Tears prick my eyes, and I gasp in a breath. I realize I’ve been tensing my muscles, and at his words, the pent-up energy vanished, leaving behind relieved exhaustion.
“We have a saying in Vietnamese, ‘Xin chia bu?n.’ We say it when we want to express our condolences. It means I want to share the sadness with you. I’ll carry some of it.” He gazes at me so intently, I feel the weight of his words in my bones.
“I—I—you don’t know me,” I say hoarsely, but my nose burns with a sob I’m trying to fight.
“And?” he says, brows knitted. “You’re human, aren’t you? You’re hurting, aren’t you? That’s enough of a reason.”
I stand, facing away from him. I don’t want him to look at me while I cry. And I’m not sure what the reason is for these tears. It’s more than Mama being gone. More than telling the story. Maybe I feel validated. Maybe it’s because he acknowledged I’m hurting when I haven’t talked about it with anyone. Baba is a ghost. Amal has thrown herself into her work, and her days are filled with her husband and new life. But for me, my days are endless, like being stuck in molasses, unable to pass through.
Jamie doesn’t say anything. Just lets me cry until my heart feels lighter and a strange comfort is draped over me. I don’t feel awkward crying with him there. He doesn’t try to make it better. He doesn’t console me. He lets me feel it all.
When the tears stop, I hiccup a breath in and slide back into my chair, avoiding looking at him. My eyes feel raw, tight, and my nose is runny.
I rummage through my bag, looking for a pack of tissues when he passes one to me.
“Thank you,” I croak, dabbing my eyes and wiping my nose.
“Don’t mention it.”
When I do glance at him, he’s smiling at me. I’ve come to realize that while he’s always smiling or grinning, not one smile is the same. Even when he’s happy.
I hope his eyes are brown, I think,that warm steady color.
I think he’s so unlike anyone I have ever met. I can’t see the colors, but I’d know this warmth, this kindness, anywhere. I wonder if it’s something Nicole sees or if she’s only seeing the surface.
I sniff. “Can I ask you something?”
He leans forward. “Of course.”
I feel awkward saying it, but the girls just started being nice to me. Besides, it’s just a question, and then my job is done.
“You’re not seeing anyone, are you?” I ask, pulling the Band-Aid off.
He blinks at me, and the next second, I finally hear the meaning of what I said. “Oh my God, not for me. I wouldn’t date you…Oh God, I didn’t mean I wouldn’t dateyou. You’re a very nice person. Anyone would be—I would date—I mean, I don’t date. Period. I don’t date. So I won’t date you.”
He tilts his head back and laughs and laughs. It fills the room, spills into every corner, loud enough that it seeps out of the room. Some of the people outside look toward us, a few with smiles at the sound of his laughter. The librarian comes into view in the window with a finger to her pursed lips, frowning.
“Sorry,” he wheezes out, wiping a tear. He takes one look at me and hides his face behind his hands, sinking into another bout of laughter, shoulders shaking.
My face is white-hot, and I think if my body temperature rises any higher, I’ll start melting.
“I’mokay,” he gasps out. “I’m good! You should have seen your face!”
He takes in deep breaths, his face flushed and his eyes twinkling. It makes him look even more beautiful.
I scratch the side of the table and quickly say, “I was asking because I think you and Nicole would be cute together.”
I wince at my words, wanting to actually fuse with the library carpet.
He stares at me, his giddiness replaced with confusion. “Nicole? Nicole Dumont?”
I shrug. “I don’t know her last name.”
“And yet you think we’d be cute together?”
I’m in too deep. “What do last names have to do with anything?”
He studies me until my skin prickles. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
