Page 44 of Okay, Cupid

Our dessert is delivered, the waitress dropping off a mouthwatering dish, a large square-shaped loaf of bread, the inside hollowed out and the pieces piled inside, toasted to perfection, with egg custard dripping all over them.

“Do you want to see it?” Huy asks.

“Your truck?” I don’t wait for him—I grab my fork, stuffing my mouth full of the dessert.

“Yeah, we could go after we leave here.”

What answer can I give but yes?

I go with Huy to his family’s house, which isn’t too far from NaYa, so the bus ride is short. He pauses at the front of the building, taking a set of keys off the belt loop of his pants and messing with the lock on the garage door before it finally releases, and he slips it off, squatting down to lift the door into the air without much effort.

It’s nicely built, a work area off to the side with toolboxes and kits lying around. It’s gotten a lot darker, but when Huy flips the light switch, I can see some appliances toward the back, and something that looks like a deep fryer that I can only imagine used to be a part of the donut shop.

Sitting front and center is the truck. Huy digs the same keys from his pocket and walks over to the driver’s side, unlocking both sides of the car.

“Climb in.”

I do as I’m told, climbing into the passenger seat, trying my best to relax for a bit as I watch him insert the key into the ignition. There’s a hesitation, and Huy closes his eyes, almost like he’s praying or something.

Then he turns the key, and the car roars to life.

“Oh, thank God.” He lets his head fall toward the steering wheel, his chin perched on top as he stares out onto the street.

“Were you worried it wouldn’t start?”

“Mostly I was worried it’d blow up.”

“Seriously?”

“Nah …” He pauses. “Well, maybe. I don’t know if that was actually a risk. It did catch fire last summer.”

“Why do you drive this thing again?” I ask him.

“What do you mean?” He runs his hand along the dashboard. “Listen to this baby purr!”

The engine is sputtering like an old man with a bad cough, almost like it might give out at any moment now.

“I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘purring.’ ”

“Want some tunes?” He turns the volume dial on the radio, a funky guitar playing over kicking drums before a female vocalist starts to sing. Huy bobs his head along to the rhythm of the song, doing his best to beat on the steering wheel in time with the music. I don’t think he does a very good job.

“Not feeling Paramore?” he asks. “Scoot your arm over.” He motions for me to stop leaning on the console that separates us, lifting the lid and showing off a collection of cassettes stored inside.

“Tapes?”

“Pick whatever you want.”

“This is fine,” I tell him, relaxing back in my seat.

“Fine,” he scoffs, reaching into the console and pulling out another tape along with the empty case for the Paramore album. He switches the tapes out easily, and a second later another guitar fills the space, along with a tambourine. Then another sad voice replaces the last.

“Mitski.” Huy answers my question without waiting for me to ask for it. “Good for a vibey night like this.”

“A ‘vibey night’—what does that mean?”

“You know, when it’s nighttime, and the vibes are right,” he says with a smile.

The “vibey night” is quiet around us, the music soft, the wind cold. But it feels nice, actually. It feels right to be here, even when I look down at my hand and then his. He adjusts in his seat, so he can face me better, leaning his head against the back glass of the cab.