“C?m on,” Jamie and I say in unison, and Bà Ngo?i smiles at me.
“Please, dig in,” Bà Ngo?i says. “Xoài, here have one.” She lays a shrimp roll onto Jamie’s plate and then leans over to me. “His nickname is Xoài, which means ‘mango,’ because his mother craved mangoes during her pregnancy.”
Jamie turns pink.
“Okay, Mango,” I say, teasing.
“She used to go through an entire crate in three days. I thought she would throw up.” Bà Ngo?i leans over to squeeze Jamie’s cheek. He looks resigned to his fate. “But that’s why he’s so sweet.”
“Bà Ngo?i, please,” Jamie says, exasperated.
She taps her chopsticks along the bowl before asking, “Will you still be able to work at the farm now that you’re Muslim?”
He smiles. “Yes, of course.”
“Very good,” she continues, and then she turns to me. “I like her.”
The meaning drops heavily onto the table, and Jamie and I share panicked looks.
“We’re not dating,” he splutters, and I shake my head.
She winks. “Sure, you’re not.”
“No, I swear, we’re not.” I try not to blush as hard as I am.
Bà Ngo?i frowns. “Are you not allowed to date?”
“It’s not that.” Jamie keeps his stare on his grandmother. “There is dating. It’s just different. I’m just saying, Jihad and I are friends.”
“Huh.” Bà Ngo?i pouts slightly. “What a shame.”
Jamie and I avoid looking at each other while Bà Ngo?i orders dessert. A layered pandan cake that feels like biting into a cloud and a silky crème caramel suspended in a coffee-flavored syrup.
The sun has already set when we step out of the restaurant.
“Thank you for this,” I tell Bà Ngo?i, who insisted on paying, swatting my and her grandson’s hands away.
“You should visit our farm,” she says. “I think you’ll love it there.”
“That’s what I told her!” Jamie exclaims.
“Excellent.” Bà Ngo?i claps her hands. Her red lipstick did not smudge one bit. “I’ll be expecting you this summer.”
“Oh, um,” I stammer. “I’m visiting my sister in Qatar.”
“Then spring break,” Bà Ngo?i counters. “Whenever you want.”
There is warmth in my heart that keeps the cold around me away. “Thank you for all of this. I should get going. It was very lovely meeting you.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Bà Ngo?i nods at the sky. “It’s nighttime. You can’t take the subway.”
“No, it’s—”
“Don’t fight it,” Jamie says as Bà Ngo?i does something on her phone. “She won’t let you.”
“Put in your address, please,” Bà Ngo?i says, handing me her phone.
After five minutes, a sleek silver car rolls up in front of Chef Vuong’s restaurant.
