On Monday, Esme began treating customer interactions at the restaurant like language practice. She had to improve, so she pushed herself to chat with the customers even though she felt like a water buffalo mooing from the fields. She asked about people’s days; she played with their cute kids, who reminded her of Jade; she recommended new dishes. It felt unnatural and awkward at first, but aside from the one stinky woman who rolled her eyes at her and mocked her behind her back, the customers didn’t seem to mind too much. After a while, it was kind of fun.
When she was cleaning tables after the lunch hour, she discovered that her “practice” had earned her bigger tips. Did that mean people liked it when she spoke to them? That made her laugh a little. Maybe she was a charming water buffalo.
“You’ve gotten better quickly,” a familiar voice said in English.
Esme whipped around and saw Miss Q sitting at her regular table, absently munching on eggrolls wrapped in lettuce as she marked up more homework.
She almost responded in Vietnamese, but she didn’t. Esme wasn’t trying to marry Miss Q. She might as well practice on her.
&
nbsp; “Thank you,” she said.
Without looking up from her papers, Miss Q said, “I thought I’d see you in my class last week.”
“I do not need class.” Some people had to make do without.
Miss Q shook her head and continued marking the paper, her red pen scribbling quickly. “You would do better with class.”
Esme bit her lip in frustration. She knew she’d do better with class. She loved school and loved teachers and loved to raise her hand all the time. School had always been something she excelled at. Until she’d quit early and disappointed everyone.
“I need to save money,” she said. “For family.”
Miss Q looked up, gave Esme an impatient look, and dug a flyer out of her bag. “It’s not expensive. Here, look.” As Esme pored over the prices, which were surprisingly affordable, Miss Q continued, “The difficult part for people is finding the time. Do you have the time?”
“No, I need . . .” Her voice dried up before she could say she needed to spend time with Kh?i. The truth was he didn’t want to spend time with her. He’d made that very clear.
A section of the flyer listed the classes offered at the school, and one of them stuck right out: Accounting. A strange buzzing sensation spread through her veins. She tapped on the class listing. “Can I do this one?”
Miss Q put her red pen down and read the indicated words with a growing smile. “You want to be an accountant? I think you’d make a great accountant.”
Esme frowned at that, not believing it for a second. In fact, the suggestion made her almost angry. Holding up the flyer, she asked, “I can keep this?”
“Sure, I brought it for you,” Miss Q said.
“Thank you.” Esme folded it neatly in half, tucked it into her apron’s pocket, and got back to work.
The small table shook as she wiped it down, and she had to ease off before all the condiments fell to the ground. Miss Q made it sound like Esme could actually be an accountant one day, when she knew there was no way. It wasn’t kind to put dreams like that in someone’s head.
The best Esme could hope for was “almost an accountant.” But luckily for her, that might be enough to win her Kh?i.
* * *
• • •
In the two weeks that followed, Esme put Khai’s house back to rights and began taking the bus home. He assumed she’d taken on the night shift at his mom’s. He should have been happy to have his evenings to himself again—his house didn’t smell of fish-sauce fumes from her cooking and food doctoring anymore—but dinner wasn’t the same without her odd chatter and cheeriness. If he was being honest, his evenings now sucked. The house felt empty, and even without her Viet pop blaring, he couldn’t focus on his work or the TV. He checked the time a lot as he waited for her to walk through the door.
She still shared a bed with him, but she kept her back to him and balanced on the very edge, as far away from him as possible. Sometimes, he worried she’d fall off. Other times, he hoped she’d fall off. So he’d have an excuse to tell her to come closer.
Tonight, it was nearly 10:30 P.M., and she still hadn’t come home. She was usually back by this time, and his stomach churned. He considered calling or texting her, but those were cell phone functions he loathed.
Regardless, by the time 10:45 P.M. rolled around, he couldn’t handle it anymore. He went into his contacts and scrolled down to the phone number for Esme T. His thumb was hovering over the call button when his phone vibrated with an incoming call.
From Esme T.
He accepted the call right away and brought the phone to his ear. “Hi.”
“Oh hi, it’s me. Esme. But you know that, ha? It says that on your phone,” she said with a laugh.