He gave her a funny look. “It’s just TV.”

“I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”

“We don’t mind.” He walked around to her side, opened the door, and held his hand out. “Will you come in?”

• • •

When Stella’s small hand landed in his palm, the hard knot of tension in Michael’s gut loosened, but an awful brew of guilt and sadness continued to eat at him.

She looked terrible. Her bun was off-center, and messy strands framed her drawn face. Her normally bright, expressive eyes were dim, swollen, and shadowed. His heart dipped when he realized she must have cried a lot to make them that way. He’d made her cry.

This was not his Stella.

Well, the sweatiness of her hand was all Stella. He squeezed gently and led her to the front porch.

When he opened the door and prepared to enter, she stiffened and dug in her feet. “I forgot to bring something. Google says I’m supposed to bring something. Let me go and—”

“It’s fine, Stella.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and propelled her into the house.

Inside the entryway, she shut her eyes and took a breath. He could see her absorbing the silence, feel her body relaxing against his arm.

“You know you can always tell me when things bother you, right? Like the TV last night . . . or the club last week.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, but instead of looking at him, she stared off to the side, suddenly tense all over again. “Did Quan say something to you?”

Michael hesitated to answer. Something told him it was extremely important to her that he didn’t know, so he did what he’d learned from his dad even though he hated it. He lied. “Only that the noise and crowd were too much for you. Why didn’t you tell me? I wish you had.”

“I already told you I don’t like it when people have to act differently for me.”

“We could have done something else,” he said in exasperation. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her or make her uncomfortable.

“Why are there oranges here?” she asked, indicating the plate of oranges next to the urn of incense and bronze Buddha statue on the table in the entryway.

“Don’t change the subject.”

She sighed. “Fine. It embarrasses me. A lot.”

All that self-torture . . . because it embarrassed her to admit she was different? His insides melted down, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Can you tell me about the oranges now?”

He smiled at her single-mindedness. “It’s an offering for the dead. Supposedly, they get hungry in the afterlife,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. As a scientist type, she had to think this was silly. He did, too, but it was something Ngoại and his mom liked to do.

A small smile played over her lips. “Do you give them other kinds of food, too? I’d get tired of fruit all the time, myself. How about candy?”

He laughed. “You’ve had enough candy today.”

“What do you do with the fruit now that it’s been offered? I assume the dead don’t actually rise and consume it . . .”

“We eat it. I’m not entirely clear on how long you’re supposed to wait, but at least a day or so, I think.”

“Hm.” She inspected the Buddha statue, angled her head so she could see behind it. Judging by her expression, she was fascinated, and he recalled that she loved martial arts films and DramaFever. She did not look condescending or bored or imposed upon. She did not look like his dad.

“Do you feel like you’ve entered the set of an Asian drama? Is that what’s going on here?” he asked.

“This is better. This is real life.” She pointed to the box of incense hidden away behind the statue. “Can I light one? Will you show me how to do it? I’ve always wanted to.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t actually know how. I mean, I don’t remember the order of the lighting and the bowing and all that. When I was little, I refused to do it, and Ngoại stopped requesting it.”

“Does it take very long?” she asked with a frown.

The corner of his mouth tipped up sheepishly. “I don’t think so, no. Let’s go say hi to my mom and grandma, and then I’ll feed you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She followed him through the dining room and into the kitchen where Sophie and Evie were dishing rice noodles, shredded mint and lettuce, and barbecued beef into large bowls. They looked to be back on speaking terms. Considering their track record of enemies one day, best friends the next, that was about right. Ngoại and his mom were slicing up heaps of mangoes at the informal seating area where they did all their eating—the formal dining table was for presentation only. Ngoại was dressed in her favorite black knit cardigan, and his mom wore a Christmas sweater even though it wasn’t holiday season.

“Hi Ngoại, Mẹ,” Michael said.

His mom nodded at him before considering Stella. “Welcome back. Dinner’s ready soon. Sit and eat, ah?”

Stella smiled, but her grip on his hand was fierce. “Sure, thank you. It looks good.”

“These two are Sophie and Evie. They’re not twins,” he said, bringing her to the kitchen island that was covered with food stored in brand-new Pyrex containers. “Sophie—the one with that red stripe in her hair, God, when did you get that?—is an interior decorator, and Evie is a physical therapist.”

“Hi, Stella,” they said at the same time. Mom must have told them about Stella’s apology because it looked like they wanted to make a fresh start.

Stella gave a tiny wave. “Hi.”

“Is Angie here?” he asked.

“Nope. More work stuff,” Evie said.

“On a Saturday,” Sophie added with a sneer.

“Because people work—”

“On Saturdays—”

“All the time.”

The sisters faced one another and traded knowing glances.

Michael whispered in Stella’s ear, “They’ve been finishing each other’s sentences since they were little. I think they’re aliens.”

Stella’s lips trembled into another smile, and she leaned into him. Poor shy girl. His family had to be overwhelming for her, and this wasn’t even all of them. He tightened his hand around hers and fought the desire to kiss her. Something about the way she turned to him like he was her safe place satisfied caveman needs Michael hadn’t known he possessed.

He cleared his throat and asked, “Where are Janie and Maddie?”

“Upstairs doing homework. They’ll come down when they’re hungry. They both have tests soon.”

“They’re the two youngest,” he explained to Stella. “Maddie is the baby. She’s a sophomore at San Jose State.”

“I’m going to forget everyone’s names.” She looked so worried—Michael melted a little. Why did she care? These people couldn’t be special to her. They were just his family.

“That’s okay. I wish I could.”

“Very funny, Michael,” Evie said with a roll of her eyes. “You only have to remember me. I’m a PT, so if you get carpal tunnel or something, you know who to look for. Posture is everything.”

“Why couldn’t you be a doctor, then, E?” his mom asked as she peeled her tenth mango. “All I wanted was a doctor in the family, and not one of you could do that for me.”

“Stella’s a doctor,” Michael said with a grin.

Her eyes rounded into giant buttons. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You have a PhD. That makes you a doctor. And you went to the University of Chicago, the best school for economics in the U.S., probably the world. You graduated magna cum laude.”

As he’d known would happen, his mom perked up with interest. “That’s fantastic.”

Stella blushed, bringing much needed color to her cheeks. “How did you . . .”

“Google stalking.”

Her eyes searched his, and a surprised smile hinted at the corners of her mouth. “You stalked me?”

He shrugged. It was his turn to feel awkward now.

“Okay, lovebirds, dinner’s ready. Come eat,” Sophie said. She set down a bowl filled with noodles that had been cut short with scissors and ultra-thin sliced meat in front of Ngoại and kissed her temple like she would a baby.

Once they’d seated themselves at the table, Michael watched as Stella carefully mimicked Sophie’s food preparation ritual, adding chili sauce, pickled daikon and carrots, bean sprouts, and fish sauce to her bowl of noodles, greens, and beef.

“Have you ever had this before?” he asked.

She shook her head absently as she mixed everything together and took a bite. Her eyes opened wide, and she grinned as she covered her mouth. “You’re a good cook.”

“Michael is very good with his hands,” his mom said with a proud nod.

Sophie rolled her eyes before she smirked suggestively and asked Stella, “Do you agree? Is he ‘good with his hands’?”

His mom scowled at Sophie, but Stella merely smiled and nodded. “I think so.”

Sophie arched her eyebrows and sent Michael an is she for real? look.

As dinner progressed, Michael watched Stella through a new lens provided by his recent discovery. He didn’t notice so much when it was just the two of them, but she had trouble with eye contact. She rarely spoke unless someone asked her a direct question, and then her answers were short and to the point. When she listened, however, her focus was the kind of stuff she probably used on complex economic problems. She frowned, hanging on every word like it was of utmost importance.

These people mattered to her because they mattered to him.

“Where did you grow up, Stella?” his mom asked after they’d moved from bún to mangoes.

“Atherton. My parents still live there,” Stella provided.

His mom’s eyebrows climbed at the mention of the wealthiest zip code in California. “Do you like babies?”