“So how does that work? I mean, like, what are we supposed to say?” asks Lillian, whose stress must be channeling into her foot, which all of a sudden is pressing the accelerator. The car lurches forward. “Oh, my sister has cancer, so please give us five thousand dollars for a snowboarding event?”
“Something like that.” I watch the speedometer steadily creep from speed limit to speeding.
“God, Syrah, I suck at this.”
With Lillian’s death grip on the steering wheel, I decide now’s not the time to joke that what sucks is her driving. Instead, I say, “I’m new to fundraising, too, but think of this as a preliminary talk with the owner. She invited us to meet with her.” Just as we nearly sideswipe the car in Lillian’s blind spot, I warn her, “Watch out!”
Even after Lillian screams and returns to her old lady driving, we reach Boarder Xing sooner than I’d like.
No schmoozer at one of my parents’ parties could scope out the store as proficiently as I do when we walk in to Boarder Xing. The store is a snowboard boutique, a mix of fashion with clothes even non-riders would crave, and that function with all the latest boards and boots to satisfy the hardest-core rider. Huge red sale signs are everywhere, in preparation for Boarder Xing’s annual Presidents’ Day weekend blowout. Playing on the large-screen in back of the store is a new snowboard video that I haven’t seen yet with music that would be fun to ride to. At once I see that Age isn’t around, but approaching us is some new sales guy I don’t recognize, stocky with a scraggly soul patch. For all my nervousness about seeing Age, I’m crushed when I don’t.
“You finding what you need?” asks Soul Patch Guy, all eyes on Lillian.
That would be negative, because what I need is Age. But what I want is to help Amanda. So I nudge Lillian, who is looking googly-eyed back at the sales guy, and tap into my inner Grace. All business official, I announce, “We’ve got a meeting with the owner.”
“Are you the ones with the sick sister?”
“Amanda,” says Lillian, as the interest cools in her eyes. “Her name is Amanda.”
“That’s tough, really tough.” Soul Patch Guy sounds so mournful Amanda could be his own kid sister who’s got cancer, and just like that, he lands back on Lillian’s cute-boy radar. “Tracey had to step out. An emergency.”
Even with zero experience in fundraising, I know this is not an auspicious start. But as I’m about to reschedule, Mr. Soul Patch says, “She wanted you to talk to the assistant manager when he comes in. Speak of the devil. Yo, Age!”
My heart squeezes at the sound of that name, which is nothing compared to the acrobatics it does when Age ambles through the store’s front door. His eyes find mine, shocked that I—the friend he used to see all the time—am standing in the same recirculated air as he is. Me, I’m shocked that love has commando-crawled its sneaky way inside me, no matter how much I tried to barricade it.
Mr. Soul Patch introduces Age, assuming we’re strangers: “And here’s the man himself, Adrian Rodriguez, head honcho here, at least when the Boss Woman’s gone.”
When had Age gotten promoted? What else has happened since we stopped speaking to each other?
“Syrah,” he says, and idly kicks away an imaginary dust ball, which tells me that Age is as nervous as I am.
“Age.”
Vaguely, I’m aware that Lillian is looking back and forth between Age and me, putting together a puzzle. That’s what he and I have become, disconnected pieces that no longer fit.
Right when I start to tell him why I’m here, Age asks, “What’s up?” Before Natalia, we could finish each other’s sentences; now, our timing is so off we can’t even get our words out right.
Pull it together, Cheng,
I tell myself. So when Age gestures for me to go first, I say, “Tracey wanted us to talk with you about this snowboarding event we’re planning. Why don’t we sit down, since this might take a couple of minutes?” By some mutual, unspoken consent, Age and I leave a healthy distance between us on the bench fashioned out of an old snowboard at the front of the store. My pitch sputters forward, all ums, ers, and silent oopses, until Lillian intervenes, “This is all Syrah’s idea after she met my little sister, who, incidentally, thinks of her as some kind of hero.”
Age smiles in that crooked way of his. How can I possibly miss him more when he’s sitting next to me than I do waiting for his call? So when he says, “I can understand that,” I fall back into our pattern of banter and retort without thinking, “That’s because you spent so much time worshiping my snowboarding.” Which makes him answer, “You wish, Gidget. It was my butt you were worshiping when I smoked you.”
We smile awkwardly at each other, stuck in that uncomfortable former friend zone, well beyond getting to know you but far short of being privy to all your current secrets. We have become well-acquainted strangers.
“So what do you want?” asks Age, looking at me intently.
You.
But I stick to my script, deciding that being professional is just a euphemism for being politely distant. “So I’m looking for your feedback on the plan, and I’ll be honest,” I tell him. “I’m also looking for your support.”
Still, even though I tell myself that I’m just presenting to a potential sponsor, it’s weird to be sitting here with Age. What’s stranger is that we sound so businesslike, the way he asks and I answer about signage (“Yup, we are selling signs to hang on the rails and along the stands.”) and sponsorship levels (“Gold level sponsorships start at fifty thousand dollars.”)
Then, like a seasoned manager, Age asks, “What about press?”
“Grace is all over that,” I say.
That surprises him so much, Age drops his professional demeanor: “Not a chance.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, laughing before I catch myself about to launch into a
yeah, can you believe it?
So I turn back to the presentation: “What do you think?”
“Impressive,” Age says, his knee bouncing up and down the way it does when he brainstorms. “I don’t want to promise anything, but I’d be surprised if Tracey didn’t want to participate in some way. I’ll have to talk it over with her, though.”
Yeah, just like you needed to talk over our friendship with your girlfriend, I think to myself. Unfair, uncool, and totally unexpected, but my anger burns through my thin veneer of professionalism. And out of that opened vent bubbles my frustration: Wait a second, buddy, but I deserved the best from you. I deserved to be treated like a great, trusted, cherished best friend, not some bottom-fishing Z-lister who doesn’t rate a call back.
“So are there any deal breakers that we should know about?” I ask him, sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“I’d just like to know ahead of time if there are any issues, any concerns, that you or anyone else might have that will tank your commitment to me?”
“She means, to Ride for Our Lives,” corrects Lillian, which is girlfriendese for
What the hell are you doing?
She smiles prettily at Age as she stands. “Why don’t we check in with you in a few days to see whether Boarder Xing is interested? Thanks so much for considering this. It means everything to me and my little sister. And Syrah.”
As soon as we’re out of the store, Lillian says, “Well, that was interesting. When exactly did you guys break up?”
“We didn’t.” I fast-walk along the sidewalk toward her minivan, my arms folded tight across my chest. “We’re—or we were—just friends.” My emotions are running amok: anger, sadness, anger, regret, anger, and above all, confusion. Where’s my manga-journal when I need it?
Lillian keeps up with me and both of us turn at the shouted “Wait!” to find Age trotting to catch up. Under her breath, Lillian mutters, “Just friends, huh?”
“What?” I demand when Age is standing in front of me, which I acknowledge isn’t the most effective or gracious way of sealing a deal.
“Can we talk for a second?” he asks, glancing at Lillian.
“Oh, there was a sweater that I wanted to try on,” she says, and disappears back into the store.
But when it’s just the two of us, Age and I are back to square one of having nothing and everything to say to each other, so we don’t say anything at all. Random gum wrappers and leaves swirl along the sidewalk, not staying still long enough to give either of us the satisfaction of kicking them out of our way.
“Everything good with you?” he asks.
“Everything’s great. You?”
“Yeah, great.”
“You got a promotion. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
God, we don’t just sound like strangers, we act like strangers. That is almost worse than not seeing Age at all. So I take a deep breath and take a risk, betting on our friendship to tell him honestly, “Actually, life sucks. Bao-mu is gone, I’m moving to Hong Kong, and you and I aren’t talking. I mean, I get that Natalia isn’t comfortable with me and everything that comes with the”—I swing my hands out to the side like I’m presenting myself in a royal court—“Syrah Cheng package. But I thought I was part of your package, too.”
“That’s just it. I was never part of the Syrah Cheng package.” He stares over my head, running out of things to say. Or maybe that’s what he wanted to say all along: good-bye.
Some secret girlfriend SOS signal must be radiating out of me, because in three counts, Lillian is out of Boarder Xing, at my side and bundling me into her minivan and away from Age.
“Do you know what you need?” she asks as she sticks her key in the ignition.
“A heart transplant?”
Lillian casts me a fierce look that I thought Bao-mu had copyrighted. “You need chocolate.”
All the putt-putt
vanishes from that girl, as if Lillian is fueled by the high octane of my heartache. No less than ten minutes later, we’ve covered twice as much ground as our slow drive over. She breaks her own order—“Nope, not one peep until we’ve got some chocolate inside us”—with a loud “Yes! Parking karma!” and swings into the one open spot in front of a coffee shop famous for its homemade organic cupcakes.
“That makes them good for you,” Lillian explains, pointing out two enormous carbaholic cupcakes behind the glass counter.
“I got it,” I tell her, pulling out my wallet.
“Are you kidding?” she asks, slapping cash onto the counter. “Just say, ‘Thanks.’ And promise to do this for me the next time a just-friend-guy breaks up with moi.”
So I do. And over my emergency therapy by chocolate, we talk about, what else, boys.
“Okay,” I say between mouthfuls of cupcake, “what I don’t get is how to get beyond the awkward after-the-break-up phase when we were never even together in the first place.”
Lillian nods sympathetically. “Yeah, like how can you know someone so well for so long and then all of a sudden not have a single thing to say, except maybe please give me five thousand bucks?”
“Yeah!” My plate is littered with crumbs and I barely even remember eating. “What’s with that?”
“Doesn’t it make you wonder what you talked about in the first place? Like maybe that connection was all in your imagination and you were just counting his ‘yeah’ as amazing insight?”
“I don’t know. Age talked,” I say glumly, and pick at the crumbs.
“So can that guy at Boarder Xing.”
“Soul Patch Guy?”
Guiltily, Lillian scrunches up her shoulders, as she admits, “He gave me his number.”
What’s amazing is that I start laughing. “Wait a sec, we went in for a sponsorship, and I come out with a broken heart and you got a date?”
“I have to be honest; weird stuff like that always happens to me.” And just like that, we are in the midst of a real girlfriend conversation that jumps from Natalia’s “ewwww!” newfound snowboarding passion to “awww” about Lillian’s ex-boyfriend who would actually deliver care packages to her at the hospital in her old town.
“So why did you break up with him?” I ask.
“Distance. We broke up about a month after I moved here.”
“At least you had the satisfaction of breaking up.”
To finish the dregs of her latte Lillian tips her head back and sets the cup down on the table with a wicked grin. “You guys withered on the Syrah grapevine.”
I can’t help laughing. “Yeah, from a killer blight named Natalia.” I sigh, looking at my empty plate sadly. “I really miss him.”
“I miss my guy, too. Do you want to share another cupcake?”
Some other time, I would have said, absolutely, let me drown my sorrows in sugar. But our conversation is filling my soul up in a way that no food could. “No, I’d rather just talk.”
Lillian beams. “Me, too.”
T
he next day, Saturday,
after our morning workout that’s so early it’d be more accurate to call it night, Grace and I are Vancouver-bound. Miracle of miracles, even after nearly two hours of numbing Tibetan monk chanting (Grace’s CDs, not mine), I could be peering down a steep face of untouched snow, I’m that wired. All I can think about is what’s going to happen when I barge into Po-Po’s memorial later this afternoon. What if the Leong family only included me in her obituary because I’m a paper granddaughter, not because they want me in their lives? After all, not one of them has ever contacted me.
More out of habit than hope, I check my cell phone, but naturally Age’s self-enforced gag order hasn’t been lifted. Not that he’d phone me after our talk yesterday; so why am I checking?
“That’s not going to make a guy call you any faster,” says Grace as I stash my phone in my backpack.
“How do you know it’s a guy?”
Grace’s eyebrows fly up as smoothly as a retractable roof. “It’s
always
a guy.” Thankfully, she returns her attention back to the road. “God, you should see some of the men Betty has set me up with. There’s this one, Dale Martin—”
“Oh, God, not slimy Dr. Martin.” I groan and then lower my voice, “Let me ply you with some sweet syrah, my sweet Syrah.”
“Oh, revolting. But you know what the truly frightening thing is? Compared to the other men Betty’s picked, Dale is almost a catch.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel like she wants to strangle him. Or my mom. I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to get set up with Dr. Martin either, even if he did call Lillian at my request and answer all her questions about bone marrow transplants and other experimental treatments.