Lunar Love (70)

“I had no idea,” I whisper. “How could you never have told me this? This is huge.”

“No one knows,” she says. “How would it look if the founder of Lunar Love was promoting compatible love when she herself never had a compatible marriage?”

All my thoughts rush to me at once. I sit frozen in place, my hands gripping the sides of my chair. “I don’t understand. Did you both agree to lie about his birthday?”

A small smile lifts Pó Po’s cheeks. “Something like that. For so long, I believed that my husband died because I rejected my parents’ safe, compatible arranged marriage. Lunar Love was my repentance, what I promised myself I’d do. I committed to a life of compatibility and would make it work no matter what.”

“You stubborn woman,” I say with an amazed laugh, my shock slowly wearing off.

“You see why my stubbornness was inhibiting,” she says. “The thing with spending more than fifty years of your life doing something is that you gain a good sense of what’s important, compatible or not.”

“Compatible or not?” I whisper.

Pó Po reaches for my hand and pulls it into her lap. “Don’t get me wrong. Compatibility is the bread and butter of Lunar Love, and there’s truth in the system. But here’s something else I’ve learned in my lifetime: you should be with someone who not only makes you happy, but who challenges you.”

“Who challenges me?” I repeat. What is happening right now? “I can’t believe this.”

“If you really boil it down, Lunar Love provides people with the knowledge and tools for making relationships work.” Pó Po gives my hand a light squeeze. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me, so I didn’t tell you sooner,” she says.

“Disappointed in you? You could never disappoint me. Thank you for telling me,” I say, squeezing her hand gently. “Your secret is safe with me.” Pó Po leans in for a hug, and I hold her tight.

I’m still processing this information when the room quiets for my toast as maid of honor. I grab my glass of champagne and overcompensate with a forced smile that makes my cheeks burn. My already shallow breathing quickens until I feel like I’m going to burst. Bennett turns from his conversation and picks up the napkin that slides off my lap, placing it on the table.

“I consider myself lucky that love is my life,” I start, my voice shaky. “I am literally around love every day. In the thick of it. Helping create it. Which means, when I say I’ve never seen a love quite like Nina and Asher’s, you should believe me. It’s an honor to witness a partnership filled with respect, laughter, intense debates, a flair for the theatrical—as evidenced by Nina and Asher’s entrance—lots of love, and honesty.”

Light laughter fills the room. “I know a perfect match when I see one,” I continue. “Nina and Asher, I love you both. Congratulations, and may your best days be ahead of you.” I hold up my glass and a chorus of clinks rings out in the room.

Once the carrot wedding cake—in the shape of a Rooster for Nina and Asher’s signs, made by yours truly—is cut, the band members trickle in. Dressed in all-white tuxedos and sequin bow ties, five older Chinese women take their places at their instruments. No one knows what to anticipate. The woman with the flute begins to play familiar, high-pitched opening notes.

“It’s time for their first dance!” Pó Po squeals, having already moved on to the next event of the evening.

The singer opens her mouth to sing and out comes a Mandarin version of “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion. Bennett and I glance at each other and burst into laughter at how unexpected it is. Nina and Asher look confused but dance anyway to the romantic crooning. They hold each other close, their feet moving in sync on the temporary dance floor, and laugh together. Pó Po closes her eyes and sings along, swaying back and forth in her seat.

The last note of the song ends, and I’m excited to hear what they play next. It’s anybody’s guess. The saxophonist leans forward with her instrument, the smooth notes of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” filling the room. Pó Po drags me with all the strength she can muster to join her, while I try to pull Bennett up to join us.

“You can’t not dance!” I shout to him over the music.

“I don’t dance in public!” he says. “Remember? Junior prom.”

“What could’ve been so bad? You were what, seventeen? We all look ridiculous at seventeen.”

He shakes his head. “It involved a pulled hamstring, sweaty bangs, split boxers, and my entire grade laughing at me.”

“I promise I won’t laugh when you pull your quad this time,” I say very seriously.

Bennett stays put in his seat.

My shoulders drop. “You’re really going to make me dance alone?”

Bennett visibly tenses. “Sorry,” he says, “but honestly? You don’t want me dancing with you. It’ll just be humiliating.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want,” I say, disheartened.

“Love is crazy, and that’s the thing!” Pó Po sings, reinterpreting the lyrics. The song is performed in English this time so even I can sing along if I want to. She dances her heart out and tugs at my arm. I follow her, abandoning Bennett at the table. I recall what Pó Po said about him not wanting to get too attached. A cloud of uneasiness looms over me, but Pó Po’s excitement pushes it away.