Cinnamon

Bumping Into Fate

Following Google Maps, I walked to a convenience store to look for some snacks and take a look around my new neighborhood. I had no idea that I was about to meet the person who would change my life—an unpleasant guy who would either heal me… or destroy me.

“Pick the one on the left. That’s sticky rice,” I blurted out to the guy next to me. Honestly, he was hot—like, straight-out-of-a-Netflix-drama hot.

He paused for a moment, then smiled and said, “Thanks.” Wow. My heart skipped a beat. When he smiled, he looked just like an angel.

Fate or coincidence, I ran into him again while waiting in line to pay. He had a bunch of cooking utensils in his basket—was he learning how to cook? I wondered.

“So, why do you think the one on the left is better?” he suddenly asked.

“Sorry, but I accidentally glanced at your phone screen and saw the title: ‘Essential ingredients for making sticky rice,’” I replied almost instantly.

The boy: “My name’s Vik. And you?”

“You can call me Van—and don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only Asian in America, you know.” I snapped when he kept staring straight at my face.

Vik: “Van? You’re Vietnamese? Oh God, my grandfather has always praised the beauty of Vietnamese girls. Too bad I never believed him… otherwise I would’ve been prepared for your beauty.”

Do Americans really compliment people this easily? Was that… genuine? “Thanks for the compliment,” I said, then fell silent again. It was almost dinner time, anyway.

Vik: “You’re not curious why my grandpa said that?”

Me: “No, I don’t.”

“No—I think you do want to hear it. My grandfather had a deep romance with a Vietnamese girl during the war. You know how it was back then—everything was difficult, except, apparently, for a foreign soldier getting shot in the thigh by a stray bullet, being saved by a Vietnamese girl, and… falling in love with her at first sight.” Vik continues to say.

“Wow,” I replied flatly, more focused on digging for a stupid 10-cent coin somewhere in my wallet—a wallet with more than five compartments, none of which seemed to hold what I needed.

“Hey, that’s rude. Didn’t your mom ever tell you to build good relationships with your neighbors?” Vik said, sounding a bit sulky.

“I don’t think you’re my neighbor. If you were, you’d probably cause chaos in the whole store the moment people found out a corpse had escaped the cemetery and was now learning how to cook.” I chuckled, grabbed my grocery bag, and walked straight out, leaving the talkative angel behind.

I had been in the U.S. for four days, and it was awful to admit that my mom and I still hadn’t spoken a word to each other since that day. She left for work early every morning, and I spent most of my time binge-watching Netflix. Occasionally, Huy would call to try and get my new address out of me.

You have a call from Gia Huy. Yep—my almost-best-friend was calling again.

I picked up my phone: “Huy, did you just break up with your girlfriend again? Why do you keep calling me?”

Huy: “Oh, my bestie, I’m just calling because I miss you. And yes, I broke up with her last week.”

Me: “Uh-huh. I know. Bye, my dear friend.”

Huy: “Wait, wait! I’m serious this time. Give me your U.S. address, will you?”

Me: “Nope. How do I know you won’t tell your future girlfriends where I live? Do you even remember how many times I had to repaint my old house walls because your exes doodled on them?”

Huy: “Van, that was an accident. They liked you, that’s all. And I just want your address so I can send you the first edition of Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy’s work.”

“Huy, are you serious? How on earth did you even find that?” I swear, that was the happiest moment I’d had in the past four days. I’m obsessed with literature, especially ancient classics.

Huy: “Have I ever lied to you? Now give me your address, and I’ll have it express shipped to you.”

I read my address to him immediately and added, “Thanks, my dear. If I ever get The Weeknd’s autograph, I’ll send it straight to you. Now, I’m hanging up.”

Huy: “Hold on—you remember what I told you, right?”

Me: “Yes—you’ll come to the U.S. to study, and I have to know my way around so I can show you around on your first day here.”

“Exactly. And one more thing… don’t fall in love too soon, Van.” He hung up before I could even respond, leaving me confused.

Wtf—I’m turning 18 soon. Before my imagination could run wild, the doorbell rang—the pizza delivery driver had arrived. Delivery here is ridiculously fast—I’d only placed the order ten minutes ago. I was about to open the door when a series of loud crashes erupted outside. When the noise finally stopped, I cautiously peeked through the peephole and saw a figure that looked both familiar and… not.

It was Vik, who could’ve been my ideal future boyfriend if he’d just kept his mouth shut and, you know, wasn’t standing outside my house like a burglar right now.

Bang. I yanked the door open, ignoring the startled look on Vik’s face.

“Are you following me?” I fired the first shot.

Vik: “Absolutely not. I just saved your life.”

Me: “What the hell? Saved me from what?”

“Oh, God, bunny, have you not heard the warnings? This is peak season for burglaries. They roam the neighborhood, scouting houses, and mark the ones they think are good targets.” As he spoke, Vik pointed at the letter F scrawled on my front door.

I froze. I had no idea what might’ve happened if I’d opened the door earlier and Vik hadn’t shown up. I looked at him with genuine gratitude, suddenly feeling terrible for having thought the worst of him. Vik was an angel—an angel with an annoying smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh no, your lip is bleeding!" I exclaimed in shock. I didn’t give Vik a chance to reply—I just pulled Vik inside my house.

"What are you gonna do?" Vik questioned.

"Put some ointment on your lips. If you feel pain, say." I said.

After rummaging around for the first-aid kit, I carefully applied ointment to Vik’s lip. That punch looked pretty nasty.

“Don’t let strangers into your house, especially men, little girl,” Vik grumbled at me.

“Oh? Then what gender are you? Are you gay or something?” I replied with a smirk as I slowly put the first-aid kit away.

Vik: “I’m not a stranger. I’m your neighbor. And bunny, except for me, you shouldn’t have any American guy hanging around in your house. I bet those guys wouldn’t stop at just talking and applying ointment.”

Me: “Hey, next to my place is a cemetery, and I have no business with any skeletons.”

“And you’re right — I shouldn’t let strangers into my house. Anyway, thank you. If you ever need help, just tell me,” I replied while pulling Vik to his feet and pushing him out of my door.

“Hey, Van, we are neighbors. I live right over there,” Vik said, pointing toward a house — or rather, a Mediterranean-style villa—across from mine.

According to Mrs. Anne, the cemetery keeper, that was where some of the wealthiest people in Chicago lived. Oddly enough, right beside that grand neighborhood stood a cemetery and my vine-covered old house.

“There’s no open gate between here and there, so you’re not my neighbor,” I said flatly.

Vik: “What the…?”

“In my country, neighbors are people who can actually drop by and talk, not just wave across a white wall and show up once in a while. Of course, I’m grateful for this visit,” I added.

“So basically, you don’t want to be my neighbor, right? You want something more? Do you wanna become my girlfriend?” Vik grinned.