28 Evie
28 Evie
H ? i An, Vi ? t Nam
After Adam drops her off at the estate, he disappears without another word. Not that she expects him to linger. He said that
he loved her—and she said nothing back. She wanted to. Has thought the words privately since their time in the caves—probably before that. But how can she say anything now,
knowing his future is so tenuous? He quit his high-paying job to help Ruby with Love Yêu. Without his father’s money, could
the business really fold? And will Adam be left without prospects?
He’s more than his job to her, but does he know that? She can’t make that decision for him.
She peeks out onto the patio, with its clusters of tea lights and a stone railing that looks over the water, now glowing with
the moon’s reflection. Pin winds his arm around Talia, who rests her head on his shoulder. Another couple strolls the beach,
gesturing animatedly as they talk. Before this trip, Evie had scoffed at the thought of falling in love on the tour, thinking
it another one of Auntie H ? o’s outsized whims. A joke from beyond the grave. But now, having spent weeks here—weeks falling, no matter how reluctantly,
for Adam Quy ? n—Evie understands it’s no joke. The most surprising stories are the ones that sneak up on you, testing every preconceived
notion of what you want and what you think you deserve.
Surprise. Adventure. All the romance she could possibly hold in her cold little heart. That’s exactly what she got here, with
Love Yêu.
But it’s under threat. How long could LYT sustain themselves without Mr. Quy ? n’s money? They are still a start-up, wedged in that dreadfully precarious make-or-break period when even the most minor financial
setback could imperil everything they’ve built. The work is just beginning. Without the safety net of money from the investors,
they could just as easily flounder, another passionate company taken down by their own ambition. Or in this case, the vindictiveness
of one stony-faced investor.
How could she live with being the one who made these tours come to a screeching halt? Love Yêu isn’t just a sound business
idea. It’s a chance for people to find the one thing missing from their lives. Before, Evie might have dismissed that notion
as sentimental codependency. Empty marketing lingo. Now she thinks there’s nothing more sacred.
Adam told her he wouldn’t leave Vi ? t Nam. And she can’t leave America. So why not just end it here before the heartache starts? Save them both some pain. It
hurt when things ended with Atlas, and she cares for Adam more after the few weeks they’ve spent in each other’s company than
the year she’s known Atlas. The pain will be exponentially worse if she and Adam go much further.
She escapes to her room, plopping against one of the six fluffy pillows lining the headboard. Is it just her imagination or
has the mattress gotten even softer and plusher? It feels like sinking into the downy bellies of a thousand swans. Say what
you want about the Quy ? ns—and boy, could she—but they understand the value of quality bedding.
Once settled, she takes out her phone and scrolls to the last photo she has of Auntie H ? o. Perhaps it’s nostalgia; perhaps it’s something more pressing. She’s overwhelmed with the longing to hear Auntie H ? o’s voice. What she wouldn’t give to sit across from her while they sip thimblefuls of vodka, gossiping about everyone and
everything. She wants to rewind back to when things were light. When she wasn’t so alone.
In her albums, she discovers a picture of her and Auntie H ? o grinning underneath a string of fairy lights. It makes her eyes spark with tears immediately. That night. That perfect night
of love and hope and safety.
It had been last summer—before they learned about the cancer. Before Atlas, before the various failures. When her book had appeared on a couple most-anticipated lists, gaining tentative acclaim. Auntie H ? o had thrown a “little party” in her house in honor of Evie’s fledgling success, but in true Auntie H ? o style, it had been far more lavish than the intimate soiree she initially promised. There was a bossa nova band. An executive
chef from the Mission’s most up-and-coming restaurant blowtorched individual ramekins of ube crème br?lée. (Later, he got
so irritated that one of the guests hadn’t finished his crème br?lée that he threatened to blowtorch the curtains, an act
Evie hastily prevented with a liberal heaping of compliments and a very large absinthe drip.) Auntie H ? o’s fabulous writer and artist friends feted Evie, dropping wet kisses on her cheeks and twirling her around the room like
a proud little top. But Auntie H ? o had been proudest of all.
Toward the end of the night, Auntie H ? o stood on a long wooden table, stretching her arms up to the ceiling in her dramatic way. In one hand, she held a coupe glass
of sloshing, sparkling champagne. Her snow-white hair curled artfully around her face while her silk caftan swished against
a pair of embroidered red slippers. Evie would always remember the detail of those slippers. Phoenixes taking flight from
an apricot bush.
“My niece is, in a few words...” Auntie H ? o announces, “...better than yours.”
The room erupted into laughter while Evie blushed scarlet. Someone thumped her on the back.
“Evie Lang is a name you should memorize. She’s going to be one of our greatest treasures in American letters. I’m sure many
of you remember the summers she spent in San Francisco as a girl. Her gifts bloomed here. And mark my words, one day, she’ll
be back in our arms again. And we will welcome her with all our hearts.”
“Hear, hear!” the crowd yelled, taking mighty glugs while beaming smiles toward Evie.
And amidst it all, Auntie H ? o’s fond face, full of pride. With all our hearts.
As the echoes of that memory die away, wetness soaks onto Evie’s cheeks. She misses Auntie H ? o in a way that’s bigger than just the one loss—though it is in itself a momentous heartache. Losing Auntie H ? o has been like losing her father all over again. Without them, with only Evie’s practical mother to guide her, she is adrift.
Perhaps she has been adrift for longer than she’s been able to admit.
In bed, she tosses and turns. It’s midnight before her eyelids finally shut against the events of the day. She sleeps dreamlessly,
though restlessly.
The next morning, the dense heat of the sun crowding against her eyelids, she reluctantly pulls herself from bed. Despite
the swan-belly bedding, there’s a crick in her neck. Her phone dings with countless text messages.
From Fen, a selfie of her and Mei in front of a tarmac with the message: Back to China, baby. Landed a big part. Mei’s going to be my spoiled housecat. My father and his money can suck it.
Evie smiles at that and pulls a brush through her hair.
From Atlas: So? I’m waiting on tenterhooks for two answers now, my love. You really know how to keep a lad speculating.
... Forget I called myself a lad. Too much London. Too little Evie.
Hmm. That earns a frown from her. What the hell does he mean? And why can’t he speak like a normal person if he wants an answer?
(Or two, evidently.)
She pulls on a midi skirt with a tank top and espadrilles. Sooner or later, she’ll have to brush her teeth and greet Adam’s
parents. Bid them goodbye and extend a heartfelt thank-you for hosting the lot of them. The tour group will be driving to
? à N ? ng, after which they’ll hop on a private plane to H ? i Phòng, then a final transfer to H ? Long Bay, where they’ll sail the gorgeous emerald waters and visit the floating villages. She’s been looking forward to H ? Long Bay. In part, she admits, because she wants to see the sights with Adam.
After last night, though, she doesn’t know where they’ve landed. He said he loves her. That alone should have filled her completely. To be loved by a man like him should have been enough. More than enough.
But there’s Ruby’s conversation. The risk of all they would have to relinquish for an unsteady foundation for their relationship.
Is it worth it? Is love worth it?
She glances down at a string of texts from Lillian: Holy effin’ hell. Have you checked your email?!
E? I’m dying here.
You better be dead or in SERIOUS HARM. Literally the only excuses I will accept. Remember what I said about Liam Neeson?
Plus a cluster of skull emojis.
Mystified, Evie taps her mail icon and sees the flurry of unread emails. Hundreds; way, way more than she ever gets, even
in the midst of grading season, when students are anxious to turn those D’s into C’s. Some of the emails are from her agent,
some from a former editor; lots and lots from publicity teams. The subject lines are variations on “Congrats!!” Her agent
sends her a link to a podcast with the words LISTEN NOW .
Puzzled, she clicks on the link. Within minutes, she learns that the former First Lady of the United States—a dignified and
well-read woman Evie admires to no end and secretly wishes had run the country—mentioned one of her poems on a podcast. The one called “Lake’s Last Hope,” an old favorite. In the poem, there’s an extended metaphor about breaking
the ice to reveal racism in an increasingly fraught world. It had lightly but powerfully tackled issues of immigration and
erasure. Her editor had questioned whether the poem needed to be included in a collection that was otherwise focused on personal
narrative, but Evie insisted. It had felt timely. Politically prescient.
And now it had, apparently, become a very rare beast: a viral poem.
The First Lady’s offhanded comment resulted in a renewed interest in her work. A resharing, retweeting, re-everythinging. Thousands of likes streamed into her dormant social media account. A wildly popular morning show began recommending her book as a top, buzzy read, even though it had been published a year ago. People were inviting her to speak on panels again—panels she had summarily been rejected from earlier in the year. Journalists wanted to know what it felt like to be quoted by the former First Lady.
Most important, her publisher wanted to know if she had another book in her. They were eager—nay, desperate—to see how soon
they could get another volume of poetry out. And, peeking at her recent royalty statement, she can see why. The numbers are...
startling. Never one to say no to a stray dollar or two in her account, Evie is now seeing figures that boggle her mind.
Then, most recently, there’s an email from Atlas, using his official department head email and lingo. Midland College is offering
her a bigger and better position than the one she has recently been fired from. He apologizes on behalf of the College of
the Humanities for their oversight, says that there is money in the academic coffers again, should she choose to rejoin them
for a reduced teaching load and a higher salary.
It is... the dream.
And it has all been happening in the past few days when she’s been too caught up in cave-side trysts to contemplate her (usually
flailing) career. But now, if she says the word, she can have it all, and for real this time. The fame, the kudos. The backstage
catering table at the big-name talk shows. Plus, an actual professor title. She could ride this to the top.
But instead of shooting back a thousand “yes please!” emails, she sinks into a chair. Holds her phone away from her as if
it’s a serpent ready to spring. None of it makes sense. Isn’t this what she wanted? What she’d have cut off her left arm for?
Why, then, does this dull sense of resignation pound in her veins?
It’s as if any semblance of choice has been taken from her. She wants everything offered—the book deals, the interviews, the everything . And she wants Adam. But she can’t have both, and she won’t be the woman who chooses a man over a career she’s worked a decade to build.
Her life in America is calling her back, and even though she’s dragging her feet, she knows it’s only a matter of time before
she answers.
It’s nine p.m. in Ohio. Lillian picks up almost immediately. “Are you dead? Maimed?”
“I’m just not a phone person,” Evie answers, her voice shaking with laughter.
“She’s not a phone person. She says she’s not a phone person!”
“Things have changed, huh?”
“Evie Lang, the queen of understatements. I could not believe when I heard the former First Lady talking about you. I was plucking my eyebrows, for God’s sake! It shocked me so much that
I plucked into my arch.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You and me both; my brow girl will not be pleased. You can make it up to me once you collect your millions and pay for some
eyebrow implants. Is that a thing?”
“It should be.”
Lillian continues, “And then the next day, I couldn’t go anywhere on Instagram without someone posting your words on some
snowy background. Tagging that sorry excuse for an account that you have. Then Graham tells me that the department wants you back big-time. Atlas is spinning around campus, waiting for your answer.”
When a light knock sounds on her door, Evie goes to answer it. “Hold on, Lillian.”
“She says hold on!” Lillian replies sarcastically.
There’s no one there. Instead, she nearly trips over a bouquet of flowers in a vase that’s hardly large enough to contain
them. They’re pretty, if gaudy. There’s a card attached. Atlas.
Evie sighs. “I think Atlas wants to get back together. Remember how he wanted to keep our thing a secret?”
“Some secret. I didn’t tell Graham, but somehow he knew. The lunch ladies in the cafeteria knew. That guy at the Piggly Wiggly who you think is always giving you the stink eye? Pretty sure he was fully aware.”
“Huh. Anyway, now Atlas seems to want to have a real relationship—out in the open, presumably sanctioned by the college HR
gods!”
“Nothing like a mountain of paperwork to scream ‘I want you back.’ What are you going to say? To both questions?”
“No to getting back together. The man talks like Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Evie rolls her eyes, even though she knows her cousin can’t see her. “It’s not a bad thing if you’re Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“Fair enough. And the other question?”
“The job. I would be insane to turn it down, right?”
“You know you would be. So why are you hesitating, fair cousin?”
Evie sighs. “You know that grumpy CMO I mentioned on the tour? Well, I might have, well, slept with him. A few times.”
There’s silence on the other end. Then Lillian repeats slowly, “A few times.”
“In a cave. Outside a hut on the beach—well, that wasn’t so much sex as heavy petting? And a library. That was sex.”
“Well, well, well.” Now there’s a hint of amusement coming from the other end of the line. “And you thought the matchmaking
tour wouldn’t work.”
“All right, Lawyer I-Told-You-So, not helpful. The problem is, it worked too well.”
“Meaning?”
“Lill, I love him. I’m kind of, sort of, definitely head over heels for him. Would walk into an ocean for him. Would ride his motorbike
with him until we’re hot and sweaty and—”
“Oh, well, you didn’t mention the motorbike,” Lillian says playfully. “That changes everything.”
“Unfortunately, nothing changes at all.”
Evie describes her plight with Adam, leaving out no detail about her argument with Mr. Quy ? n and Ruby’s aside. She talks about the constant push and pull. How nothing is simple with them. And yet, everything can be
so good .
“My friend Fen—” Evie begins.
“You have a new friend? I’m trying not to be jealous.”
“Fen says that sometimes you have to work to make your own riding-off-into-the-sunset situation. She’s of the Auntie H ? o school of ‘love bravely.’”
Lillian makes an understanding noise, but says, “I think it’s easy to say that if you’re someone like Auntie H ? o, who lived alone all her days and never risked a thing for anyone.”
“So you’re not of the love bravely school, I take it?”
“Oh, Evie,” Lillian says. “I don’t know. Love is like... a buffet.”
“Come again?”
“I mean, imagine that there are all these different kinds of love on display, okay? Each one gets its own dish, all lined
up for you to choose from. There’s the passionate, heady, fuck-against-a-hut kind of love.”
“I regret telling you that.”
“Hut love is wild and sublime, but it tears you open. It’s risky. It could give you indigestion.”
“Lillian, please,” Evie groans.
“Stay with me. Then there’s the slow-burn kind of love, where you start out as friends and steadily become something more.
It’s comfortable, like a quilt on a really cold day. It’s safe and dependable. That’s what Graham and I have. You and Atlas
had that too, at one point—”
“Until the plot twist where he fired me.”
“Do I wish I’d had a peek at the hut love? Sure, maybe a little. But I think people who say that love is pain think there’s
only one kind of love out there to choose from. So just remember that. You get a choice.”
“All I have to do now is choose, right?”
“Easier said than done, I know.”
“I love you, Lill.”
“Even after you get incredibly rich and famous? You’ll still remember the little people?”
“Only if you never talk to me about hut love again.”
“My word is my vow.”
After they hang up, Evie opens the side door, the one leading to a balcony that looks out onto the sea. The room feels emptier
without Fen’s mess, her voice interrupting Evie’s thoughts. Today, the water is calm, and the sky no longer overcast.
Yesterday, she climbed all 156 steps up the Thuy Son summit in the Marble Mountains to reach the very top. Some of the steps
had been slippery, but she made it up there just in time to see the sun set over the rich green valley, highlighting the limestone
surfaces of the other summits, along with the unraveling city with its flat roofs and ribbons of traffic.
She’d stood at the peak, feeling as if she had flown all the way up on wings. Knowing she did it on her own. Right then, she
sat in the dying light and began to write, even as tourists streamed around her, clamoring for the best photo opportunity.
She ignored them, in a world of her own. Words and images fell from her pen. She was able to sink into her imagination again,
the way she had when she was writing Auntie H?o’s Cabinet of Curiosities . Only this time, there was an even deeper connection with her heritage. It was as if she’d been able to finally peel back
all the onion-layers of her heart, to find her way to the beating center.
She loves Adam. She knows this. But she also loves poetry and the life she has in America. She’s experienced love. She even
learned to love bravely. But now? Now it’s time to go home. To release Adam back to the life he’s built, even if she won’t
be a part of it. Hot tears gather at the edges of her eyes. She brushes them away.
Beyond the ocean, the cry of a seabird rises, then falls in an elegy of heartbreak. It knows what’s coming. She watches the
bird dip into the ocean, brushing the water’s surface with an angled wing. Then it’s gone again, beyond the horizon. She goes
back inside and composes an email to Atlas.