The Bride Test(7)

M? shook her head. “That feels wrong.”

“If he tells you he loves you but backs out of marriage because you have a daughter, you don’t want him anyway. But this woman knows her son, and she chose you. You have to try. At the very least, you get a whole summer in America. Do you know how lucky you are? Don’t you want to see America? Where in America is it?”

“She said California, but I don’t think I can stand being away that long.” M? brushed her fingers across her daughter’s baby-soft cheek. She’d never been away from home longer than a day. What if Ng?c Anh thought she’d abandoned her?

Her mom’s forehead creased with thought, and she got up to dig through a pile of boxes kept in the corner. They were her mom’s personal things, and no one was allowed to open them. Growing up, M? used to snoop through them when no one was looking, especially the bottom one. When her mom opened that box specifically and rustled through its contents, M?’s heart started sprinting.

“That’s where your dad is from. Here, look.” Her mom handed her a yellowed photo of a man with his arm thrown around her shoulders. M? had spent countless hours peering at this photo, holding it close, looking at it upside down, squinting, anything to confirm the man’s eyes were green and he was, in fact, her father, but nothing worked. The picture had been taken from too far away. His eyes could be any color. They appeared brown, if she was being honest with herself.

The lettering on his shirt, however, was easy to read. It clearly said Cal Berkeley.

“Is that what ‘Cal’ stands for?” she asked. “California?”

Her mom nodded. “I looked it up. It’s a famous university. Maybe when you’re there, you can go see it. Maybe … you can try to find him.”

M?’s heart jumped so hard her fingers tingled. “Are you finally going to tell me his name?” she asked, her voice whisper thin. All she knew was “Phil.” That was the name her grandma whispered with hate when she and M? were alone. That Phil. Mister Phil. Your mother’s Phil.

A bitter smile touched her mom’s lips. “He said his full name was ugly. All anyone ever called him was Phil. I think his surname started with an L.”

M?’s hopes shattered before they’d fully formed. “It’s impossible, then.”

Her mom’s expression went determined. “You don’t know until you try. Maybe if they use the expensive computers, they can make a list for you. If you work hard, there’s a chance.”

M? gazed at the picture of her dad, feeling the yearning in her chest grow bigger with every second. Did he live in California? How would he react if he opened his door … and saw her? Would he accuse her of coming to ask for money?

Or would he be happy to find a daughter he’d never known he had?

She opened up the picture of Kh?i on her phone and held the two photos side by side on her lap. What had C? Nga seen in her that she thought M? was a good match for her son? Would her son see it too? And would he accept her daughter? Would her own father accept his daughter?

Either way, her mom was right. She wouldn’t know until she tried. On both accounts.

M? typed out a text message to C? Nga and hit send.


Yes, I want to try.

“I’m going to do it,” she told her mom. She tried to sound confident, but she was quaking inside. What had she just agreed to?

“I knew you would, and I’m glad. We’ll take good care of Ng?c Anh while you’re gone. Now, go to sleep. You still have to work tomorrow.” The light clicked off. But after the room went dark, her mom said, “You should know with just one summer, you don’t have time to do things the traditional way. You have to play to win, even if you’re not sure you want him. As long as he’s not evil, love can grow. And remember, good girls don’t get the man. You need to be bad, M?.”

M? swallowed. She had a good idea what “bad” meant, and she was surprised her mom dared to suggest it with her grandma in the room.





CHAPTER TWO


Present day


As Khai’s running shoes hit the cracked concrete of the driveway leading to his Sunnyvale fixer-upper, which he never got around to fixing up, the timer on his watch beeped. Exactly fifteen minutes.

Yes.

There was nothing as satisfying as perfect increments of time. Except for hitting whole dollar amounts when filling up at the gas station. Or when the restaurant bill was a prime number or a segment of the Fibonacci sequence or just all eights. Eight was such an elegant number. If he added a minute to his run, he could set a checkpoint in the middle. Wouldn’t that be entertaining?

He was mentally rerouting his daily commute when he noticed the black Ducati parked next to his bird-shit-smattered Porsche on the curb. Quan was here, and he’d driven that, even though their mom hated it and Khai had provided him with all the death and brain damage statistics multiple times. Giving the motorcycle a wide berth, he jogged to his front door, avoided the thorny weed bush that thrived in the shade beneath the awning, and let himself in.

Inside, he removed his shoes and immediately peeled his socks off. Heaven was bare feet sinking into his house’s 1970s shag carpet. Initially, he’d hated it—the pea-green color was offensive—but walking on it felt a lot like taking a stroll in the clouds Mary Poppins style. It used to smell funny, but time had fixed it. Either that, or he’d assimilated the scents of mothballs and old ladies into his identity. He was going to keep the carpet until the house became officially condemned by Santa Clara County.