“Clara, have you told Hamlet about the food truck competition?” Rose asked as she sliced a large hunk of cheese.
The sparkling water hissed as it hit the ice. “I’m not sure…”
“No, you haven’t! What is it?” he asked, his eyes on the fruit, careful in his deft and precise chopping.
“There’s a big food truck competition in August with aone hundred thousand dollarprize,” I answered.
His hand stilled as he looked up at me. “What?”
“I know, right?” Rose said. “So Clara, did you actually enter us?”
“Yup.”
Hamlet was so excited he abandoned his fruit and walked over to me. “This is so so cool. Adrian hadn’t mentioned it to me!”
Rose and I glanced at each other. I bit my lip. “Well, that’s because he doesn’t know.”
“Whoa, why not?” Hamlet asked, his voice immediately dropping an octave.
I took a sip of one of the drinks. “Because I want it to be a surprise! Plus, I don’t want him to stress. Worry about losing, you know?”
Rose said, “Well, I mean, there’s a chance you can lose when you do anything. He’s an adult. I’m sure he could handle the pressure.”
I exhaled in irritation. “It’s hard to explain to overachievers like you guys. Some people don’t have confidence running through their veins since birth.”
Rose frowned. “Yeah, that must be it. Not a highly effective combination of hard work and growing tough to failure.”
I stared at her. “Are you saying my dad doesn’t work hard?”
“No! I’m just saying that people who are ‘fearless’ have actually just failed a lot. It’s not some preternatural characteristic I was born with.” She looked for validation to Hamlet, who hesitated before nodding in agreement. “To me, that totally undermines all the work I’ve done to build this confidence.”
Normally this kind of lecture from Rose would have annoyed me—having to be so serious about everything. But I had to admit that I had grown to care about the truck and wanted to succeed in this one thing, too. And was willing to take that risk of failing for once. Ugh, had Rose Carver’s can-do-itness rubbed off on me?
I held up my hands. “Okay, okay. Remind me to never call you confident again.”
A deep voice interrupted us. “Well, if it isn’t a bunch of hardworking teenagers in the service industry!” Rose’s dad walked in with a grin. He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and glasses, his imposing height instantly filling up the sprawling kitchen.
“Hey, Dad,” Rose said with an embarrassed giggle. He gave her a kiss on the top of her head, then walked to the island and peered over Hamlet’s shoulder. “Ooh, pears.” He grabbed a slice, then looked at Hamlet. “Who areyou?”
“Dad!” Rose exclaimed. “That is so rude.”
“What! I’m being straightforward.” His eyes twinkled withhumor before he turned toward Hamlet again. “I’m Jon, Rose’s dad, in case you couldn’t tell by her embarrassment.”
Hamlet wiped his hands on his shorts. Which were damp. He didn’t seem to notice, as he held out his hand to shake Jon’s. “Hi! I’m Hamlet. I’m Clara’s boyfriend.”
The ice tray I was holding fell onto the counter. Rose gaped at Hamlet then at me. “What! ALREADY? You hadone date!”
I took a deep breath. Dating Hamlet Wong was going to be a freaking trial for my chill.
CHAPTER 20
Hamlet was a force to be reckoned with. For the next couple of weeks, he leveled all my normal boy barriers—texting me about everything (from making plans to sea otter gifs), showing up at the truck, and inviting himself to meals with my dad and me. That arm’s length I required with boys was shrunk down to a millimeter.
Normally, I would have seen this as obnoxious behavior. In fact, I should have been running for the hills.
But no one had ever blown through my defenses like this. In my other relationships, I’d always had the upper hand. Even the most macho and controlling of dudes had never managed to push me out of my comfort zone. The only person on planet Earth who could get away with it was Hamlet. Because with him itwasn’t entitled or pushy—it was just… Hamlet. Earnest and genuine in his interest in me.
That’s how I found myself walking across a hot parking lot to the Chinatown gym where Hamlet boxed on Saturday mornings. It was a large space in an old warehouse—all concrete and sweat. The bay doors were open, and Hamlet was directly in my line of vision. Punching a heavy bag, his strong shoulders swinging, an intense expression of concentration on his face.
