Pó Po neatly folds a kitchen towel and places it next to the stove. “I may have told him about you, but he was the one who said no to my idea to matchmake you two.”
“You tried to matchmake him? With me?” I bury my face in my hands.
“As I said, he told me no.”
“Even better,” I groan. “He was repulsed by me.”
“Quite the opposite,” she states. “He didn’t want to lead you on, is what I think he said. He was preoccupied with his business and didn’t want to get in the way of yours. He’s a good guy. In fact, you told me no, too.”
“When? He must’ve gotten lost among all the men you try to match me with,” I say.
Pó Po lifts her eyebrows. “You never listen.”
I dust flour off my hands, the white powder floating down onto the counter. “That’s for the best. We’re both professionals,” I say. As professional as making out in a museum gets. My heart pitter-patters at the thought of potentially seeing Bennett again tomorrow for my second date. I hope he’ll be there.
“As I said before, it’s okay if you like him,” Pó Po says, not dropping her previous statement. Her eyes make the slightest of movements as she looks into mine. I can’t tell if she’s happy or if this is the tip of a soul-crushing iceberg of disappointment. “So do you?”
“It’s not like it matters. We’re incompatible.”
Pó Po narrows her eyes at me. “You didn’t answer my question. When you think about this man, how do you feel?”
“At first, I wanted to hate him. For obvious reasons. But…he’s actually pretty great.”
Pó Po adds water to the pan and covers it, the steam billowing and enveloping the dumplings in the heat. “But how do you feel?” she repeats.
I watch water droplets collect under the glass lid and drop back into the pan. “Like I don’t want him to fall in love with anyone else.” The realization is like a punch to my stomach.
“Okay,” Pó Po says. “You’re incompatible, yet you’ve gotten this far.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Hardly. I can see it now—”
“—Why do you do that?” she asks.
I look at her, my mouth hanging open. “Do what?”
“That ‘I can see it now’ nonsense. Ever since you and that incompatible ex-boyfriend of yours broke up, you’ve used that line followed by a bunch of negatives to get out of ever having to date anyone. I know it’s your coping mechanism, especially after that incompatible match with your friend. You do it all the time with Auntie and her matches. You did it with mine every time.”
“I don’t do that,” I say defensively over the sizzling dumplings.
“You might lie to this man about how you feel, and you might lie to me, but don’t lie to yourself.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re a matchmaker, not a psychic. Where’s the fun in everything and everyone being predictable? Where’s the magic in that? You have no clue what’s going to happen with the couples you match. You’re not responsible for every element of their relationships,” she says with vigor.
“I can’t all of a sudden change the way I think,” I explain.
“But you can try. And if that doesn’t work, then just try feeling.”
Pó Po’s words linger in the air.
“I can’t remember the last time I let myself do that,” I concede, remembering what I told Bennett at the drive-in.
Pó Po grabs for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Then maybe now is a good time to start.”
“Bennett said something to me about how I’ll miss out on good people if I believe compatibility is the one and only way to love,” I recall.
“The man has a point,” she says resolutely.
“Why do you sound like you’re trying to convince me of something?” I ask. “Are you telling me that you are not only supporting an incompatible relationship, but are actively encouraging it? There’s no way.”
Pó Po taps my hand and then lets it go.
Not finished with my thought, I grasp for examples. “What about with Uncle Rupert? When he married Aunt Vivienne, weren’t you mad?”
“At the time, it was a surprise,” she explains. “It was always in one ear, out the other with that boy. But he loves her. What could I do?”
I stare at Pó Po in disbelief. “What could you do? What you’ve done to every other client who came in wanting to test out incompatibility. Tell them no and find them someone compatible.”
Her face remains neutral. It’s as though the roles are reversed.
“I don’t understand,” I add. “You and Gōng Gong were compatible, you started a business around compatibility, Mom and Dad are compatible, all your matches have been compatible. Well, mostly. Your entire life and career are built on compatibility.” I grab two plates from the cupboard.
“You don’t have to be compatible with someone in order to love them, Olivia. There is such a thing as attraction that not even a chart or algorithm can explain. It’s an indescribable science.” Pó Po gives me a small smile. “I’ll say this. Everyone is different and may have varying viewpoints of the Chinese zodiac, whether they use it as something bigger to believe in, a guide for compatible partnership, or to better understand themselves. Take the moon, for instance. Farmers rely on the moon in times of harvest, sea creatures synchronize their biological clocks with the moon’s light and phases, and sometimes the moon is used as a mystical backdrop for spooky nighttime campfire stories.”
“The moon represents something different for everyone,” I agree. “It has more of an impact than we give it credit for.”
“True. When’s the last time you heard someone ask, ‘Wow! Did you see the sun today?’ It’s always ‘Wow! Did you see the moon last night?’ For good reason, too,” Pó Po says. She peeks through the pot lid to check on our dinner. “Speaking of, keep an eye out for the moon next weekend. It’s a rare blue moon. Two full moons in one month!”
“The sun is only pretty when it’s rising or setting, but the moon is always beautiful. It’s bold, bright, mysterious, elusive. We only see it in glimpses, catching it here and there from lucky angles.”
“Ah, you are my granddaughter,” Pó Po says, nodding. “Remember, Liv, our greatest qualities can also be our most inhibiting. You are similar to me in that way. Our stubbornness prevails.”
“Being persistent is one of the traits I’m most proud of,” I declare.
Pó Po uses chopsticks to move the cooked dumplings from the pan to our plates. “My stubbornness has served me well over the years. When I was buying the building Lunar Love is in now, the previous owner wanted to sell it to me for double what it was worth. He thought I didn’t know better. I made him my offer, then in my broken English I told him to take it or leave it. Two days later, he called and accepted.”
“You knew your worth,” I say, scooping mounds of rice next to the dumplings.
Pó Po sighs. “I knew how to bluff. I had a week to get the money together. I had lied and told the owner I had the money ready to go, but that money was beyond my wildest dreams. Luckily, I made some kind friends like Mae and Dale who helped keep my head above water. Anything and everything helped. Don’t misunderstand, being stubborn has helped get me where I am. I was determined to improve my English, put my children through college, and make a new life after Gōng Gong passed.” Pó Po quickly inhales. “But perhaps I’ve been too stubborn in some cases.”