Around me, people softly say prayers while the items burn. Smoky strands of Pó Po’s new paper house, bottles of wine, money, food, and clothing float up into the air, swirling and spinning above our heads. I’m overcome with emotion, but this time, it’s with hope. This tradition, the act of honoring ancestors and spirits, is a foreign concept to me, but I find more comfort in it than I would’ve thought possible.
My eyes fill with tears, this time happy ones. The last time I felt this moved was with Bennett at the Getty. I peek over at him, and he looks just as enthralled. He must sense me watching him because his eyes dart over to me.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he says quietly. “So the paper is burned…but then where exactly does it go?” He glances toward the paper goods, his eyebrows bent in interest and determination to figure it out.
“To our ancestors in the afterlife,” I say, repeating what I’ve learned from Auntie. I can see how hard Bennett is trying to visualize this concept.
“How do you know if they have everything they need? How do they receive the actual goods?” he asks. “Where is the afterlife, even?”
I give him a small smile. “It’s about believing. I don’t think there are clear-cut answers. It’s kind of like a leap of faith.”
After a moment, Bennett nods and then reaches for his wallet. From behind a few dollar bills, he reveals a small receipt. On it are the wordsLead with your heartwritten in Pó Po’s handwriting.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
“It’s from my first lunch meeting with your Pó Po. After I paid, she wrote this down. I’ve kept it with me ever since, but her words didn’t fully sink in until you taught them to me,” he says. Bennett smiles and looks at the receipt thoughtfully before folding the rectangular slip of paper into a mini ice cream cone. He walks up to the front and drops the paper ice cream into the flames.
I blink my tears away when he returns to me.
“I hope her house comes with a freezer,” he says, nudging me with his shoulder. I soak up his presence, observing his expression as he watches the fire work its magic.
“Hey. Tonight my family and I are making dinner together in honor of Pó Po. I’d like for you to be there, and I think Pó Po would’ve, too. Of course, only if you want to.”
Bennett doesn’t even try to fight the smile that immediately forms on his face. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says.
There’s so much I want to say to Bennett, but for now, our quiet understanding is enough.
Chapter 24
I’m wrist-deep in flour when Bennett arrives at my parents’ house.
“Bennett, it’s nice to see you again,” Mom says in the entryway before leading him into the kitchen. When our eyes meet, his tense shoulders drop three inches.
“You can help Olivia with the dough,” Mom instructs. “Have you ever made dumplings before?”
Bennett drops his bag on a chair and rolls up his sleeves. “Only once, but that was a long time ago,” he says.
“I’ll show you how to do it, per Pó Po’s instructions,” I offer, using my palm to roll a small piece of dough against the floured table. I flatten the dough with a rolling pin, turning it until the wrapper is round and thin.
“I’ll follow your lead,” he says without any resistance. Bennett watches me intently, mimicking my movements with invisible dough.
“No highly rated recipe up your sleeve?” I ask good-naturedly.
He smiles. “I wouldn’t stand a chance against your Pó Po.”
I cut the dough in half and hand him his piece to divide and roll into wrappers. We work diligently as Mom cuts scallions, Nina minces garlic, Asher measures sauces, Dad chops ginger, and Auntie preps ingredients for the side dishes. Dad throws Bennett softball questions as I focus on my rolling and breathing to steady my hands and hammering heart. Bennett moves surprisingly fast, looking as though he’s loving every minute.
Over one hundred rolled wrappers later, Bennett covers our hard work with a damp towel. He beams at what we’ve created together.
“We’ll take it from here,” Mom says. “We’ll eat in an hour. Nice work, both of you. Olivia, you’re getting as fast as Pó Po.” I bask in her words. Bennett does, too.
“You can come with me,” I say to Bennett after we wash flour off our hands. He follows me up to the second floor, out the deck, and up to the roof.
“Should we be up here?” he asks, crouching low as he mimics my movements until we reach a flat section where I’ve set up a blanket for us to sit.
I pat the ground next to me, and Bennett doesn’t object.
“Hi,” I say in an exhale.
