We all hold up our teacups to toast and then sip the green-chamomile concoction.
Nina and Asher take their seats and more waiters come out with platters and bamboo steamers filled with food. A whole steamed fish is placed in the center of each table, the silvery gray of the fish’s scales and sliced green scallions vibrant against the bleached white tablecloth. Around the fish are bowls of steamed rice, stir-fried vegetables, hot and sour soup, long-life noodles, and platters of Peking duck with steamed buns and hoisin sauce. Plates of garlic-and-ginger shrimp are squeezed in wherever there’s room to fit them. Baskets of dim sum are piled on top of one another, welcoming interaction between guests at the table.
I fill my plate with a mound of steamed rice. Before I can add more, Pó Po takes over.
“No, no! Not enough food for you,” she says. Pó Po grabs my plate and piles more food onto it. “You need to eat so you have energy to keep up with me on the dance floor.”
Bennett follows suit, filling his plate with enough food to make Pó Po proud. Within minutes, he and Uncle Rupert are engaged in deep conversation about when dinosaurs last roamed the earth.
Pó Po watches me over the course of the meal. At the very least, I finish off the rice so that she doesn’t have to remind me of the importance of eating every last grain.
“Bennett reminds me so much of Gōng Gong. Strong-willed, earnest, patient, and handsome,” Pó Po leans over and whispers. “Things seem to be going well.”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” I mumble. Since my last talk with Pó Po, more has happened between me and Bennett. “It’s been nice, but we’ve been together because of work. Who knows what will happen once we sort out this podcast situation. That bet I made, well, we called it off. I’m not sure what will happen now, but with Bennett being a Rat—”
Pó Po shakes her head. “Incompatibility. Compatibility. If you let it, they’ll all rule your life.”
My mouth goes slack. “Uh, isn’t that the point?”
Pó Po tucks a curl behind her ear. “Sometimes in life, there isn’t a point. Sometimes we demand that there is. We pray that there is. And sometimes, we make a point when one isn’t needed. When things are actually quite simple.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “One day you’re pro compatibility, the next you’re not.”
Pó Po’s dark brown eyes glimmer as she grabs for my hand. “Liv, can I tell you something that you promise to keep secret?”
I look back to make sure Bennett’s still talking to Uncle Rupert. “Of course, Pó Po. You can tell me anything. What is it?”
Pó Po folds the cloth napkin across her lap and then looks up at me like she’s only going to say what she’s about to say once. “Gōng Gong and I weren’t technically compatible,” she finally tells me in a hushed tone. She looks around to make sure no one else heard.
My hand loosens its grip, my chopsticks dropping into my lap. “What’s that now?”
“I rejected my parents’ arranged marriage for me and married Gōng Gong instead.” She continues when I don’t say anything. “They matchmade me too late. He was my first and only love, and he happened to be incompatible. I wish you could have known him. When I say his death quite literally tore my world apart, I mean it. My children were the only ones who got me through that dark time. Which leads me to why I started Lunar Love.”
“I had no idea,” I whisper. “How could you never have told me this? This is huge.”
“No one knows,” she says. “How would it look if the founder of Lunar Love was promoting compatible love when she herself never had a compatible marriage?”
All my thoughts rush to me at once. I sit frozen in place, my hands gripping the sides of my chair. “I don’t understand. Did you both agree to lie about his birthday?”
A small smile lifts Pó Po’s cheeks. “Something like that. For so long, I believed that my husband died because I rejected my parents’ safe, compatible arranged marriage. Lunar Love was my repentance, what I promised myself I’d do. I committed to a life of compatibility and would make it work no matter what.”
“You stubborn woman,” I say with an amazed laugh, my shock slowly wearing off.
“You see why my stubbornness was inhibiting,” she says. “The thing with spending more than fifty years of your life doing something is that you gain a good sense of what’s important, compatible or not.”
“Compatible or not?” I whisper.
Pó Po reaches for my hand and pulls it into her lap. “Don’t get me wrong. Compatibility is the bread and butter of Lunar Love, and there’s truth in the system. But here’s something else I’ve learned in my lifetime: you should be with someone who not only makes you happy, but who challenges you.”
“Who challenges me?” I repeat. What is happening right now? “I can’t believe this.”
“If you really boil it down, Lunar Love provides people with the knowledge and tools for making relationships work.” Pó Po gives my hand a light squeeze. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me, so I didn’t tell you sooner,” she says.
“Disappointed in you? You could never disappoint me. Thank you for telling me,” I say, squeezing her hand gently. “Your secret is safe with me.” Pó Po leans in for a hug, and I hold her tight.
I’m still processing this information when the room quiets for my toast as maid of honor. I grab my glass of champagne and overcompensate with a forced smile that makes my cheeks burn. My already shallow breathing quickens until I feel like I’m going to burst. Bennett turns from his conversation and picks up the napkin that slides off my lap, placing it on the table.
“I consider myself lucky that love is my life,” I start, my voice shaky. “I am literally around love every day. In the thick of it. Helping create it. Which means, when I say I’ve never seen a love quite like Nina and Asher’s, you should believe me. It’s an honor to witness a partnership filled with respect, laughter, intense debates, a flair for the theatrical—as evidenced by Nina and Asher’s entrance—lots of love, and honesty.”
Light laughter fills the room. “I know a perfect match when I see one,” I continue. “Nina and Asher, I love you both. Congratulations, and may your best days be ahead of you.” I hold up my glass and a chorus of clinks rings out in the room.
Once the carrot wedding cake—in the shape of a Rooster for Nina and Asher’s signs, made by yours truly—is cut, the band members trickle in. Dressed in all-white tuxedos and sequin bow ties, five older Chinese women take their places at their instruments. No one knows what to anticipate. The woman with the flute begins to play familiar, high-pitched opening notes.