he sees a woman accustomed to getting everything she wants. Judging from her accent—another spoiled American.
A brat looking for another moneybags benefactor. Adam doesn’t have patience for women like that. Never has.
And yet. He can’t take his eyes off her.
The bartender asks, “Do you want that gin and tonic now?”
Adam nods, reaching for the cold glass, but his gaze bores into the mystery woman’s back across the room. If his job is to
make a good impression, Adam knows he’s already failed. He’s supposed to be charming and engaging. Instead? He’s grimacing
darkly at one of the well-paying Love Yêu clients, wishing he could corner her to give her a piece of his mind. He tries to
ignore the thought of the things he’d do to her if they did make their way to that dark corner. First, he’d start with licking that drop of wine right off her smug lips. Then...
As if reading his thoughts, she turns and gives him a slow, maddening wink that renders him temporarily, unexpectedly breathless.