Page 39 of A Banh Mi for Two
“I’m not brave, Vivi,” she continues. “You made me brave somehow. With you here, I felt less… alone. And for some reason, I felt the same today as I did years ago with my dad: happy.”
A gnawing feeling claws up my chest, and I try to force it down along with the lump in my throat. All this time, I’ve been going on about how Mom can’t understand me without even thinking of Lan and her grief over her dad. I almost think about living without Mom—almost, because I can’t. Can’t imagine not hearing her nagging through the phone.
“What… happened four years ago, Lan? Only if you want to tell me.”
Lan’s eyes meet mine, and because we’re mere inches apart, I can see the sadness eclipsing her irises. Her throat bobbles, and without knowing if it’s a boundary I can cross, I reach for her arm and pull her into me. Her cheek meets the crook of my neck, and she sniffles faintly against my ear.
“He was helping my mom deliver a catering order, but on the way back, he had a stroke. His health was already deteriorating, but he kept it all from us. Someone from the hospital called us that night.”
“I’m sorry, Lan.” Sniffles turn into tears, but I welcome them. “He was taken from you too soon. I’m sorry you’ve had to take care of your mom all alone. It must have been hard, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” The tears roll down her cheeks, each droplet larger than the last. “It’s been really, really, really hard.”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I choke out. “For dragging you here and being so stupid and making this whole day about me.”
She shakes her head, smiling sadly as she wipes away the tears. “No. It felt like I was doing something I like. Not working the bánh mì stall, not running errands, not sitting somewhere and trying to write. But exploring, trying new things, having fun. Being at Ch? B?n Thành helps me see Sài Gòn in a new light. Does that sound weird?”
“No, it doesn’t. I think it sounds like you really, really love this city.” To love your own home, I’ve realized, is something so special, and to think I could help Lan feels like a dream.
She nods. “I do.”
The crowd in the market has thinned out, yet Lan still holds on to my hand tightly as if I might let go of her. Has she noticed the way our palms feel against each other, too? The way I’m so flustered just because of her touch?
A loud boom shakes through Ch? B?n Thành.
I jump. “What was that?”
She laughs. “Probably rain.”
Rain? Rain doesn’t make this kind of sound.
She cocks her head. “What? Doesn’t it rain everywhere?”
“I’m from California. It’s a desert. You can fry an egg on the pavement in the summer there,” I say defensively.
From inside the market, we watch the torrential downpour. There’s something intimate about watching the rain with Lan. Just like the rain, what started as an off-chance meeting turned into a summer rain flooding my every thought.
Water pools around our feet as we near the entrance, our sandals sloshing through puddle after puddle. To say that it’s raining is an understatement. Rain in Southern California usually sounds like pit-pat. This rain is just buckets pouring from the sky, splashing onto our clothes and shoes and hair and faces.
“It’s monsoon season.”
It’s what season? I gape at her nonchalance. “How on earth are we going to make it home?”
Her eyes twinkling with mischief—a side I haven’t fully seen yet—she points at the water. “We can swim through it.”
“Did you just say swim?” I give her an incredulous look.
“Yeah, wait here for me to get the motorbike.”
Lan returns moments later. Sài Gòn is practically submerged underwater now, brown waves flooding the streets and almost reaching up to our knees. Lan tosses me a raincoat from the motorbike’s trunk and orders me to put it on. The yellow poncho makes me look ridiculous. “Do I have to wear this?”
“Yes, unless you want to get sick.”
I pick at the poncho, swaying back and forth to check myself. I look like a Teletubby. “Can’t we just use an umbrella?”
“No!” She gives me her hand. “That’s dangerous. Hop on.”
I take her hand, my skin burning against the coolness of the rain as our arms brush past each other.
