“You know, in my matchmaking days in Taiwan,” she continues, “I paired people based on their zodiac animal sign, education, and family background. My focus was matching clients from families of equal social status. In the old days, matchmakers used to be a lot more esteemed. But now we have a different relationship with clients.”
Pó Po suddenly sounds like she’s feeling reminiscent, and while I normally love it, I don’t know how much of it Bennett would want to—or should—hear.
“Starting Lunar Love here, I dropped all the other details of matchmaking and focused on the zodiac. That was my interpretation of it. My way of modernizing it, I guess you could say. To keep it simple,” Pó Po explains. “Now matchmaking can include looking at assets, salary, profession, and even blood type.”
“Modernizing. Very interesting,” Bennett says, raising his eyebrows theatrically at me.
“In China, matchmakers can charge tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars,” Pó Po says. “Lunar Love’s practically giving away our services! Maybe I should’ve stayed in Asia. I read that a man paid one and a half million dollars for a match. I’m sure it took a lot of time and effort for the matchmaker to sort through thousands of women, but with that price tag attached, I’d welcome the challenge.”
Bennett listens intently, focused on Pó Po and her stories.
“Is that even real?” I ask, suspiciously.
Pó Po clucks her tongue. “We could be making bonuses upwards of thirty thousand dollars.”
“Can you imagine?” Bennett asks, leaning forward.
“Maybe we should be charging even more than we do,” I say, even though I don’t feel this way. I’ve already considered restructuring the fees. Less exclusive, more inclusive. After all, if we want to attract a younger clientele, our prices can’t be as high as they are. When ZodiaCupid launches and offers free profiles with paid upgrades, how can we compete with their $9.99 per month? I tuck my hands under my thighs and focus on the candle’s flickering flame.
“But now people want everything immediately, and love no longer has to be considered a big investment when there are free options available,” Pó Po adds, giving Bennett a dramatic side-eye. To my surprise, he laughs.
All this talk about Lunar Love only reminds me how much work there is to do, especially if we want Lunar Love to be around for much longer. A pang of guilt forms when I think about how much time I’ve spent allowing myself to be distracted by my competition. I try to shrug off the stress and enjoy the wedding.
Without warning, we hear the door kicked open and see Asher walk in carrying Nina in his arms. Nina has changed into a long, ruby-red silk dress. I glance over at Pó Po to gauge her reaction and watch as her tight-lipped smile relaxes.
My focus turns back to Nina as her eyes flit from the group to the dance floor. She breaks into a giggle reserved only for those hopelessly in love.
“Looks like we’re dancing after dinner!” Nina announces. “Thanks, Pó Po! We love it.”
Pó Po slaps my thigh with the back of her hand. “I told you!” she says, pleased. There’s no one else who could go against Nina’s wishes and get away with it.
The newlyweds position themselves in front of the dance floor. “Before we eat dinner,” Nina starts, “Asher and I would like to take a moment to have a toast and incorporate a Chinese tradition that I recently learned about and love.” She looks over at me and smiles. “It’s our interpretation of a tea ceremony. I chose my favorite green tea, and Asher chose chamomile.”
At that, a few waiters glide over to our tables with platters of white teapots. They start pouring hot tea into the teacups next to each guest’s dinner plate.
Asher continues where Nina left off. “The two teas have been blended together, representing our union and families coming together as one. To those who were able to be here, to those who aren’t here with us today, and to love.”
“And health!” Pó Po shouts out, holding up her teacup.
“And happiness!” Asher’s grandmother chimes in.
We all hold up our teacups to toast and then sip the green-chamomile concoction.
Nina and Asher take their seats and more waiters come out with platters and bamboo steamers filled with food. A whole steamed fish is placed in the center of each table, the silvery gray of the fish’s scales and sliced green scallions vibrant against the bleached white tablecloth. Around the fish are bowls of steamed rice, stir-fried vegetables, hot and sour soup, long-life noodles, and platters of Peking duck with steamed buns and hoisin sauce. Plates of garlic-and-ginger shrimp are squeezed in wherever there’s room to fit them. Baskets of dim sum are piled on top of one another, welcoming interaction between guests at the table.
I fill my plate with a mound of steamed rice. Before I can add more, Pó Po takes over.
“No, no! Not enough food for you,” she says. Pó Po grabs my plate and piles more food onto it. “You need to eat so you have energy to keep up with me on the dance floor.”
Bennett follows suit, filling his plate with enough food to make Pó Po proud. Within minutes, he and Uncle Rupert are engaged in deep conversation about when dinosaurs last roamed the earth.
Pó Po watches me over the course of the meal. At the very least, I finish off the rice so that she doesn’t have to remind me of the importance of eating every last grain.
“Bennett reminds me so much of Gōng Gong. Strong-willed, earnest, patient, and handsome,” Pó Po leans over and whispers. “Things seem to be going well.”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” I mumble. Since my last talk with Pó Po, more has happened between me and Bennett. “It’s been nice, but we’ve been together because of work. Who knows what will happen once we sort out this podcast situation. That bet I made, well, we called it off. I’m not sure what will happen now, but with Bennett being a Rat—”
Pó Po shakes her head. “Incompatibility. Compatibility. If you let it, they’ll all rule your life.”
My mouth goes slack. “Uh, isn’t that the point?”
Pó Po tucks a curl behind her ear. “Sometimes in life, there isn’t a point. Sometimes we demand that there is. We pray that there is. And sometimes, we make a point when one isn’t needed. When things are actually quite simple.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “One day you’re pro compatibility, the next you’re not.”
Pó Po’s dark brown eyes glimmer as she grabs for my hand. “Liv, can I tell you something that you promise to keep secret?”
I look back to make sure Bennett’s still talking to Uncle Rupert. “Of course, Pó Po. You can tell me anything. What is it?”
Pó Po folds the cloth napkin across her lap and then looks up at me like she’s only going to say what she’s about to say once. “Gōng Gong and I weren’t technically compatible,” she finally tells me in a hushed tone. She looks around to make sure no one else heard.
My hand loosens its grip, my chopsticks dropping into my lap. “What’s that now?”