She took shallow breaths and flashed a tight smile at her mom and Quan’s uncle as she battled a rising sense of panic. She was doing the right thing; she knew it. But her heart didn’t care. It wanted what it wanted, and that was not Quan or a fake marriage. Her heart wanted Kh?i, forever.
Loud footsteps echoed down the marble hall, and for a second, her hopes rose. Maybe he’d come after all.
But the footsteps faded before anyone appeared, and Esme’s hopes plummeted again.
A cello started playing somewhere in the distance, and Quan’s uncle said, “This way.”
He handed Esme the bouquet, and her hands went numb. Loud silence filled her head.
It was time.
Her mom hooked arms with her, smiled with encouragement, and guided her to follow Quan’s uncle. The building echoed as high-heeled shoes clicked over the marble, click-click, click-click, click-click. They entered the rotunda, where the ceremony was to take place at the bottom of the grandest staircase she’d ever seen. A domed ivory-colored ceiling arched several stories above with intricate artwork of angels—or perhaps naked people. Either way, they had to be cold.
Rows and rows of guests, flowers, a cellist, a handsome groom waiting for her at the altar. It should have made her happy. It didn’t.
She clutched her bouquet tighter, lifted her chin, and prepared to walk down the center aisle between the seated guests.
“Sir, you can’t go in here. There’s a wedding taking place. Sir—”
A commotion behind her had her whipping around as her heart sang with anticipation.
But it wasn’t Kh?i.
It was an older man, a familiar-looking man, even though she was certain she’d never met him before.
Average height, a bit of a belly, khaki pants, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a navy-blue sports coat. Short hair that was more salt than pepper. And eyes that could be any color from this distance. If she was being honest, they looked brown.
Her heart stopped beating.
Did he have truck-driver hands?
“Is it you?” he asked, but he wasn’t looking at Esme. “Linh?”
Esme’s mom gasped and covered her mouth.
The man stepped forward, his movements slow like he was in a trance. “I got the strangest voice mail yesterday. Someone asking for a Phil who knew a Linh in Vietnam twenty-four years ago. He said Phil’s daughter was getting married in San Francisco’s City Hall today, and she needed her father.”
He searched Esme’s face before focusing beside her again, and her mom gripped Esme’s arm like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I didn’t know for sure. I thought chances were low. I came anyway,” the man said as he came closer yet, two meters away, one meter, and the light-green shade of his eyes took the breath from Esme’s lungs. “I took the next flight out, a red-eye, from New York City.”
“Y-you live in New York?” her mom asked, using the only English Esme had ever heard her speak.
“Alone—I live alone in New York.” He cleared his throat before continuing, “I came back. For you. I looked for you everywhere. You were nowhere. But now, I think I know why. She’s”—his gaze switched back to Esme—“mine?”
Her mom pushed on Esme until she stepped toward him, and Esme said, “Schumacher? Is that your name? Phil Schumacher?”
Puzzled creases darkened his brow. “Phil Schuma—No, I’m not a Schumacher. My name is Gleaves. Gleaves Philander. I went by Phil until I grew into Gleaves,” he said with an apologetic smile before his eyes widened with horror. “That’s why you couldn’t find me? All you knew was Phil. You’ve been looking for a Philip.”