I change the subject. “Black hair looks good on you.”
He runs a hand through it self-consciously. “Thank you.” He hesitates, then says, “Can I ask why your parents named you Jihad? I know it doesn’t mean what the media says. But why would they name you that, knowing how hard it would be?”
I’ve been expecting this question. “Mom was in labor with me for thirty hours.”
He lets out a low whistle.
“For some reason, her pregnancy with me was difficult. And the birth was full of complications. The doctors said I was breeched, and they’d have to do a C-section, but then I decided to just come out the natural way. They were already doing the C-section. For about ten seconds, I didn’t have any oxygen. The doctors worried it was going to affect my brain, but I was okay. I was a fighter.” I scratch the table. “My parents looked at each other and knew this was my name. Names in Arabic all have meanings. And as Muslims, we believe the meaning of the name represents the person. So we like to give our kids good names.Jihadmeans to strive. To battle something big. I fought for my life and won.”
Something shifts in his gaze like his understanding has grown. Like he’s seeing more of me now, when before he saw parts.
“It’s the same in Vietnamese. With names having meanings, I mean. Bà Ngo?i said it’s a wish parents give their child. But Mom wasworried about me getting bullied for my name here, so they settled on Jamie. But I do have a Vietnamese middle name.”
I lean my elbows onto the table. “And what is it?”
He smiles, and I think this is an eager one. “H?i.”
“H?i.” I taste the name, the colors that come with it. “What does it mean?”
This time the smile is playful, like he’s hiding a secret. “The ocean. Or sea.”
My heart pitter-patters for a strange reason I can’t name but can definitely feel.
“Sea,” I repeat.
He nods.
“What was your bà ngo?i’s wish?”
He looks out the window. “I suppose to have a heart as big as the sea.”
I study his profile, the slope of his jaw and his eyelashes feathering along his cheekbones. My fingers itch with the want to sketch him. And I think if the world were kinder to me, then I would think of those thoughts I’ve hidden.
Afterward, when I move to pay the bill, Jamie tells me it’s already been taken care of.
I frown at him but don’t get the chance to say anything when Chef Vuong comes out of the kitchen with two plastic bags weighed down by food containers.
He hands one to me and one to Jamie. “For dinner or breakfast or lunch. Heat with care. I placed the noodles and broth in separates boxes, so they don’t get soggy.”
I glance at him, bewildered. “Wh-why?”
“I make a lot of food,” he says. “This is your first time trying Vietnamese cuisine, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you like it?”
I nod. “A lot. Thank you.”
“Then have some more.”
I open my mouth to say something, then reconsider. “Th-thank you.”
“Don’t fight it,” Jamie says to me, and thanks Chef Vuong, who sends us off with a goodbye.
Outside, I stare at Jamie and hold up my plastic bag. He mirrors me.
“He does this all the time,” he says. “Sends you off with a little something.”
