Chapter Thirty-Three: Bảo

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE BẢO

As I’m driving, doubt creeps in. Did I really pick the right place to go on a date? An ad for Ellen’s Studio appeared during a search—as if the universe was taking pity on me as I considered different date ideas. It was far away enough that no one would know us. And it was something creative, perfect for Linh.

Confidence in my plan dimmed when I made the mistake of telling Việt about it. He replied with a straight face, “Aren’t you supposed to impress your date? Not embarrass yourself?” We were in the kitchen then, so the line cooks and other servers—Eddie and Trần included—then offered their own dating advice that seemed borderline illegal and might have been fun, I don’t know, back in the nineties.

I sneak a look at Linh. She’s wearing a jean skirt and a white flowy blouse, a part of it tucked in. A picture of comfort. She catches me looking and I will myself to stay put and not look away like I would’ve months ago. A bright smile graces her face like we haven’t seen each other in days. A thrill shudders through me.

Once we stop at the plaza, Linh leans her head out the window and makes a noise of surprise at the storefront. “Pottery?”

She unbuckles her seat belt and slips out. I follow her, watching with some hesitation. Her eyes go soft and she slips her arms around my middle, almost mirroring her impromptu hug that day we decided to start all of this. “Where did you find out about this place?”

“Oh, I heard it was good. I love… er, ceramics.”

“Liar,” she whispers, before fitting her hand into mine, leading me inside. I’m content to follow her. Inside, my veins are like highways and all cells rushing through me like high-speed cars.

“Wheel-throwing,” that’s what it’s called, the instructor tells us, but we can’t throw the wheel? Her voice, melodious and deep, demands our attention, and for a few minutes Linh and I watch as she demonstrates how to handle the clay and gently shape it. The wheel should be at a medium pace, and she makes us practice. But I might be doing it wrong, because the clay wobbles unevenly. Laughter sounds from next to me.

Linh’s been watching me, but now she’s purposefully focusing on the teacher. Her lips twitch.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face says it all.”

I stop pretending to be mad when Linh has her turn at the wheel. Her hands merely guide the clay into the shape it’s meant to be—no frantic movements to force it one way or another. “Of course you’re good at this.”

“I’m really not. I’m just okay. My aunt, though, does this for a living.”

“The one in Vietnam.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen her in ages. But she’s coming over because some of her international friends are displaying their work around the country.” You had to be pretty smart to navigate a foreign country like that. “My mom’s already worried about her. She’s acting like the older sister and all that.”

The mention of her mom prompts my question. “So do you think your aunt knows what happened between our families?”

“Oh, that’s nice!” the instructor interjects. At Linh or someone else; we’re not paying attention.

“I don’t think it’s possible that she wouldn’t. I mean, if my mom and your mom were actually friends, surely they would have known each other. Hung out together.”

“Do you think you’ll get a chance to talk to her about it? When she’s here?”

“Still figuring out how to approach that. But yeah.” Linh gets tired of her hair falling into her face and hurriedly brushes it away with the back of her hand. In her rush, clay that caught on her wrist swipes across her cheek. I wait a few seconds. She still doesn’t notice. Of course.

Our instructor stops by, examining Linh’s work: a small teacup. Mine’s just a cylinder, like the cardboard that’s left over when toilet paper runs out.

“My, you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Linh smiles politely. “A few times.”

The instructor nods her head in approval and her eyes slide over to mine.

“And yours…” She quickly assesses it and takes a breath. “Well, I’m glad you could come by today.”

She walks away, leaving Linh in a fit of laughter and me trying to hold my dignity intact.

“I tried.”

“Oh, you did.” She shakes her head. “Though this is fun for me, you must be bored out of your mind. We could have done something else, you know.”

“But I chose this place because I thought you’d like it. Also, I’d never use the word ‘boring’ to describe what it’s like being around you.”

“Oh? And what words would you use instead, Mr. Wordsmith?”

“Honestly, my vocabulary isn’t big enough for what you’re asking.”

I won’t tire from that look in her eyes. Soft amusement, a moment where the worries slide from her mind. Her hand rests on mine. “Thanks. I’m having fun. But it’s because I’m with you. Next time, we’ll go where you want.”

Next time.

I refuse to let go of her hand until the instructor tells us to place our ceramics on a shelf.

“Let’s trade,” Linh says suddenly. “Mine for yours.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“But then you’re stuck with mine.”

“I don’t care. It’s one of a kind. It’s something that you made.” She tilts her head, sending me a dazzling smile. “So I like it.”

“Okay, one more thing, then. Need to mark it with something.”

On the bottom of each ceramic—the teacup and the whatever-the-hell-it-is—I etch our initials: BN + LM.

I get a kiss for that.