32 Evie
32 Evie
San Francisco, California
It’s a gorgeous fall day in Little Saigon, with shoppers streaming in and out of small businesses—the nail salons, sandwich
shops, tailors, and acupuncturists. The breeze coming off the Bay is gentle yet insistent, prompting the aunties and uncles
to unearth their hats and gloves, unaccustomed to the cold even after so many years away from Vi ? t Nam.
The regular chess players, old men with their hands fisted into the pockets of their army jackets, gather around a card table
perched perilously close to the road. They hover over every move, jostling each other to get a better view of the board. They
are full of opinions about each play, pointing and cackling as the moment demands. Meanwhile, their wives frown from inside
hair salons, watching the slide of money from one hand to the next.
“You better not be betting again, old man,” one older, very short woman calls from the doorway of a salon. Her red nails drum
against the frame.
“Ch ? i ? i! Who bets on a game of chess?” another woman adds, from inside the salon.
One of the men on the street waves his hand dismissively. “Mind your own business, Bà.”
“Your gambling is my business,” the first lady returns, hands now moving to her hips.
The man reaches into his pocket for a lighter to light a cigar. “Isn’t it time for your hair appointment? You look like phù
th ? y without it.”
Evie hides a smile. He’d called his wife a witch.
A huff of indignation from the wife. “What’s it say that you married me, then, asshole?”
“That I like charity work.” He hoots, slapping his knee.
There’s a long pause. Then, like fireworks, bursts of laughter erupt from the street and the salon. Just before the salon
door slams, the wife shakes her head, a tiny upward tick of her mouth hinting at her own amusement. The chess play goes on.
It’s a world unto itself, full of activity and loud conversation, right here in the Tenderloin. A mix of English and Vietnamese,
though the ratio is more firmly weighted toward Vi ? t. The sound of the language fills Evie with a longing so intense that she bites her lip to keep from shivering. She pulls
her trench closer.
That morning, she woke up with an urge for a bowl of h ? ti ? u, and knew she had to go to the closest source. She missed the sound of Vietnamese voices, the smell of cinnamon-laced broth
and fresh, baking bread. She missed Vi?t Nam . Here, among the crowd of people, she’s easily taken back to her days on the tour—days that changed her forever. She finds
herself thinking about mornings looking out at the South China Sea past the roil of waves and the smoldering sunrise. Stone
steps winding up ancient temples full of her father’s heritage— her heritage.
That she’s here today, in Little Saigon, tells her that Auntie H ? o’s plan worked in at least one way. Perhaps Evie didn’t walk away with a relationship. But she came back to the States feeling
a sense of dual citizenship to both America and Vi ? t Nam in her heart, if not in the legal sense. For that, she sends up another burst of gratitude to Auntie H ? o. Like a kiss, a brief breeze touches her cheek. She can’t help thinking it’s a celestial reply.
After her breakfast of tapioca noodles in a deep, porky broth, she finds herself lingering on the street. She loves the row
house, but it often feels like an echo chamber. It’s much too big for one person, though she has promises of visitors from Midland and beyond. Fen and Mei have vowed to come around the winter holidays. Lillian has booked a trip over Thanksgiving, already planning their itinerary around the food spots she wants to introduce Evie to.
Despite the richness of her life, Evie is uncertain about the future. Her newest book ekes out of her word by word. She spends
three times as long editing a poem as she does writing it. Her editor is happy with the work in progress, already excited
about the memoir that will come next. Usually, the pressure would have incapacitated Evie, but not this time. Perhaps it’s
because she’s already known what it feels like to lose everything, as she did earlier in the summer when she lost her job,
and the year before, when she lost her beloved aunt. When you’ve sunk to your lowest, every step forward feels like an ascension.
Evie remains busy through readings and conferences, and even a weekly workshop for teens at the local community center where
fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds troop into the carpet-tiled room with undisguised excitement, all energy and voice and big
ideas. They inspire Evie. She spends more time than she should preparing for each class. She takes them to poetry slam readings
and introduces them to her newly acquired West Coast poet friends. Throughout this experience, she finds that she does have
an aptitude for teaching—just not within the confines of academia. Plus, teens are fun .
And yet. Her heart hasn’t fully healed. The next part of her future is one she’s not quite equipped to handle.
Maybe that’s why when she passes a tiny woman standing in front of a dark shop, Evie pauses, a question in her eyes. There’s
something about the woman that catches Evie’s attention. She wears round glasses low on her nose, her cheeks rosy-red and
plump as a child’s, though she looks to be at least in her sixties. Her hair is that gorgeous silvery color perfected by Asian
grannies, waving around her face in a fluffy blowout. She looks nothing like Auntie H ? o, but she exudes a mischievous warmth that immediately makes Evie feel at home.
“Come in for a reading?” the woman asks. She steps closer to Evie and looks deep into her eyes.
“Well—”
“Fiftypercent off for the lost girl.”
The lost girl. Something about her phrasing makes Evie want to cry.
She notices the cardboard sign hanging inside the window. BEST PSYCHIC IN LITTLE SAIGON. Evie’s never been a superstitious sort. She opens her mouth to decline politely, but then the woman gives her a nod that
feels at once so reassuring and promising that Evie follows her into the building.
The furniture sits low to the ground—a coffee table with cushions surrounding it, knock-off Tiffany-style table lamps that
emit a murky golden light, a plastic swivel-headed fan placed in the corner of the room. Evie smells joss sticks and oranges
and mint oil, a beautiful mélange of home. She takes a second to adjust to the dim light, but then she settles on one of the
cushions.
“You can call me Bà Oanh. Tarot, palm, or clairvoyance?” the woman asks.
“A buffet of the supernatural!” Evie tries to joke. But on catching Bà Oanh’s impatient glance, she answers quickly, “Regular
old clairvoyance.”
There’s a long silence as Bà Oanh takes Evie in. She notices Evie’s dangling earrings, her fuchsia lipstick. The way her boots
tap nervously. Her bitten-down nails. It makes Evie fidget to be observed so closely. It’s almost as if the sound of the street
has died down, making way for this ominous silence that feels nearly suffocating. This world fading into another.
Finally, Bà Oanh pronounces, “You are in deep denial. You have absolutely everything you’ve ever wanted, but you cannot open
yourself to the only thing you’ve ever needed.”
“Love?” she whispers.
Bà Oanh says scornfully, “No, dummy. Courage. Love does not happen without—”
“Bravery,” Evie says quietly.
“Exactly. Now you understand. You left a great love behind, didn’t you, child?”
Evie nods. Bà Oanh continues, “And now you regret it. I feel it coming from every pore in your body. Love lost is a difficult trauma to overcome. I think it is an ancestral trauma with you.”
Evie thinks about Auntie H ? o and her childhood love. Her mother losing her father. Yes, perhaps the map of grief has always been inside her, etching
through her life until she believes it to be the only destiny for a love story.
“But you understand now that the loving is worth the losing?” Bà Oanh asks, peering closely. “Think of it. Think of him.”
Evie swallows. As if every moment of her life isn’t consumed by thoughts of careening through the hills with Adam on his bike.
Hiking through the jungle. Witnessing that tender heart of his, encased in metal—a cage whose bars it seemed only she could
melt. And hadn’t he done the same for her? Freed her? Shifted her life in tiny increments, until it felt like she could never
go back to the way it was before?
Loving him taught her to love herself. Maybe that is the whole point of loving bravely. To shine that adoration inward, so
that you can accept whatever happens outside the self.
And these days, it’s easier than ever for Evie to love herself. Auntie H ? o’s unruly coterie—who’ve fully adopted her into their fold—value her exactly as she is. Her mother, Lillian, and her friends
see her. And the literary world has finally acknowledged her. But even before that public recognition, she’d been proud of herself
for going on an adventure by herself. She’d tested her limits—on her own—and had come out triumphant, even if she hadn’t fully
completed the tour.
Bà Oanh says, leaning back in satisfaction, “You see. Now it will all work out.”
“But it’s not that simple,” Evie protests. “I left him. I wasn’t brave at all. How can I move forward with this regret?”
“You wonder if he will forgive you.” Evie nods. Bà Oanh continues, “My child, he will forgive you. He already has. Just tell
him.”
“How will—”
“You American children, always spinning yourselves in circles about the plans for the future. Leave it up to fate for once.”
“What if—”
“Time’s up!”
With an abrupt yet agile leap, Bà Oanh gets to her tiny feet and begins fiddling with her tea collection. She hands over a
sachet. “That’s for later. Your man will like it. On the house!”
It’s an orchid-scented oolong blend, labeled Triumph Tea. Hmm. Evie hands over the bills to Bà Oanh, who counts, squinting in the dark. Then she nods and shuffles Evie out the door.
“Nice doing business with you! Tell your friends.”
The mysterious aura Bà Oanh had manifested during the reading fades, replaced by the brisk, businesslike air of an auntie
late for her next appointment. Evie blinks into the sunlight of the street. It feels a little like stepping through a portal.
Back to real life. She half expects the little psychic shop to disappear behind her, but it doesn’t.
As Evie begins to walk back to her apartment, Bà Oanh calls, “Hey! Lost girl.”
Evie turns. Bà Oanh gives her a big, toothy smile under her glasses. “You know what to do with that big house, right?”
A slow grin creeps onto Evie’s face at the sight of the other woman’s knowing expression.
She does know, has since the first moment she stepped through the doors of the row house this summer, though she didn’t want
to admit it to herself at first.
Now a line from Auntie H ? o’s letter floats up toward her, almost as if the words were written in the air, silvery and insistent: set up a crazy artists’ commune . Auntie H ? o knew too.
The row house is meant to be a retreat for writers and artists, a place for them to work and dream, building that community
Auntie H ? o had always tried to create. Evie can see it so clearly. There’d be big dinners in the evening with bottles of wine, buns from the pastry shop down the street. Conversations by the hearth. Connections that would carry them all through the lonely minefield of creative work. She’d offer scholarships to anyone who needed one. Maybe she could raise money through grants or donations from patrons. It could work.
Of course, she has no business acumen at all. No understanding of spreadsheets or marketing or publicity. But she knows someone
who does.
Bà Oanh winks at the sight of Evie’s dawning excitement. “It’ll be gangbusters, girl.”
Then suddenly, Evie laughs, a wild and free sound that travels through Little Saigon, drawing the attention of those on the
street, who crane their necks to watch her. A woman in a trench coat and boots, gleefully dancing in a circle, as if she has
no care in the world. Nothing to lose at all. Rather than the looks of disapproval she expects, most give her indulgent smiles.
They make room for her joy.
That joy carries her all the way back to Auntie H ? o’s house—her house. She’s deep in thought, considering the ways she might turn the upper floors into studios. Does she have
time for this? How could she not? She almost hears Auntie H ? o’s echo. You can do anything you dream, my darling girl.
“Now, that is a smile worth getting on a twenty-hour flight for.”
She stops. Her breath escapes.
She knows that voice. Deep and tender and full of affection. Edged with humor, brimming with challenge. The voice she dreams
about every night.
Evie slowly raises her head.
There, sitting on her front steps, is Adam Quy ? n, wearing a pair of gray slacks and a cream-colored sweater pushed up to his elbows, offsetting the golden cast of his tan.
His hair is mussed, a small duffel bag by his feet. He stands and walks toward her, each step so deliciously full of promise.
As a smile spreads across his face, one meant for just her, she feels that heat licking at the center of her—mixed with something
even more precious than the lust he’s always able to summon. He’s different, somehow. His shoulders are relaxed, his expression
open and unguarded. He is radiating love.
She swallows. “You. Here?”
“So monosyllabic today, sweetheart.”
“How? Why?”
He reaches over and strokes a strand of hair from her face. “You sure you work with words for a living?”
His thumb lingers near her jawline, and his touch is gentle, yet firm. As if it’s meant to be on her. She can’t help leaning
into his palm. Staring at him like he’s a mirage. She resists the urge to paw at him, to make sure he’s really in front of
her.
She tries again. “How did you get here? I mean, I know a flight, but why and... You’re here , Adam. Don’t you believe in calling first?”
“I predicted the chances of you running away to the nearest mountain to be around seventy percent. And that was generous.
Couldn’t risk it.”
“Again with the data sets. My grumpy CMO.”
“Wait, you call me that?” His eyes light up with suppressed laughter.
“Um.” She averts her gaze guiltily. “Only at first. After the rooster.”
“And now?”
“I just call you Adam.”
“Well, good. Because I’m no longer a CMO. Ruby fired me.”
“I think we have to sit down for this.”
She drags them down to sit on the front stoop, and immediately, Adam wraps his arm around her shoulders and tucks her in tightly
to his side. He emits so much body heat that she wants to shrug off her coat, needing only his warmth. But his grip is firm,
his thumb rubbing circles on her arm that are entirely distracting. She’s studying his jawline, those strong shoulders, daydreaming
about a certain kiss outside a hut in Nha Trang, when his voice cuts through.
“Is this okay?” he asks, bending to look at her.
In reply, she snuggles closer. “This will always be okay.”
He brushes his lips on her hair. “Ruby fired me, but only because she wants me to find something I am truly passionate about. It wasn’t Love Yêu, as much as I came to admire what Ruby was trying to do. My last day was on Friday. And I walked around my apartment, thinking and planning. Maybe I would travel? I could start my own company? But then, every time, I’d see you in my mind. Or I’d be out at a restaurant and wonder what you’d think of a dish. Once, I saw an antique mandarin’s writing desk, and I could picture you leaning over it, working on your poetry. You’re kind of a big deal now, did you know?”
She groans. “Only in very small circles. Like, my living room.”
He continues, ignoring her, “And I’d think of us lying in bed together, talking into the night.”
“That’s what you thought of us doing in your bed?” she says archly.
“Among other, infinitely naughtier things.”
“Oh.” She shivers, biting her lip.
“Evie, what I’m saying is that anywhere I want to go, anything I want to do, will never be fully satisfying without you . You give me the joy that was missing from my life. That spark that never caught until you came along. When I think about
what’s next for me, I think of you . And only you.”
“Adam,” she says. There’s a wetness on her cheeks now. She reaches over and takes his hand. “I missed you so much. And I am
so, so sorry for how I left. I was scared. I thought it would be easier for us both... but it really, really wasn’t. Not
for me, anyway.”
“Not for me either, sweetheart.”
He runs a hand through his hair and releases her so he can face her fully. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket
and smooths it out on his knee.
“I didn’t see your letter until last week. Ruby—well, she had her reasons, but she never gave it to me. I’d been so angry
at you for leaving. I thought that you were going back to that ex of yours. Map or whatever.”
“Atlas.” She hides a smile.
“Okay, whatever,” he says, a small tick in his jaw. “But when I read the letter, I knew you felt the same way about me as
I do about you.”
“And how’s that?” She’s about to put him out of his misery, to confess her feelings, when he cuts in without hesitation.
“I love you, Evie Lang,” he says, his face now inches from hers. “I’ll say it as often as you need me to. I love you the way you love others. The way you will fight so fiercely for your friends—for me. My father’s never been put in his place a day in his life; even Ruby is a little scared of you. But honestly? I just love your creative, spontaneous, incredibly irritating self. If you never published another poem, never left our bed, I would still be wildly infatuated with you. Nothing matters but your soul. It’s goodness and light and beauty. You’re the thrill I never want to stop chasing.”
The wind whooshes in her ears. Happiness floods her veins.
“Oh.” Her tongue is heavy. The smile on her face is stupidly dreamy.
This. This is her person. He flew across the world for her. He leapt past every obstacle in his way. He’s fearless, and she wants
nothing more than to jump with him into their beautiful, utterly unpredictable future.
“I love you too, my Adam,” she says. She brings her hand up to reach for him. Gazing into those dark eyes, which remain fixated
on her.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks.
When their lips meet, it’s with the pure sweetness of a long-awaited pleasure. Like the first lick of ice cream amid the scorch
of a tropical beach. Or a rush of air after a long underwater dive. They marvel at the way their mouths fit together, how
their tongues understand just when to push, when to tease and retreat. Adam’s hands move to Evie’s waist, pulling her against
him, so she’s nearly sitting in his lap. Her fingers wind through the softness of his hair.
It could go on forever, this kiss. But then there’s a hooting from down the street, some of Evie’s teen workshop students
whooping, “Get it, MissLang!” until they pull back and begin laughing.
“Those kids belong to you?” Adam asks, amusement dancing across his face. He raises his hand to them as they bop by, smirking
and high-fiving Evie as they pass.
“Pretty much,” she sighs. “I’m supposed to be teaching them, but—well, you know the saying. Teacher becomes the student and
all that.”
“More like ‘teacher becomes the hopeless softie.’”
“You’re not wrong. Speaking of softies, Adam.”
“Yeah, Evie?”
Their names belong together. It shouldn’t have taken her so long to fight fate.
She tells him, “You said so many nice things to me. And they are all true, I am great. But I also want you to know that you
are the dream I’ve never felt worthy enough to reach for.”
“Baby—” he begins.
“Let me finish. After Auntie H ? o’s and Dad’s deaths, I thought my heart should stay shut for a while; maybe I never said that to myself consciously, but
I sure never let anyone in. Then there were all the failures of my career. The breakup that won’t be mentioned. I went to
Vi ? t Nam for an escape from reality. It was just supposed to be a simple vacation. And then I met you. Nothing was simple. I
saw beautiful beaches, epic mountains—”
“Connor’s puke on a karaoke stage—”
Evie laughs. “Don’t remind me. But the point is that I had to go through all that to clear away the other voices. The ones
telling me that I’m not good enough. Your voice cut through the rest, always assuring me that you would never leave, even if I did. Now I know we’re both enough.” She pauses here and takes his hands for emphasis. “Together, we’re everything.”
“When did you get so wise?” he murmurs.
She says airily, “When I started seeing a psychic.”
“Um?”
“I’m also opening a retreat for creatives in my house.”
“Wow, okay. That sounds—”
“And you’re going to help run it.”
Adam raises an eyebrow. “I have questions. Many questions.”
She laughs and pulls him up along with her, standing on her toes to plant another warm, delicious kiss right on his lips.
This time, there’s a new urgency to the kiss. A desperate wanting, accumulated through months apart, through dreams in which
their mouths always find each other again.
And yet—the reality has always been better than anything they can imagine. As they move together, Evie’s letter, long forgotten, wafts out of Adam’s lap, into the deepening afternoon light, now transformed into a golden color that hints at new beginnings. The letter floats, as if on wings, past buildings lined with recycling bins, past the bodegas, right out to the bay where sailboats skim along the fogged shoreline.
On the piece of paper, one part is faintly visible amid the others, just for a second: come find me.
Evie sighs happily, her lips still touching his, and mumbles, “Your questions must wait. We have more urgent destinations.”
With that, they’re both running up the steps, laughing as Evie fumbles with her keys, then finally lets them into her home.
There, in the threshold of the house Auntie H ? o had gifted, they decide to finish everything they started, a whole world away.