I don’t get a reply from her, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I debate walking up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. That might wake someone up, though. They’ve broken her dad’s care into eight-hour shifts so there’s always someone watching him throughout the day, but that means there’s always someone sleeping, too.
Before I can text her again, the front door opens and Anna races out in bare feet. Her hair’s up in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing the ugliest sweat suit, but she’s the best thing I’ve seen in a long time.
I get out of my car just in time for her to crash into my arms, and I hold her close and breathe her in.
“Hey,” I say in a gruff voice.
Instead of speaking, she hugs me tighter.
“Is everything okay? Your dad’s okay?” I ask.
“He’s the same,” she murmurs without opening her eyes.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she says. “It’s just really, really, really nice to have you here.”
That makes me smile. “I would have come earlier.”
“I know. Things were just so hectic and—”
“You don’t have to explain. I get it,” I reassure her.
She sighs, and I feel her tensed-up muscles relax.
“Are you hungry? I told my mom about you and your family, and she gave me three boxes of food for you, not exaggerating,” I say.
She straightens and looks at my car curiously. “From her restaurant?”
“Yeah, spring rolls and noodle soup and stuff.” I open the trunk so she can see all the plastic soup cartons and foam containers, and her jaw drops.
“I don’t know if we have enough room in our fridge …”
I rub my neck as my skin flushes. “It freezes really well. I can bring some home with me, too.” But I’d have to try to eat it on my own, because sure as hell, I can’t tell my mom Anna didn’t take it all.
“Let’s, uh, bring it in and see if it fits,” she says dazedly, and we pick up the boxes and cart them inside.
The entryway of her parents’ house is the showstopper kind. There’s a long marble hallway lined with paintings and a grandfather clock. To the side, there’s a sitting room with a grand fireplace, exposed wooden ceiling beams, elegant furniture, and the most expensive-looking drapes I’ve ever seen. They look like they’re made of gold, but I’m pretty sure it’s just silk—really nice silk. A ways down, I can see a formal dining room with an antique dining table that seats ten and a crystal chandelier.
This place is nothing like my mom’s house, where aesthetics take a back seat to utility and cost but the food is always good. The only thing that’s familiar to me here is the rug by the front door with all the shoes lined up in neat rows. I think my mom owns that same pair of orange plastic sandals, actually.
I toe my shoes off and follow Anna down the hall, feeling the coldness of the marble seeping through my socks to the soles of my feet. I make a discovery that should have been obvious, but wasn’t, because I never walked on so much marble without shoes before now: Marble is hard. Anna is going to get plantar fasciitis walking on this shit all day.
At the end of the hall, she veers left and enters a humongous kitchen / great room area with a twenty-foot-tall ceiling and more of those gold drapes. Anna sets her box of food on one of the granite islands （there are two） and opens one of the Sub-Zero refrigerators （there are also two） with custom wood paneling to match the cabinetry.
As we’re shuffling stuff around, trying to make room for all my mom’s food, a third person joins us.
“Hey, can you get the heat packs from the microwave for—” It’s a woman, older than Anna, more compact, a little shorter, but clearly related to her. They part their hair in exactly the same place, too.
I smile and wipe my hand on my jeans in case there’s fish sauce on it or something before holding it out toward her. “Hey, I’m Quan. Nice to meet you.”
For a split second, she stares at me just like their mom did a week ago—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, amazed in a horrified way—but then she sees the boxes of food. She can probably smell it, too. There’s fried chicken, and fried chicken smells fucking delicious. My mom’s is the absolute best, too, with crispy salty skin that crunches on your teeth and then melts on your tongue. She recovers, and a grateful smile warms her face as she shakes my hand.
“I’m Priscilla, Anna’s sister. This is so nice of you. Thank you.” Everything about her, from her posture, to the direct way she makes eye contact, to the confident sound of her voice, tells me she’s in charge of this place. If I need to work on impressing someone, it’s her.