THIRTY-NINE
CALLUM
Two days of conference sessions and anesthetists moonlighting as nosy aunties have left me fried. It’s been a rotating buffet of: “What’s your keynote?,” “Why aren’t you department head, yet?,” and “So what really happened with your researcher ex?”
Going home hasn’t exactly been a reprieve either—unless you count nostalgia, old posters, and the basketball hoop Bà bolted to my door (ruining Mum’s feng shui) as restorative.
There’s Mā’s cooking, which helps. Less helpful is the unrelenting drone of meeting a nice Chinese girl, settling down, or, my personal favorite, Claudia “finding her way back.”
So now, somehow, even Sydney Domestic Airport feels like a meditation retreat. Or it would if I weren’t bouncing my leg and checking my watch every two minutes waiting for Jordie to arrive.
Jordie wanted to come up earlier for more of the conference, but casual nurses don’t get to reshuffle booked shifts last minute—especially not after the flare-related cancelations she’d already had last month.
Jordie, naturally, said she still needed those shifts to fund her book habit and highly specific food preferences.
Today’s emotional obstacle course: collect Jordie, swing by my parents’ place so she can say hello, then get her to Luxeon Suites before Leith develops stress hives over the state of conference accommodation.
Mā had other ideas. The moment I mentioned Jordie was flying in, she announced that anyone arriving at dinnertime was obviously staying for dinner, and arguing would only have endangered my life expectancy.
The arrivals door slides open. I spot a dangerously overloaded tote bag before I spot Jordie. Whatever’s inside is heavy enough to swing like a wrecking ball. She’s also dragging a suitcase; cheeks flushed, pigtail buns lopsided.
I jog over, take the suitcase from her, and ease the tote off her shoulder.
“Finally,” she huffs, rubbing her arm.
I raise an eyebrow, peeking into the bag. “Did you rob every fruit stand on your way out of Queensland?”
She shrugs, the kind that tries to hide a wince. “Tribute. Your mum loves tropical fruit, right?”
“Sure, but . . . all of it?”
There’s the tiniest wrinkle in her forehead. “Too much?”
I smile. “It’s perfect.”
She lets out a measured breath, like that mattered more than she’ll admit. It’s not just fruits. It’s “please-like-me” produce.
Her shoulders square. Her smile resets. We fall into step toward the taxi rank.
At the curb, she looks up at me. “Okay. What should I know before I meet your parents? Cultural landmines? Off-limits topics?”
“Just be yourself.”
“Right.” Her fingers tighten on the strap of her bag. She’s staring ahead, jaw tense, fingers smoothing the crease of her shirt.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” I say.
“I’m not.”
Clearly a lie.
She swipes on lip gloss, presses her lips together, then squints at the tube. “Wait. Is this shade parent-appropriate?” A beat. “Ugh. Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
I stow the suitcase in the taxi boot. “You’re fine, Jordie.”
“It’s okay,” she says breezily, which is exactly how you know it’s not okay. “I came prepared.”
Even with the slight wobble in her voice, there’s a determined spark in her eyes.
“It’ll be awesome,” she adds, like she’s repeating it until it feels true. “Your parents are going to love me.”
I know she’s rambling like she always does when she’s nervous, but there’s a shadow beneath it. Something more fragile. And suddenly, I can’t shake the feeling that I want her to be right. That I want them to love her as much as I—
I clear my throat, banishing the thought as we climb into the taxi.
“Nǐ hǎo ma?” Jordie blurts the second we step through the door. Her enthusiasm sky-high, her pronunciation and accuracy . . . less so.
Mā, ever gracious, replies with a cheerful, “Nǐ hǎo,” flicking me a subtle “Did I hear that right?” look.
Jordie turns to me, her expression screaming “nailed it” like she’s aced her first Chinese language exam. I bite back a laugh, forcing a supportive nod.
She slips off her shoes without being asked and lines them neatly on the rack by the door.
When she lifts her head, her gaze catches on the hallway table—graduation photos, family dinners, the curated evidence that I have always been someone’s son before I was anything else.
She pauses at one photo, fingertips resting against the frame for a second before she brushes her thumb over the glass where I’m smiling.
She clears her throat and looks at me with that smile—the small, unguarded one that starts slow at the corners of her mouth and ends up softening her entire face.
It’s the kind that makes my chest do that stupid, inconvenient flip, the one that says she’s seeing me at ten years old with missing teeth and zero idea how badly I’d one day want her to keep looking at me like this.
She draws in a breath, catching the smell of ginger and soy drifting from the kitchen. Her stomach gives a tiny, traitorous grumble. She covers the noise with, “I brought you some fruit from Townsville, Mr. Han. Mrs. Han.” She lifts the tote toward them with both hands.
Bà takes the overflowing tote, bulging with dragon fruit, pawpaw, and enough tropical produce to stock a roadside stall.
“Such beautiful fruit! Thank you,” Mā says as she lifts a particularly sweet-smelling pineapple. “Come, sit while I finish dinner.”
“Oh! Can I help, Mrs. Han? I would love to learn new recipes!”
Bà raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of disbelief and curiosity. Mā, visibly charmed, waves her into the kitchen with an amused chuckle. “Alright. I’ll show you a few tricks.”
Jordie lights up, rolling up her sleeves as she follows Mā.
Bà and I sit in the living room, Tsingtao in hand, making small talk about the restaurant.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Jordie in the kitchen, fumbling with a dumpling fold, brows furrowed, tongue peeking out in concentration as she presses the edges just so.
I glance back. Bà is watching me watch her. He takes an unhurried sip of beer, brows tightening. Judgment already cast.
He clears his throat. “So,” he says in English, “when are you going to start dating again? I know a respectable Chinese family with a daughter in finance. Smart. Beautiful.”
“Bà, not now.” I keep my voice in Mandarin—calm but edged.
He leans in. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at her. She’s not for you, Wěi. You said she’s a friend. Keep it that way. Or better yet, create some distance.”
“She’s a wonderful—”
“I’m sure she is,” he cuts in, switching back to Mandarin, sharper now. “But be realistic. You need someone who understands where we come from and where we’re going. Who fits. Our name carries weight, and when you bring someone into this family, it matters.”
I hold my tone. “Jordie’s strong. Loyal. She’s here because she wanted to meet you and Mā. That counts.”
“It means she’s bold,” he says quietly. “But don’t confuse boldness for belonging. Or infatuation for a future.”
I meet his eyes. “I’m not confused.”
I almost say more. About how she brings chaos and calm in equal measure, how she stands in a storm and doesn’t flinch. But nothing I say will shift his opinion tonight.
From the kitchen, Jordie laughs—bright and unfiltered—as Mā teases her about a misshapen dumpling. Her shoulders shake, hair loose, cheeks flushed with warmth.
I look away, that familiar ache rising in my chest.
I understand what Bà means.
I just don’t agree anymore.
Dinner is lively. The table is a masterpiece of Mā’s cooking: glazed pork belly, lotus root salad, steamed fish with ginger that flakes perfectly at the touch.
Jordie’s mid-story, hands flying as she describes some chaotic cow escapade. The rogue calf had audacity, apparently, and she sells every detail with that rural sparkle only she could pull off. Even Bà cracks a faint smile between bites.
But I can tell beneath the laugh, beneath the animation, that she’s trying. Not to impress, but to get it right. I know her too well not to notice the nervous energy stitched into every word.
At one point, she lifts a piece of tofu with her chopsticks—fluid, confident.
Last time we had hotpot, she tapped out after ten minutes and asked for a fork. She must’ve practiced.
For this.
She catches me staring, grins, and pops another tofu into her mouth with a wink, as if to say: told you I’ve got tricks.
I’m somewhere between proud and completely undone.
Because here she is. Leaning in, soaking up every laugh, every story. Throwing her whole heart into this night.
And it’s endearing.
Unnerving, too. She’s connecting with my family in a way not even Claudia—polished, poised, Mandarin-fluent—ever quite managed to.
Just as Jordie gives her most confident “Xiè xiè, Mrs. Han!” my phone buzzes on the table.
Leith.
“Excuse me,” I murmur at the table, and step away to take the call.
“Mate,” Leith says without preamble. “Why hasn’t Jordie answered her phone? I’ve called five times.”
I glance across the room. Jordie’s phone is nowhere to be found. Probably still zipped inside her bag.
“We’re at dinner,” I say, “meeting my parents.”
Across the room, Jordie bites into a dumpling and declares, “Hǎo chī!” Delicious.
Mā beams, indulging her with infinite patience.
“Ah. The big meet-the-parents debut,” Leith says. “Well, hand her the phone. I need to ruin her night.”
I hold the phone out to Jordie. “It’s Leith.”
Jordie excuses herself to the living room, narrowing her eyes as she answers.
Across the table, Mā leans toward me, her smile warm. “She’s delightful, Wěi. Very warm. She draws people in.”
I nod, pride rising in my chest. “Yeah. She really does.”
Then from the next room:
“You what?!” A pause. Then, deadpan horror: “Where am I supposed to sleep tonight, Leith? In someone’s minibar?”
I’m already on my feet. “What’s wrong?”
She scowls, “My ex-best friend over-booked Luxeon Suites for some grand wedding. Now I’m bumped to one of his sister-hotels. In Parramatta.”
“That’s an hour by train.” I think fast. “We can just stay at my suite at The Sterling.”
Leith’s scandalized gasp crackles through the speaker before Jordie hangs up with an abrupt, “Goodbye, Leith.”
“It’s settled, then,” I say.
Bà clears his throat. The disapproval is silent but nuclear.
Before I can say a word, Mā cuts in gently. “No need. It’s late. She can stay here. You take the couch, Wěi.”
Jordie lights up and bows. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Han!”
Mā waves her off. Even Bà softens—fractionally. He still looks like he’s biting down on a list of opinions.
We return to the table. Jordie picks up a piece of sweet pork, closes her eyes in bliss, then grins. “Mrs. Han,” she says reverently, “you could dance circles around Leith’s Michelin-star chefs any day.”
Mā laughs, nudging the dish closer. Bà’s mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through.
And Jordie—still elbow-deep in a place that doesn’t quite fit her—is somehow making it her own, anyway.
It’s the kind of silence that only exists at 1 a.m. My parents are asleep. I’m stretched out on the couch, every shift setting off a chorus of crinkling from the plastic-wrapped cushions. For ten minutes, I’ve been debating whether flipping over will help or just wake the house.
My bedroom door eases open.
“Psst.”
Jordie peeks around the frame, her grin all mischief as she waves me over.
I already know what she’s thinking. And it’s a terrible idea. Not just because my parents are light sleepers, but because sneaking into my childhood bedroom to lie next to my not-just-a-friend is basically the Chinese cultural equivalent of shouting, “I HAVE FAILED MY ANCESTORS” into the hallway.
Still, against every cell of better judgment, I peel off the couch and tiptoe toward her, fully intending to say no.
“You’re not giving your keynote tomorrow with cushion creases on your face,” she whispers.
I glance at my narrow, single-sized bed. “It’s a really small bed.”
“And I’m tiny. We’ll fit. Besides, we’re only sleeping,” she adds, as if sharing a bed under my parents’ roof is the most rational thing in the world.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I fall off, you’re explaining the bruises.”
Jordie beams, victorious, like she’s just negotiated a peace treaty. She flops onto the bed, scooting to one side. I slide in beside her, careful not to touch. Impossible. The bed’s so small, we’re practically sharing the same breath.
“What would these walls say if they could talk?” she whispers, eyes scanning the room. A crooked Jurassic Park poster. A faded Star Wars print. Bookshelves packed with sci-fi novels and dusty gaming figurines. “What was young Callum like?”
I suddenly feel irrationally shy under her gaze. “Nerdy. Studied too much. Obsessed with space and bio-chem. Spent a lot of time doing stereotypical teenage-boy things that are very focused on self-reflection.”
“Wow. Who knew young Callum was so studious?”
“Prepared me for refresher courses later in life,” I mutter, and her laugh—soft, breathy—fills the small space between us.
We’re lying face to face, the blanket tangled around us, our legs even more so.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “For getting to know them.”
“They’re wonderful,” she says, and something cracks gently open in my chest. “I’ve always wanted to see this part of you.”
I wrap my arms around her. She fits naturally there. My hands settle on her back, tracing slow, absent-minded patterns into her skin. Something to ground myself. Something to remember this moment by.
A spiral. A line. A flick.
I don’t realize what I’ve written until I stop.
Three simple Chinese characters, sketched in reverence: I love you.
My hand stills. I pull her closer.
Someday, I’ll tell her.
Out loud.
In a way that leaves nothing unsaid.