“Stel-la,” his mom said, like she was testing out the sound of the name.
Michael gathered up Stella’s clothes and headed into the work area.
She followed right behind him. “I like her much better than that stripper you dated three years ago.”
“She was a dancer.” Okay, yeah, she’d also been a stripper. He’d been young, and she’d had an awesome body and all those pole moves.
“That one left her dirty underwear in a cup for me to find when I came over.”
Michael rubbed the back of his neck. Even after three years of escorting, he still didn’t understand the strange power games that happened between women. “I broke up with her.”
It had just been about the sex anyway. His dad was a cheater, and rather than commit and hurt people, Michael had spent his early twenties keeping things impersonal. To be honest, it had been a lot of fun, and he’d gone a little crazy, pretty much fucking anyone who showed interest. His memories of the time were a rainbow haze of women’s underwear.
When disaster hit and he needed money, he’d thought, why not get money for it? In his previous line of work, he’d dealt with lots of wealthy older women who propositioned him from time to time. All he’d had to do was accept. Plus, it was the perfect slap in the face to his dad—the reason for the disaster in the first place.
“That was an expensive car Stella drove,” his mom noted.
Michael shrugged, put Stella’s clothes with the other items that needed to be sent out for dry cleaning, and seated himself at his sewing machine.
In Vietnamese, his mom said, “She really likes you. I can tell these things.”
“Who likes him?” Ngoại piped up from her place in front of the TV where she was in the middle of watching Return of the Condor Heroes for the millionth time—the old one starring Andy Lau where the kung-fu-fighting condor was a man in a giant bird suit.
“A customer,” his mom answered.
“The one in the gray skirt?”
“You saw her?”
“Mmmm, I had my eye on her from the first second I saw her. She’s a good girl. Michael should marry her.”
“I’m right here,” Michael said. “And I’m not marrying anyone.” That wasn’t an option when he had to escort. He could still remember all the times when his dad had left during his childhood, the way his mom cried herself to sleep, the way she fell apart but still stayed strong for Michael and his sisters and never missed a day of work. Michael would never hurt a woman by cheating. Never.
Not that Stella would ever want to marry him. Why the hell was he thinking about this anyway? They’d been on three dates. No, not dates. Sessions. Appointments. They were in a practice relationship. This wasn’t real.
“Did I raise you to go kissing people’s daughters like that if you’re not going to marry them?” his mom asked.
He stared up at the ceiling in frustration. “No.”
“She’s good enough for you, Michael.”
Ridiculous. Like he was some kind of rare prize.
Ngoại mmmmed her agreement. “And pretty, too.”
Michael smiled then. Stella was pretty, and she didn’t know it. She was also smart, sweet, caring, brave, and—
His mom laughed and pointed at him. “Look at your face. Don’t try to tell me you don’t like her. It’s clear as day. I’m glad you finally got some good taste in women. Keep this one.”
Ngoại mmmmed.
Michael’s smile froze in place. They were right. He did like Stella, and he wished he didn’t. He knew he didn’t get to keep her.
* * *
• • •
Stella parked at the address Michael had texted her and worried the flowers and chocolates she’d brought were entirely the wrong thing to bring. A Google search of Vietnamese etiquette had told her she really needed to bring something, though the recommendations on actual gifts had been mixed and confusing, ranging from fruit to tea to alcohol. The overall consensus appeared to be that edible was best. Thus, the Godiva chocolates in her passenger seat.
But what if they didn’t like chocolate?
She’d been tempted to ask Michael, but he didn’t need to know how neurotic she was or how big of a deal meeting new people was for her. And these weren’t just any people. These were Michael’s family, important people, and she wanted to give a good impression.
Toward that end, she’d spent the day devising conversation trees in her head so she could minimize the need for social improvising, which often ended badly for her. If she was asked what she did, she had a quick explanation and follow-up questions ready. If they asked about her hobbies and interests, she was prepared. If they asked how she’d met Michael, she’d make him explain. She was a terrible liar.
For several stomach-twisting moments, she ran through her list of presocialization reminders: think before you talk (anything and everything can be an insult to someone; when in doubt, say nothing), be nice, sitting on your hands prevents fidgeting and feels good, make eye contact, smile (no teeth, that’s scary), don’t start thinking about work, don’t let yourself talk about work (no one wants to hear about it), please and thank you, apologize with feeling.
Grabbing the bouquet of gerbera daisies and dark chocolate truffles, she got out of her car and stared at the two-story East Palo Alto house. When she’d first moved here five years ago, this area had been the ghetto. With Silicon Valley’s continued expansion and success, East Palo Alto land values had skyrocketed. All of the homes nearby were now million-dollar real estate—even this modest little gray house with its cracked cement driveway and scraggly landscaping that, upon closer inspection, consisted of thriving, knee-high herbs.
As she walked toward the front door where flies and moths buzzed around the bright porchlight, she ran a palm over the scratchy tops of the plants, appreciating the fresh smell. She loved that Grandma liked to keep busy.
She pressed on the doorbell button and waited. No one came. Her gut knotted.
She knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked louder.
Still nothing.
She confirmed the address on her phone. This was the right place. Michael’s M3 was even parked in the driveway. Before she could drive herself crazy deciding what to do, the door opened.
Michael smiled at her. “Right on time.”
She tightened her grip on the stuff she’d brought, basically having an internal meltdown of uncertainty. “I don’t know if I got the right things.”
He unloaded the flowers and chocolate from her hands with an odd expression on his face. “You didn’t have to bring anything. Really.”
Panic surged. “Oh, I can take them back. Let me put them—”
He set the items on a side table and stroked a thumb over her cheek. “My mom will love them. Thank you.”
She released a long breath. “What happens now?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I think the usual greeting is a hug.”
“Oh.” She held her hands out awkwardly and stepped toward him, certain she was doing everything wrong.
Until his arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her close. His scent, his warmth, and his solidness surrounded her. That was one hundred percent right.
He pulled away with a soft look in his eyes. “Ready?”
At her nod, he ushered her through a marble-tiled entryway, past a formal dining area, and into a kitchen that was open to an adjoining family room. The massive boxy TV in the room grabbed her attention. A man and a woman in traditional Chinese opera attire took turns warbling out similar series of notes. After a particularly impassioned iteration, Michael’s grandma clapped. Sitting next to her at the kitchen table, his mom paused in the process of peeling mangoes to voice her appreciation.
When she noticed Stella and Michael, his mom waved with her peeler. “Hello. We eat soon.”
Stella worked up a smile and a wave. Bracing herself for an evening of nerve-racking social performance, she approached them and asked, “Can I help?”
A wide smile stretched over Michael’s mom’s face, and she set her peeler and the plate she’d used to gather mango peels in front of the empty chair to her left. When Stella unbuttoned her cuffs, Michael flashed her a grin and turned on the gas range.