Lunar Love (57)

“Right, traditions were meant to be broken,” I say flatly.

Bennett holds his free hand up in defense. “I said that in one interview, and you’re taking it out of context. I think traditions are meant to be broken when they’re rigid like rules and run the risk of being lost to history. My way of going about it is probably bolder than you’re used to.”

I tap my finger against the stem of my glass. “Maybe.”

“I do think it’s incredible you’re trying to preserve what your Pó Po started. In this day and age, that’s rare.” His eyes dart down at me before he refocuses them on the city view ahead of us. “Who in your family is involved?” he asks.

“My pó po and auntie were involved, as you know,” I say, emphasizing my last words. “My mom followed a different path. So did my sister. But I was hooked from the start. I purposely went to college in Los Angeles so I could keep working in the business part-time. I even tailored my major so I could be better at my job.”

“Business degree? Communications?” Bennett asks.

“Psychology. I wanted to better understand how people act and think and how they fall in love,” I explain. “I care about the work I do but I might’ve lost sight of who I am in order to keep the family legacy alive. And if I don’t succeed, I think I’ll be proving something that, deep down, I feel about myself.”

Just as quickly as the words float out of me, they’re carried away on a breeze across the hillside. How long have I felt this? I’ve been so in the thick of everything that I haven’t had time to fully process my emotions. Sometimes it’s easier to stuff down uncomfortable feelings than to deal with them head-on.

Bennett nods thoughtfully. “You feel like you’re overcompensating so you don’t fail and feel less of…something…than you already do.”

“Maybe? Probably.”

His face relaxes into a soft smile. “Vague, but I can relate.”

I look over at him. “You can?”

“If ZodiaCupid fails, or doesn’t live up to its potential, it’ll be a huge blow. More than any other business I’ve started before. This one’s too personal to me.”

I tilt my head in understanding, remembering what he told me about his mother.

“With this app, I learn something new every day about the Chinese zodiac,” he continues. “About people. About myself. And I love that. Even to this day, though, I feel like that little kid learning about himself at the library. I’ve never had to explain to people that I’m Chinese more than I do now. I love being mixed and celebrating all of my cultures, though, even if I often feel like I don’t fit into any of the communities.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Realization dawns that maybe how I feel is that if Lunar Love fails, my insecurities about not being Asian enough to run this business are true. Most of the Chinese zodiac resource books at Lunar Love are in Mandarin, a language I can hardly hold a conversation in. In the early days of the business, client sessions used to take place exclusively in Chinese until Pó Po’s English improved. But what’s Asian enough?

“If I fail, it’ll confirm things I think about myself, as you said,” Bennett divulges. “Like an imposter.”

“The syndrome is real,” I say.

“Sorry, I made this about me,” Bennett says. “Please, continue.”

I bite my lip. “No, go on.”

Bennett scrunches his face. “It’ll be as though I’m not Chinese enough or I don’t belong doing this because I didn’t grow up one hundred percent immersed in the Chinese culture. As though the bits and pieces of the culture that my mom did choose to celebrate and teach me won’t be sufficient. It’s silly.”

The emotion hits differently when it’s said out loud. “I don’t think it’s silly. If it’s something that you experience, that makes it real,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

The sun lowers in the sky, the temperature dropping with it. I readjust my grip on the wineglass and hug my arms against my chest, pulling my oversized, colorful, geometric sweater tighter around my body. Bennett notices and moves even closer.

He smiles, and for a moment it’s just us under the pink and purple clouds. From this vantage point, we can see the rhythm strip of the downtown skyline—the heartbeat of Los Angeles—the San Gabriel Mountains, and the Pacific Ocean floating in the distance.

We fall silent, our eyes locked on one another’s. Feeling his eyes on me makes me nervous in an excited sort of way.

“Let’s go see the Irises,” I say abruptly.

I set my wine down on a table and cross the patio to a building across the way as Bennett follows closely behind. Inside is quieter at this hour as museumgoers flock to the patio to catch the sunset. We wander through the halls until we find Vincent van Gogh’s Irises.

The iconic painting hangs in front of me, and I’m swept up in the swirling movement of the leaves, the violet petals twisted together, their figures carefully captured in vivid hues.

Bennett sidles up so close next to me that our arms touch. I tilt my head toward him without removing my eyes from the painting.

“You can almost feel the flowers moving,” I say, dreamily.

“He painted this in, what…” Bennett takes a closer look at the museum label next to the painting. “1889. So this was after he had been hospitalized. If memory serves me right, these flowers are based on the ones that were in the mental institution’s garden. He painted nearly one hundred and thirty pieces during his stay there.” He looks over at me and quickly adds, “It’s also nice to think about how seeing these flowers in the garden must’ve helped him through a tough time.”