The Kiss Quotient(44)

“There’s a lot of food there. My mom had me cook for like a hundred people last night.”

She adjusted her glasses as her heart started ramping up for takeoff. “I’d really like to go home.”

“Do you have anything to eat at your place?”

“I have yogurt. I’ll eat it. I promise.”

He shook his head as he released a tight huff of breath. “I’ll feed you quick and then take you home.”

Before she could think up a suitable response, he pulled into the driveway of the little gray house. When he opened the door, she could hear the same music carrying faintly on the wind. She gripped her seat belt like a lifeline.

“I can’t handle the TV tonight,” she confessed in a pained whisper. After last night, her usual tolerance was gone. She’d fall apart and scare everyone. Michael would change his mind about the arrangement—she still couldn’t believe he didn’t want to cancel. Or he’d start walking on eggshells around her, which was worse.

“Hold on a minute.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and typed in something on the screen.

Within moments, the music stopped.

“You made them turn it off? Won’t your mom and grandma be unhappy they can’t watch their shows?” Her entire body flamed with embarrassment. She despised it when people had to make changes for her.

He gave her a funny look. “It’s just TV.”

“I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”

“We don’t mind.” He walked around to her side, opened the door, and held his hand out. “Will you come in?”



* * *



? ? ?

When Stella’s small hand landed in his palm, the hard knot of tension in Michael’s gut loosened, but an awful brew of guilt and sadness continued to eat at him.

She looked terrible. Her bun was off-center, and messy strands framed her drawn face. Her normally bright, expressive eyes were dim, swollen, and shadowed. His heart dipped when he realized she must have cried a lot to make them that way. He’d made her cry.

This was not his Stella.

Well, the sweatiness of her hand was all Stella. He squeezed gently and led her to the front porch.

When he opened the door and prepared to enter, she stiffened and dug in her feet. “I forgot to bring something. Google says I’m supposed to bring something. Let me go and—”

“It’s fine, Stella.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and propelled her into the house.

Inside the entryway, she shut her eyes and took a breath. He could see her absorbing the silence, feel her body relaxing against his arm.

“You know you can always tell me when things bother you, right? Like the TV last night . . . or the club last week.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, but instead of looking at him, she stared off to the side, suddenly tense all over again. “Did Quan say something to you?”

Michael hesitated to answer. Something told him it was extremely important to her that he didn’t know, so he did what he’d learned from his dad even though he hated it. He lied. “Only that the noise and crowd were too much for you. Why didn’t you tell me? I wish you had.”

“I already told you I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”

“We could have done something else,” he said in exasperation. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her or make her uncomfortable.

“Why are there oranges here?” she asked, indicating the plate of oranges next to the urn of incense and bronze Buddha statue on the table in the entryway.

“Don’t change the subject.”

She sighed. “Fine. It embarrasses me. A lot.”

All that self-torture . . . because it embarrassed her to admit she was different? His insides melted down, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Can you tell me about the oranges now?”

He smiled at her single-mindedness. “It’s an offering for the dead. Supposedly, they get hungry in the afterlife,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. As a scientist type, she had to think this was silly. He did, too, but it was something Ngo?i and his mom liked to do.

A small smile played over her lips. “Do you give them other kinds of food, too? I’d get tired of fruit all the time, myself. How about candy?”

He laughed. “You’ve had enough candy today.”

“What do you do with the fruit now that it’s been offered? I assume the dead don’t actually rise and consume it . . .”

“We eat it. I’m not entirely clear on how long you’re supposed to wait, but at least a day or so, I think.”

“Hm.” She inspected the Buddha statue, angled her head so she could see behind it. Judging by her expression, she was fascinated, and he recalled that she loved martial arts films and DramaFever. She did not look condescending or bored or imposed upon. She did not look like his dad.

“Do you feel like you’ve entered the set of an Asian drama? Is that what’s going on here?” he asked.

“This is better. This is real life.” She pointed to the box of incense hidden away behind the statue. “Can I light one? Will you show me how to do it? I’ve always wanted to.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t actually know how. I mean, I don’t remember the order of the lighting and the bowing and all that. When I was little, I refused to do it, and Ngo?i stopped requesting it.”