Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(33)

I dropped three batches of dumplings into the wok, wanting to serve Daniel the freshest fare possible. As they cooked, I pulled out a large melamine platter and a pair of chopsticks from the shelves.

The restaurant’s serving ware was worn but still functional and, at this point, even if I wanted to update the collection, I couldn’t afford to. Besides, my grandmother had used these very bowls. If I replaced them, I would lose that connection with her.

I looked over at Daniel. His pupils were dilated. The corners of his mouth turned up, wolfish, grinning, but not at me—at the full tray I was carrying. A trickle of sweat traveled from my hairline and down to my brow, setting off a slow burn under my skin. The dials on my internal stove clicked as my temperature climbed, flaring, pulsing, unfurling like a bushfire. His lust for the food had once again become mine. His passion was my aphrodisiac.

After unloading the platter, I didn’t dare linger, lest I combust while I watched him eat.

In the kitchen, hissing steam rolled off my skin as I downed glass after glass of ice water. The galley was once again enveloped in a thick fog, as thick as the foam of a Florentine cappuccino. Slowly my temperature returned to normal, but my heart still galloped in my chest. What was it about Daniel that affected me so?

Ma-ma had never warned me about this, although she’d had a warning pertaining to everything else. We had never had the talk about the birds and the bees because she was too busy talking about demons. I guess they were more important than sex education.

The public school system taught me everything I needed to know physiologically, but we had never learned nuances such as romance. And coming from a broken home, I’d had no romantic role models to follow. The best part of any relationship was the beginning: the potential, the attraction, when the enjoyment of each other was the only focus. But the longer a relationship dragged, the more exposed I was to the ugliness of my flaws.

I’d been afraid that Emilio would realize I was unworthy of his love. I’d left him before he could leave me.

And so I always ran.

Because, in the end, I was most afraid I would end up like Ma-ma. Trapped in the ghost of a relationship if not an apartment.

Daniel didn’t even know my name. It wasn’t as if we’d shared intimate conversations. I served him food and he ate it. I knew nothing about him save for his incredible appetite and the information on his lanyard, yet I liked him enough to tell Celia about him.

I needed to know more, but I was afraid to speak to him and burst this bubble, the fragment of hope that this could turn out differently than the wreckage of my past dalliances. Infatuation from a distance was safer than engaging and discovering that it wasn’t meant to be. I told myself to be brave, but I still wasn’t sure I could do this.

I peeked through the doorway. As anticipated, Daniel was finished with his meal. Three clean bowls were stacked on top of the empty platter. His long fingers tapped an unfamiliar up-tempo rhythm on the counter. The way he splayed his fingers suggested he was quite adept at the piano. The lanyard hanging from his neck bobbed with the movement.

“You play the piano?”

He pulled the earbuds out. “For as long as I can remember. Didn’t your parents also force you to take lessons? It’s the Chinese way after all.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe you had a violin under your chin instead?”

“My mother missed the music lessons memo. I never took piano, though I do admit, I’m curious about what I missed out on.”

“Most people will tell you horror stories about how it was like prison because they’d be stuck on that bench until their sentence was done. For me, though, it wasn’t torture because I love music.” There was a spark of mischief in his brown eyes. “What kind of lessons did your mother put you through?”

The visual of a pint-size Daniel playing the piano danced in my head. I’d never had many friends growing up, but I felt as if Daniel could have been one. He must have been adorable and quite serious about the task at hand, just as I’d been when listening to my mother as she instructed me how to properly use a knife. When I was growing up, Ma-ma was leery of strangers coming into the house and never liked the idea of my leaving for an hour or two for lessons that I would have to travel outside of our neighborhood to get to. Instead, I found my way inside the kitchen, learning about the power of spices, how to fillet a fish, and the art of dim sum.

“She taught me how to cook,” I replied. “Everything I know I learned from her and from working in other chefs’ kitchens.”

“She must have been an amazing chef. Those culinary lessons you got are priceless. So this means she ran the restaurant before you? I don’t remember this place being open last year or the year before that.”

“No, it was closed for a long time. My grandmother was the one who was in charge, but that was decades ago. When my mother had me, I guess she decided to focus on her family and abandoned it.”

Daniel opened his wallet, revealing crisp bills.

“You’re paying too much. I’m starting to crack down on the handouts.”

“It’s not a handout.” He placed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “This includes the tip.”

I slid the bill back across the counter. “I’m not even open yet. It’s too much.”

“The food was good.” He pushed the bill back.