Lunar Love (60)

The thought of another person being with Bennett is discomforting. But kiss or no kiss, and despite blurred lines, the bet is still technically on, and I have to see that through. For Lunar Love’s sake.

I can feel Pó Po analyzing my expression. “I see,” she finally says.

I pour oil into a pan and turn the heat on the stove on high. “What do you see?”

“You like him.”

“Who? Bennett?” I laugh awkwardly.

“No, the mailman,” she deadpans. “Yes, Bennett.”

“No. I can’t like him. He’s maybe not as horrible as I made him out to be when I first learned about him, but he’s still my rival.”

Now Pó Po laughs. “Rival? What is this, high school football?”

“It’s not funny! His app launches in less than four months. You won’t be laughing when Lunar Love’s boarding up its doors.”

Pó Po laughs harder as she rises from her stool. “Lunar Love has been in business for over half a century,” she says, waving her hands in the air. “You don’t think we faced any competition in our days? Our roots are strong. We’ve survived many competitors. You’ll do the same. I know you can handle the pressure.” She takes the plate of dumplings and arranges a handful of them onto the hot oiled pan.

“Exactly. This is me handling it.”

“After Bennett came to me to learn about his parents, he wanted to pair up and work together,” Pó Po says casually.

I smush hardened dough between my fingers. “No…”

“You know my stance on trends and technology. Auntie and I turned him down, so he branched out on his own.”

“You knew ahead of time that he was going to steal your business concept?”

“I didn’t invent Chinese zodiac matchmaking, Liv,” Pó Po says.

“I know, but still,” I say.

Pó Po neatly folds a kitchen towel and places it next to the stove. “I may have told him about you, but he was the one who said no to my idea to matchmake you two.”

“You tried to matchmake him? With me?” I bury my face in my hands.

“As I said, he told me no.”

“Even better,” I groan. “He was repulsed by me.”

“Quite the opposite,” she states. “He didn’t want to lead you on, is what I think he said. He was preoccupied with his business and didn’t want to get in the way of yours. He’s a good guy. In fact, you told me no, too.”

“When? He must’ve gotten lost among all the men you try to match me with,” I say.

Pó Po lifts her eyebrows. “You never listen.”

I dust flour off my hands, the white powder floating down onto the counter. “That’s for the best. We’re both professionals,” I say. As professional as making out in a museum gets. My heart pitter-patters at the thought of potentially seeing Bennett again tomorrow for my second date. I hope he’ll be there.

“As I said before, it’s okay if you like him,” Pó Po says, not dropping her previous statement. Her eyes make the slightest of movements as she looks into mine. I can’t tell if she’s happy or if this is the tip of a soul-crushing iceberg of disappointment. “So do you?”

“It’s not like it matters. We’re incompatible.”

Pó Po narrows her eyes at me. “You didn’t answer my question. When you think about this man, how do you feel?”

“At first, I wanted to hate him. For obvious reasons. But…he’s actually pretty great.”

Pó Po adds water to the pan and covers it, the steam billowing and enveloping the dumplings in the heat. “But how do you feel?” she repeats.

I watch water droplets collect under the glass lid and drop back into the pan. “Like I don’t want him to fall in love with anyone else.” The realization is like a punch to my stomach.

“Okay,” Pó Po says. “You’re incompatible, yet you’ve gotten this far.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Hardly. I can see it now—”

“—Why do you do that?” she asks.

I look at her, my mouth hanging open. “Do what?”

“That ‘I can see it now’ nonsense. Ever since you and that incompatible ex-boyfriend of yours broke up, you’ve used that line followed by a bunch of negatives to get out of ever having to date anyone. I know it’s your coping mechanism, especially after that incompatible match with your friend. You do it all the time with Auntie and her matches. You did it with mine every time.”

“I don’t do that,” I say defensively over the sizzling dumplings.

“You might lie to this man about how you feel, and you might lie to me, but don’t lie to yourself.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re a matchmaker, not a psychic. Where’s the fun in everything and everyone being predictable? Where’s the magic in that? You have no clue what’s going to happen with the couples you match. You’re not responsible for every element of their relationships,” she says with vigor.

“I can’t all of a sudden change the way I think,” I explain.

“But you can try. And if that doesn’t work, then just try feeling.”