The emotion hits differently when it’s said out loud. “I don’t think it’s silly. If it’s something that you experience, that makes it real,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
The sun lowers in the sky, the temperature dropping with it. I readjust my grip on the wineglass and hug my arms against my chest, pulling my oversized, colorful, geometric sweater tighter around my body. Bennett notices and moves even closer.
He smiles, and for a moment it’s just us under the pink and purple clouds. From this vantage point, we can see the rhythm strip of the downtown skyline—the heartbeat of Los Angeles—the San Gabriel Mountains, and the Pacific Ocean floating in the distance.
We fall silent, our eyes locked on one another’s. Feeling his eyes on me makes me nervous in an excited sort of way.
“Let’s go see the Irises,” I say abruptly.
I set my wine down on a table and cross the patio to a building across the way as Bennett follows closely behind. Inside is quieter at this hour as museumgoers flock to the patio to catch the sunset. We wander through the halls until we find Vincent van Gogh’s Irises.
The iconic painting hangs in front of me, and I’m swept up in the swirling movement of the leaves, the violet petals twisted together, their figures carefully captured in vivid hues.
Bennett sidles up so close next to me that our arms touch. I tilt my head toward him without removing my eyes from the painting.
“You can almost feel the flowers moving,” I say, dreamily.
“He painted this in, what…” Bennett takes a closer look at the museum label next to the painting. “1889. So this was after he had been hospitalized. If memory serves me right, these flowers are based on the ones that were in the mental institution’s garden. He painted nearly one hundred and thirty pieces during his stay there.” He looks over at me and quickly adds, “It’s also nice to think about how seeing these flowers in the garden must’ve helped him through a tough time.”
“Nice save. That’s the emotion I’m looking for,” I say. “What don’t you know random facts about?” I look from the flowers to his face. They’re both quite the sight.
His voice is soft as he says, “You.”
I feel my face become hot. “You know some things,” I say shyly.
“I know that you enjoy art and wine. I know that you care about your family and their legacy. I also know that when you’re nervous, you twist your necklace, like you’re doing right now.”
I drop my hand from my neck.
Bennett’s voice softens even more. “I know that you’re curious and smart as hell, that your eyes look like milk chocolate in the sunshine, that when you’re not sure what to say, you bite your bottom lip.” He hesitates at first before grabbing my hand. I don’t pull it away. “I also know that my worries don’t feel so heavy when I’m with you, and that your laugh is my new favorite sound.” He looks down at the ground and then back up into my eyes. “I also know that I’d like to kiss you. If that’s all right?”
Thoughts of us being incompatible compete with emotions I haven’t felt in a long time. My head and heart battle one another, elbowing their way to the front of my mind. The room spins around me, becoming a blur of paint. Then I look into Bennett’s eyes, and I feel steady. Stable. And all at once, despite everything I believe in, this is what I know for certain: I want to kiss this man.
“Yes,” I whisper.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders as his arms find their way around my waist. I stand up on my toes to close the distance between us.
Our faces inch closer, mouths parted. I stare at the gold fleck in his eyes until our lips connect and my eyes flutter shut. When our lips are pressed together, I feel as breezy as irises swirling in a Van Gogh masterpiece. I grab a fistful of his sweater and hold him tight. His lips are soft, just like I imagined. We quickly move into a steady rhythm, our kiss deepening.
It’s as though Bennett’s the painter and I’m the canvas; every kiss a stroke of the brush, revealing, little by little, the unexpected masterpiece that is our embrace.
Chapter 15
Are you sure you don’t want any?” Pó Po says as she wrestles the cork out of a wine bottle.
“I’m all wined out from last night. Here, let me help you,” I say, reaching for the Pinot Noir she’s chosen. I pull the cork out and pour the bottle’s contents into a stemless glass, the ruby liquid splashing up against the sides.
“What happened last night?” Pó Po asks.
I give Pó Po a sheepish smile. “I was out…at a Singles Scouting,” I lie.
“You expect me to believe that half-assed lie?” she says skeptically.
I cough out a laugh at her word choice. “No, I don’t,” I admit.
My phone vibrates with a text from Nina. “Nina’s not coming!” I inform Pó Po. “She has to do something with her dress and menu planning for the wedding.”
“Too bad. Is she still wearing white?” Pó Po asks.
“Yes, her jumpsuit is still ivory, Pó Po,” I say. “It’s off-white.”
“Aiyah! You know that color is what people wear to funerals. And it’s not even a dress!”
“But in Western culture, it symbolizes purity. It’s traditional for brides to wear white on their wedding day.”
Pó Po shakes her head to the side. “I don’t like it.”
“She’ll be wearing red for the wedding dinner. She’s also making sure to incorporate traditional elements. You may not like it now, but I think you will!” I exclaim, giving Pó Po a stern but loving look.
“Fine,” she says, giving me a face right back.
“Let’s enjoy ourselves. You know I live for these dinners.” I start pulling dumpling ingredients from my parents’ kitchen, relying on muscle memory to guide my movements.
“I’m glad you were still able to make it,” Pó Po says.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say. And I haven’t. Not one. Our Dumplings and Rom-Dram Dates are the highlight of my month.
Pó Po folds up the sleeves on her lavender linen lounge set. “Have you—”
“—given any thought to Auntie’s latest match? No,” I blurt out.
“I was going to ask if you’ve figured out what you’re wearing to the wedding,” she says patiently. She pours soy sauce over ground pork meat.
“Oh, sorry,” I say as I slice scallions and mince garlic.
She shrugs, moving onto a new topic. “I think you’ll enjoy what I’ve picked for today. In the Mood for Love, directed by Wong Kar Wai. It’s a masterpiece. Very moody. A slow burn.”
“Ooh, moody. That’s exactly what I’m craving,” I say, scooping salt out of a ramekin with a spoon. After last night’s kiss with Bennett, I haven’t been able to think about anything else. “LA is charming in the fall, don’t you think?”
“Aiyah! Stop! That’s sugar, not salt!” Pó Po manages to catch some of the sugar as I pour it over the pork mixture.
“Oops.”
“It’s bright, like every other time of year here, but sure, I guess you could call it charming,” Pó Po says, giving me a weird look.