Chapter Twenty-Six: Linh

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX LINH

Gold Key. Phở Day Part II. Gold Key. Bảo. Gold Key. Bảo. There are so many things competing for purchase in my mind. I want to shut off these rivaling thoughts, but my normal way of coping—painting or sketching—isn’t happening as easily. I’m fidgeting, my attention straying. I made the mistake of looking in the mirror this morning and could have sworn that a ghoul was staring back at me.

I’m in the art room during lunch, as usual, feeling Bảo’s absence. The window curtains are drawn to block the afternoon light, but not enough to block the rays completely. The room is awash with pale blue and it calms me so much. I’m in the center of the room, earplugs in to try to get myself to focus, though I end up preoccupied by the motes of dust seemingly suspended in the air.

My phone vibrates once. I look over and see that unfamiliar number again. I’ve gotten it two times already. Probably spam, so I’ve been ignoring it.

“Hey, Linh.”

I pause, wanting to see if I have to turn to greet him. He’ll see the ghoul that was me this morning. When I do turn around, his expression doesn’t change. “You busy? Need to talk to you—”

I brush back my hair, nervous. “Bảo—”

He holds up a hand. A sheepish smile is on his face. “Not about that. It’s actually something that Chef Lê mentioned to me. Did he call you?”

“Chef Lê?” Now I’m confused.

“Yeah—” His eyes catch on something to his right. He laughs.

“What?”

He points to his hair, then to mine. I mimic the gesture and thread my fingers through mine, feeling something wet—it’s paint.

“Oh, shoot.” I whirl around, trying to spot the roll of Bounty that I always keep around, but I can’t find it. Embarrassment flushes my face. Great.

When I turn back, Bảo is there, gently grabbing the wet piece of hair and dabbing it with a paper towel. I hold my breath, relishing the feel of him close to me, the feel of his eyes on me. His touch. Tender.

“There,” he whispers. “All better.”

He steps away and I feel my shoulders fall. My heart pumps at an indecent pace.

Bảo realizes what he’s done and he drops the towel on the nearest stool. “Um, anyway. Chef Lê’s been trying to reach you.”

“Oh!” I glance at my phone. The strange number. “What does he want?”

His smile looks strained. “Give him a call back. He’ll explain. But I think it’ll be good news. It might actually be fun, you know. It’s perfect for you.”

He stands, shoulders slightly hunched, unsure. Before, he would have made himself comfortable at his own table. Might have even hovered nearby to peek at my work.

I hate that I did this. The stilted conversation, the pauses. It’d been easy before. Now everything’s changed because of these feelings—because of all that’s working against us.

“I guess… I guess I’ll see you later, Linh,” Bảo finally says.

The room is awash in more shadows than I realized.

---

If I looked tired earlier, I can only imagine how I look now, even more so with the mystery of Chef Lê’s message weighing heavily in my mind. My parents aren’t as tactful about my appearance when I come to work. Ba’s straightening the tablecloths that just came in. I was right. It made the light inside less piercing to the eyes. It’s almost like spring has come to the restaurant. The fake daisies that we bought complete the picture.

My dad stares at me a little longer. “Con bệnh hả?” He uses the back of his hand to feel my forehead, checking if I’m sick.

“Mẹ sẽ make ginger tea,” Mẹ says, standing up from her booth, where she was eating an early dinner.

“Ngồi xuống đi,” Ba suggests to me.

“Ba, Mẹ, I’m fine.” I brush away his hand. “I just… didn’t put on makeup this morning.” And I also have too much to worry about. But the closeness allows me to see the bags under his eyes. He must be worried about Phở Day again. We’re all worrying, them more than me. My issues pale by comparison to theirs.

“You look worse than that.” Ba turns to Mẹ. “Perhaps she should go home and sleep.”

“No, I’m okay,” I grumble, even as the thought of bed is enticing. A chance to be alone and recharge.

“Right, she should sleep.”

Ba says firmly, having Mẹ’s agreement, “Sleep. We want you to be rested for Phở Day.”

---

But I don’t go home, not right away, at least. Instead, I’m sitting in my car outside Chơi Ơi. After leaving my parents’ restaurant, I drove around mindlessly, taking the longer route home, an excuse to clear my mind. But then I remembered the missed calls from Chef Lê’s number. I shoved my phone away in hopes that I wouldn’t need to think about it. Or think about Bảo. Before I knew it, though, I reached down for it, and started driving.

The parking lot is relatively bare, but I expect it to fill up around dinnertime, which is within an hour.

Why does he want to see me?

I meet Saffron, his wife, at the front. “My husband was raving about your sketch!”

“Oh, thank you, I’m glad he liked it.” My voice comes out flat. Did I sound like this the whole day?

Her smile falters by a fraction. “Are you okay?”

I sidestep the question. “Um, is Chef Lê around?”

“Oh! He’ll be happy to see you. The column’s been something of a sore spot for us, and he couldn’t figure out what to do until he saw your work. He knew you’d be the right person to dress it up.”

Column? It hits me then, that I hadn’t even thought to listen to his voicemail. But now it all connects.

At her words, the first spark of warmth comes back to me. Chef Lê actually wants to hire me? A high school student?

“Go ahead, you can find him in the back.”

I’m heading in that direction until I see the tape cutting off a section of the restaurant, a curtain shrouding that part in mystery, keeping it out of sight from wandering customers. Curiosity getting the best of me, I cross the room and part the curtains to face the white column. It’s a good size, with a lot of space to work with. Done right, it could make a nice splash.

“Miss Mai!” Chef Lê says, dropping a towel that he was using to wipe his hands. “Glad you got my message.”

“Is this—”

He nods, slapping the column. “Yep, the real estate.”

A vision of what it could be surges forward in my mind. This column is in the center of the room, so it should naturally draw the eye. It needs bold colors, ones that won’t clash with the rest of the walls, but complement them. Mostly, the decor already shows off landscapes. What we need now are people. Faces as vivid as the discerning ones who will come to dine here.

Emerging from my thoughts, I almost miss the amount he’s offering to pay me. I ask him to repeat himself. “If you’re gonna try to say that’s too much, I’m not going to listen,” he says good-humoredly. He reminds me of my parents, how they don’t let anyone refuse payment.

“Why me?” I manage to ask.

Chef Lê tips his head back and his laugh bounces off the walls.

“Like I told Bảo, I know talent. You’re talented, Linh.”

Talent.

A wave of sadness catches me off guard. It travels up inside me, splitting into tendrils. There are people who have faith in me, and they shouldn’t. I’m not the person they need. I’m always second-guessing myself, running away scared.

I touch the column with my fingertips; it’s damp and newly painted with base coat. I spot the tarp and drops of white, and I see a pair of Converse. Red.

Bảo. Saffron appears right behind him, carrying some towels. “Chef Lê, where do you want—Linh?”

I look closer. The edges of his sleeves appear as if they’d been dipped in white as well. Some specks are on his jeans.

Did Bảo do this? Was Bảo actually painting?

“Right over there’s good. You came just in time. I’m trying to strike a deal with Linh.”

“Oh.” Bảo stays put, glancing between the column and me.

“You’re supposed to paint the column, not yourself,” I say, fighting back a smile. He offers an uncertain one in return. Another pause, one that Saffron appears to notice, because she sets down the towels, then coughs delicately.

“Bry, I need to talk to you for a sec. Over there?” She’s already walking back out toward the curtains.

“What, now?”

“Yup.” She disappears outside.

Chef Lê follows half in, half out. “But, Saff—” There’s some whispering, growing more insistent. “What do you mean, leave them alone? We’re just—” A hand grabs his collar, yanking him through the curtains, out of view. I look over at Bảo, who’s watching in bewildered amusement. He catches me peeking and normally we’d laugh together, but he sobers up immediately.

He examines his sleeves. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“My parents sent me home. They think I might be getting sick.”

He frowns in worry, and walks closer, less hesitantly then he had before. My heart leaps when he touches me on the forehead. That doesn’t help things. “I knew you looked off before. Shouldn’t you be in bed, then?”

“I’m not sick. I’m just tired.”

“You have a lot going on,” he murmurs. His hand curves around my jaw, his thumb lingering on my cheek. He stays like this longer than I think he realizes.

And when he does, he takes a wide step back. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” Again, the air between us tightens. “Why are you here, Bảo?”

“I had a day off. So I decided to stop by and give a hard copy of my piece to Chef Lê. And then we just got to talking and he wanted to get the column ready.” He quickly rushes to add, “But I told him you didn’t say yes yet. He just got excited and pulled out all of this and before I knew it—” He gestures to the mess on his clothes. “When Chef Lê wants something, he just does it, apparently.”

I circle the column, my fingers tracing the parts that are relatively dry. Bảo follows close behind like there’s a string loosely connecting us.

“A small part of me, I guess, was still hoping you’d show up.”

“But you couldn’t have known I’d come here.”

Still, he came. “I know.” The earnestness of his statement moves the ground beneath me.

The column. Big and vast. There are so many designs it can take. So many possibilities in every way. I can paint another cityscape. I can paint the people that Chef Lê holds closest to him: his wife, his dad, his late mom. I can make the colors as bright as they can be—I can use normal colors; I can mix my own. I can make something beautiful out of this.

Inside, the tendrils of anxiety settle down. I take a deep breath.

Bảo’s offering these options to me. Just like the night he stepped over enemy lines to help me. He always wants to help me. I’m always the one to turn him away, always having a reason to keep a distance. This understanding touches me in a way I can’t voice with words, and God, I wish I could paint my feelings right here for him.

Yet, words—my inadequate words—are all I have in this moment. So I choose.

“Hypothetically, if I accept Chef Lê’s offer, it’d take a lot of work to get this mural done.”

A handsome smile graces his face. “You could do this. I’ve seen your work.”

“It’d be hard, too. I probably won’t know what to do with it half the time.”

“That’s fine. Inspiration doesn’t come that easily.”

“It’s something just for me.”

Bảo nods again. “After all the things you’re doing, you deserve a break sometimes.”

“Even though I still wouldn’t know what to do about our families.”

“It’s oka—” He levels his gaze at me. “Linh?”

“Thank you,” I say in a rush, before tackling him with a side-hug that coaxes a short laugh from him. After hesitating for a millisecond, his arms come around me, and we lean into each other.

When I paint, there’s always a moment where I just know that I’m finally finished. The colors and textures come together to depict a feeling of rightness.

Us, here, is that rightness.

I breathe him in. I nestle my head into the crook of his neck, fitting myself into him like a piece of puzzle.

Yes, I want him. I want us.

Him loosening his hold on me and the sharp catch in his breath tell me he finally gets it. Still, he leans back to confirm the answer. A hand that circled my waist slides up my arm. The other gently, so gently, remains on my hip. A fine shiver passes through me and I hold my breath, but my heart hiccups. He cups my cheek with a hand and his face inches forward.

“Can I?” he asks.

I meet him there.

Ecstatic colors surround us, the happiest of colors, yellow, orange, pink swirling. Blooming. Like we’re in Monet’s Water Lilies.

No. This is all mine. This is my painting. I want to memorize this feeling and make my own masterpiece.

I press my lips against his more insistently. He makes a small noise of surprise, but I feel his smile. It’s surreal, us kissing here. I’ve tried to tamp down all of these feelings for the wrong reason, but now I can show them. This, this feels so right: the quiet smack of lips parting before coming together, the exhaling out of noses, and his hand light against my neck, keeping me in place—not that I ever, ever want to move away. All I care about right now is his arms around me, his lips on mine, and the utter freedom I feel to slide my hands through his hair. Finally.