Lunar Love
Lauren Kung Jessen
For those who are also mixed and have felt like they aren’t enough or don’t belong.
You are and you do.
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Chapter 1
In my almost eight years of matchmaking, there’s one thing I know to be true: love is like the moon.
Case in point: love moves in phases. New love is a barely there whisper in the night sky, a slow burn into brightness. The relationship matures in the first quarter, advancing into full illumination—two compatible people becoming whole. The immediate passion wanes but doesn’t disappear. Instead, the initial flash evolves into a steady glow. Like the moon, love is dependable. You don’t have to see the moon or love to know they’re there.
Both the moon and love are romantic and enchanting, can be moody and mysterious, possess dark sides, and have gravitational pulls on us that we just can’t control, no matter how hard we try. The moon was formed when a large object collided into Earth, a happenstance so cataclysmically devastating that produced something so beautiful. When two people collide, there’s the possibility that love will be created. There’s also the potential for us and everything we’ve ever known to be thrown out of orbit.
As a matchmaker at Lunar Love, my family’s Chinese zodiac matchmaking business, it’s my duty to keep clients and their relationships rotating on their axes and revolving in orbit. I make thoughtful and personalized matches based on people’s compatible animal sign traits. My years of hard work have paid off because I’ll officially be in charge of Lunar Love in just a few hours. By the end of today, its legacy will be my responsibility.
I’ve dedicated myself to my craft, so one day, I can be half as good as Pó Po, who has grown Lunar Love through the decades. Expectations to make matches is one thing, but when you’re the granddaughter of Lunar Love’s famously successful matriarch, whose match rate for Chinese zodiac matchmaking is near-perfect, expectations reach truly celestial heights.
I park in my usual spot in the public parking garage a couple of blocks from Lunar Love and weave through early-bird tourists on the hunt for breakfast in Los Angeles’s Chinatown. In the eight-minute walk from my car to Lucky Monkey Bakery, I watch vendors roll their boxes of vegetables and fruits on hand trucks and bump against early morning shoppers eager to beat the crowds. Burnt orange lanterns are strung between colorful pagoda-style shops, dotting the light blue, cloud-speckled sky. Vivid murals recount Chinese legends, the colorful mosaics popping against the dulled brick.
An incoming call from my mom glows on my phone screen. Before I can say hello, a voice at the other end frantically speaks. “Where are you? Never mind. I need you to make a quick stop!”
“I’m grabbing a late breakfast at Lucky Monkey,” I say, quickening my pace.
“Oh, perfect! I need you to pick up extra buns.” The stress in Mom’s voice practically makes my cellphone vibrate.
“Don’t you think the cake I made will be enough? Plus all the pastries Dad made?” I ask, sidestepping a man carrying a tub of fish. “Lucky Monkey’s been open for a couple of hours already so I don’t know how much will be left.”
“Pó Po wants cocktail buns for her birthday breakfast. Just choose an assortment of items, but don’t forget cocktail buns. Apparently, she’s having a coconut craving.”
I nod to myself. “Got it.”
“And a few Bo Lo Baos for me. One second.” At a lower volume away from the phone, I hear Mom bark out more orders, to my father most likely. “Have you decided on the balloons for Nina’s Cookie Day?” Mom asks, a question directed at me this time.
“Of course. I’m finalizing the details on that today,” I say, making a mental note. “Okay, I’m here. See you soon.”
As I approach Lucky Monkey Bakery, my stomach grumbles in excitement. The bakery hasn’t changed much in over five decades, with its unassuming fa?ade featuring a single identifying sign written in Chinese characters. Behind its doors is a wonderland of sweet and savory baked goods with a variety of fillings and cakes and tarts that look too pretty to eat.
A wave of unexpected heat greets me when I step into the shop, the ringing of bells above the door the soundtrack to my entrance. Near the entryway, the yellow walls are lined with framed photos and articles from magazines featuring the bakery. A Polaroid photo of me, my sister, and my old best friend from twenty years ago catches my eye. Our noses and cheeks are covered in flour, our smiles almost bigger than our faces. I inhale the scent of butter, egg, and sugar and continue on with my mission.
The owners, Mae and Dale Zhang, a husband and wife who started their bakery around the time Pó Po first set up shop here, pack as much as they can into the small space. They became fast friends with Pó Po, and I’ve known them my entire life, so while they’re not technically blood related, they’re as close to family as they can get. To me, they’re just Mae Yí-Pó and Dale Yí-Gong and are practically my third set of grandparents.
Mae Yí-Pó and Dale Yí-Gong have established a reputation for making colorful cakes and offering the widest variety of Asian baked goods. Once they sell out of something, it’s gone for the day, so regulars know to show up early to get first pick.