8️⃣

LINGLING

Another day, another charming small-town wedding festivity.

"Bride or groom?" asks an older woman with a warm smile as I awkwardly position myself near a cooler of drinks. I regret my choice almost instantly, of course. Nothing draws people over to you faster than standing next to a tub of ice on a hot, sunny day.

"Oh, um..." is my idiotic answer.

The woman chuckles. "It's an impossible question, isn't it? Most of the wedding guests are here for both of them. Such a beautiful couple, don't you think?"

"Yes," I answer truthfully. "Very beautiful."

Elijah and Josie really do look like the perfect pair. I thought it might be strange to see Elijah with his childhood sweetheart, considering I was there when he married Carly, though there wasn't much love in that relationship to begin with. As it turns out, though, it's painfully obvious that this bride and groom are soulmates. If soulmates were the sort of thing I believed in.

Despite my paltry answers, the woman persists. "Now that I'm thinking about it, you must be one of Elijah's college friends."

"Yes."

"How nice of you to come all this way! I'm Dina Thomas, a friend of the family. Or rather, a friend of both families." She laughs at her own joke, if that's what you can call it, so I force a smile and nod.

"Lovely to meet you," I reply politely.

She appears to realize I'm not much of a conversationalist and glances around for a moment. "Oh, Hanover! There you are, old man!"

To my relief, she bustles away with a friendly wave in my general direction.

Unfortunately, a backyard barbecue implies fewer places to hide than a private party at a dimly lit bar. The yard at the Thanomchai house is large and well-manicured, and the handsome oak trees that might have provided me with some kind of cover are busy shading the buffet-style table of offerings. I do my best to linger at the edges of the crowd, loitering near some Caltech acquaintances to make it seem like I'm an active participant in all this socializing. Luckily, there are enough people here that I manage to slip under the radar.

I learn very quickly, however, that it's best to avoid Harry, Elijah's former assistant, since he seems to be just as much of a social butterfly as Orm. He works the crowd the way a best man is expected to, welcoming those with familiar faces and warmly introducing himself to everyone else. It's impressive to watch, I have to admit, but it's not like I'm jealous. I know how to socialize just fine. The problem is that I simply don't like to.

"...And then Elijah goes, 'But, Harry! I don't like the first-class lounge!'" Harry bellows the punchline to his long-winded joke on the opposite side of the yard, followed by a roar of laughter from the crowd of listeners he's attracted.

I glance over at Elijah to see his reaction, but he's too busy talking with his future father-in-law and a man who I can only guess is his future uncle-in-law, since the men are similar enough to be brothers. Then again, Orm and Josie look like they could be siblings, but they're apparently cousins. That side of the family must have aggressively dominant genetics.

Thankfully, it's easy enough to avoid Orm. She's even more active than she was last night, fluttering around the yard like a bird in her pastel blue jumpsuit. After our interaction with the disposable camera, I didn't even bother to pretend like I was going to play along. I ended up handing off the camera to another guest who had already burned through the film in theirs.

I mean, really. What was I going to do? Run around and take pictures of strangers? I've spent most of my life avoiding people like that.

Yes, it was specifically for the wedding website, but I don't have to be a professional in the tech industry to know for certain that everything on the internet is permanent. And, after the childhood I had, I'm an extremely private person. Whether Orm understands it or not, she has to respect it.

"Are you enjoying yourself, honey?"

I turn to find an older woman who looks oddly familiar. She smiles at my confusion and immediately supplies, "I'm the mother of the bride, Carol. You're Lingling, aren't you?"

"Lingling, yes. It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Thanomchai."

She waves off the formality with a flick of her wrist. "It's Carol, please. And I know it's probably terribly impolite of me to say so, but I'm a huge fan of your mother."

It takes immense effort not to outwardly cringe. "Oh... thanks."

"Don't worry," she tells me, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder with a kind smile. "Nobody told me. It's just that I've been watching her movies since I was a teenager, and the resemblance is striking."

Somehow, the warmth and calm radiating from this woman keep me from raising my hackles, which is usually what happens when someone randomly pulls me aside to talk about how much they love Daphne Shay—as if I'm a direct line to her rather than my own person. I can tell that Carol means well, so I smile in thanks.

"Yes, I hear that a lot," I reply.

"Oh, I'm sure you do. Now, please tell me that you're one of those Caltech kids. I need someone who knows more about technology than my silly husband."

"I am, indeed. What's the problem?"

She whips out her phone. "Well, it's just that every time I try to take a picture, it doesn't stay still."

"Pardon?"

"The photo. It moves. Not like a video, but—"

I chuckle, understanding the issue quickly. "Ah, I see. You've got your live photos setting on. Let me see."

Carol Thanomchai hands her phone off to me swiftly, as if it's a hot potato. It takes me all of two seconds to show her how to change the settings, and it most certainly didn't require me to use my college degree, but I'm flattered when she gasps and coos over how impressed she is.

"Joe! She fixed it!" she calls out to her husband.

"How does this thing even work?" Paul shouts over the noise of the crowd, his phone held out like it's a foreign object. The sea of guests around us pays no mind to his tech-related distress, too caught up in their conversations, laughter, and the occasional burst of barbecue smoke drifting through the air.

"Lingling, dear, would you mind showing him?" Carol asks, her voice warm and amused.

Grateful for a task—something tangible to focus on—I step closer to Paul. A few taps and swipes later, I've disabled the live photo setting, and the camera behaves exactly as it should.

"There you go," I say, handing the phone back to him.

Paul looks at the screen with the reverence of someone witnessing a miracle. "Well, I'll be damned. You're a wizard, Lingling." He claps me on the shoulder with a broad grin, the kind of overly familiar gesture that catches me off guard.

Unfortunately, by hanging around the mother and father of the bride, I'm too close to the metaphorical flames. I need to extricate myself before I'm surrounded by more people and risk getting stuck near the center of attention.

"Any chance you know something about grills, kid?" asks the man who looks almost identical to Joe Thanomchai.

I blink in surprise at the casual use of kid. Even my own father doesn't use such terms of endearment with me.

"I'm afraid not, sir," I manage to answer.

He sighs, then sticks out his hand for me to shake. "Bummer. Well, anyway, I'm Paul Thanomchai, uncle of the bride. Orm's dad. You've had the chance to meet Orm already, I'm sure. She's the maid of honor. Allergic to sitting still."

"Well, I—"

"And this is Natasha," Paul continues, gesturing to the tall, striking woman beside him. Natasha, with her sharp features and confident posture, offers me a polite smile and a firm handshake. Her sleek black hair falls over her shoulder in a way that looks almost effortless, and she radiates a calm elegance that somehow contrasts with the lively chaos of the barbecue.

"Nice to meet you," I reply.

The details from Camp Hannefort come rushing back. This isn't Orm's mother—she passed away when Orm was very young. Paul hasn't remarried, but I can tell from the casual intimacy between them that Natasha is someone significant in his life. It's strange how much I know about Orm's family without them realizing it, just because of those long summer therapy sessions twelve years ago.

I struggle to search for something to say, something casual and easy that won't give away how much I know about this man's personal life, but then his brother Joe butts in.

"Paul, the issue isn't with the grill. I'm telling you that the ridiculous organic charcoal you brought is the problem. It won't light."

"All charcoal is organic, Joe," he grumbles back. "This stuff is biodegradable. And non-toxic. Much better for the environment."

Joe Thanomchai, wearing an apron that proudly says Grill Sergeant, scoffs loudly. "My point still stands. You should be using the real stuff. There are billionaires taking their private jets for trips down the street; the environment can withstand this one little barbecue. I've got a full bag down in the basement."

Carol Thanomchai nods in agreement. "And if we don't get the peaches and pound cake going soon, both Gigi Lee and your daughter will give us an earful."

"Why I'm even being asked to grill peaches and cake is beyond me," mutters Paul.

"And that's why you're not a professional chef," Joe remarks. "Gigi insisted that this be on the dessert menu."

I watch the entire exchange like a tennis match. Before I can brainstorm a way to extricate myself, a curvy woman with a no-nonsense attitude enters the scene, her apron embroidered with Lee Catering.

"Is there a reason this grill isn't fired up?" asks Gigi Lee, hands on her hips. "Just because the main courses have been served doesn't mean—"

"It's the charcoal, Gigi," Carol lightly interjects. "The boys are arguing over what kind to use."

Gigi throws up her hands in exasperation. "What kind have you been using this whole time?"

"Biodegradable and non-toxic," Paul replies defensively. "It's better for the—"

"I was wondering why the char on those franks was so bad," Gigi huffs, wagging her finger at Paul. Beside him, Natasha suppresses a smile. "I should've insisted I bring my own set-up, but you boys told me you had it handled! 'It's just a backyard get-together, Gi!' you told me. But look at this place! You're feeding a small army!"

Although Gigi seems to be around the same age as Paul and Joe, they look adequately chastised.

Then, for some reason, without communicating with my brain first, my mouth opens and starts spilling forth words.

"I can go and grab the charcoal, if you'd like," I offer.

"Please do, honey," sighs Gigi. "I'm quite literally begging at this point. And, Paul, I swear, if you burn these peaches like you burnt those hot dogs..."

Carol sidles up next to me and murmurs, "If you go around the side of the house, the basement door is right there. Can't miss it."

"I'm on it," I promise her.

"Thank you, dear. You're a real hero."

Once again relieved to have something to occupy myself with that doesn't involve making small talk, I slip away from Orm's immediate family members and thank every deity in existence that I managed to steer clear of her that whole time.

If I had a nickel for every time in my life that Orm and I were forced to cross paths while, as a result, I did my best to avoid her at all costs, I'd only have two nickels... but it's still weird that it happened twice. What are the chances that a Camp Hannefort reunion would occur twelve years later in a random town on the coast, and that the reunion would involve, of all people I met that summer, Orm Thanomchai? I'm not a religious person, but I'm starting to think that the universe has an odd sense of humor.

Why couldn't it have been literally anyone else?

Edging around the perimeter of the crowd, I make my way around the side of Carol and Joe's charming colonial-style house. As soon as I emerge on the narrow path between the grayish-blue siding and the dense hedges bordering the neighbor's place, the overwhelming noise of the party instantly dies down. It feels like slipping into cool water on a hot day. I'm almost tempted to disappear and never come back, but I also don't want to leave Gigi hanging. She seemed like a pretty intense woman—not the sort of person you want to disappoint.

Finding the basement door is easy enough, considering it's already open. Cool shade beckons from within. I nudge aside a small rock with the toe of my shoe to pass over the threshold and descend a rickety wooden staircase by the light of my phone. The door snaps shut with a resounding clank, effectively cutting me off from the chaos above.

A sense of peacefulness washes over me little by little as I descend into the dark yet clean cement basement of the Thanomchai house. It's large, with plastic storage tubs forming makeshift walls that make it seem like a labyrinth of happy family memories.

I know that both of my parents would rather die than have a space like this in their respective homes, regardless of the fact that it's not visible to guests. It's kind of nice, though. Clearly, the Thanomchai family is a clan that likes to enjoy themselves. There are mountain bikes and stacks of camping gear, as well as a well-organized heap of beach supplies.

It's strange, even now as an adult, to know that there really are families out there who genuinely want to spend time together. I always thought it was a myth.

As I hunt down the bag of charcoal, I hear a shuffling sound around the bend of a stack of bins labeled Kids from the years 1995 to 2015. From what I can see, they're stuffed full of all sorts of things, from ancient macaroni art to random vacation souvenirs to middle school yearbooks.

"I don't see the point in sentimentality," my mother often said. "Focus on the present because it will lead you to a bright future. The past is irrelevant."

I shake my head at the memory and follow the shuffling sound. I doubt the basement has a rat problem, but investigating the issue can at least delay my return to the party.

Except, the closer I get, the more I realize that the noise is from light footsteps, and it's coupled with soft humming.

I'm not alone down here.

I round the corner before I can shout at my body to pause and retreat. The humming stops short.

"What are you doing down here?" snaps a haughty, feminine voice that I know all too well.

I frown at Orm, illuminated only by the light of our phones.

"I'm getting charcoal. For your father."

She scoffs, letting the lid of a massive freezer slam shut. One hand is clenched around a large bag of ice, which I'm sure she'd love to lob at my head right now.

"And what were you doing talking to my dad?"

"He introduced himself to me," I shoot back. "After your aunt asked me to fix her phone and then dragged me over to them."

"Goodness, Carol," Orm mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. Then her eyes flash with impressively bright ire in the dim light. "Wait—you didn't shut the door on your way down, did you?"

"I mean, it kind of shut on its own."

Orm lets out a growl of frustration and stalks past me back toward the stairs. "Didn't you see that it was propped open with a rock? That door's been broken since I was in high school. It only opens from the outside!"

"Oh."

She halts and whirls around, my monosyllabic answer angering her further.

"Yes, oh. Great job, Ling. How fantastically detail-oriented of you. Thanks to you, we're trapped down here."