I arrive at the Pitch IRL venue in downtown LA to find Bennett. The venue is small enough where every angle is considered a good seat. On the large screen behind the stage, I see the ZodiaCupid logo displayed. Perfect. I made it just in time to catch Bennett in the middle of his pitch.
Up on stage, Bennett paces back and forth. He looks nervous. This isn’t what I expected when I envisioned him pitching all his past businesses. As he starts to describe ZodiaCupid, he fumbles over data and statistics. He takes a second to drink water.
I approach the stage looking sweaty and disheveled in my leggings and oversized T-shirt. When Bennett places the cup down and looks up, I’m able to catch his eye. I give him a small wave and mouth the words “From the heart,” pointing to the left side of my chest. He returns the smile and quickly inhales before letting out a long breath.
“People are more than just line items in an Excel spreadsheet,” Bennett says. He stands up straighter, his grip on his notecards relaxing. The confidence that was lacking in his voice before is now present and commanding.
“There’s no algorithm in the world that can capture what it’s like to laugh uncontrollably with the person you love or that feeling when you’re sitting next to someone for the first time at a movie and wondering if they want to hold your hand just like you do,” he says, taking deliberate pauses and steps across the stage. “Or when you bomb so badly on a date but don’t care because every second you spend with them is more important than any second you had without them.”
Just when I think he’s finished, he looks up at me and dives into why he started ZodiaCupid. He shares a condensed version of the story he told me about finding his mother’s journals, and how his parents were mismatched yet perfectly matched, and the importance of discovering your culture no matter what age you are. It’s when he speaks from the heart that I notice the young audience shifting in their seats and focusing on him instead of on their phones.
He hits his stride and returns to the data and statistics. He discusses the beta version of the app, who they’ve been able to hire with savings, their marketing plan and how the strategy has been working, estimated expenses and anticipated revenue, and potential user numbers post-beta. At first, he captured their hearts—a feeling I know well—and then he captured their wallets.
As I watch him in his element, I think about all the ways that online dating has benefited me. While Lunar Love lost clients, it made me figure out how to be smarter about the business and our offerings. Without the app, I may never have found Parker to match with Harper. Without ZodiaCupid, I may never have found Bennett.
On my phone, I see my dad’s name light up the screen. I decide to call him back after the pitch, letting his call go to voicemail. When he calls a second time in a row, I can’t ignore it.
“Hello?” I whisper, ducking out of the audience and into the lobby.
“Hey sweetie,” Dad says quietly. “Where are you? Can you talk?”
Through the windows, I watch as Bennett speaks animatedly. The crowd loves him.
“I’m actually in the middle of something.”
“Would you be able to get out of it and come home?” he asks.
“Why? What happened?” I ask, my tone more urgent. “Can you tell me now?”
Dad clears his throat. “I hate to tell you over the phone…” I sense a shift in his voice. I press the phone harder against my ear and search for a private corner.
“Dad, what is it?”
“Pó Po passed away in her sleep last night,” he says sadly.
Everything goes quiet. People in my line of sight blur. I freeze in place but the room feels like it’s spinning around me. A hollow silence hangs between us as I process what I’ve just heard.
“It was very unexpected,” Dad continues. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news to follow this up with. Are you there?”
“Nn-hnn,” I mumble, half listening. My dry throat and eyes burn. “She seemed fine.” My mind jumps to when she fell into the car, triggering a reminder of her feeling tired when we made dumplings. My pulse races. How could I not have seen that she wasn’t well? “Wasn’t she?”
“Honestly, we don’t know. The Huang women have always put on a strong face. If she was sick, she never let on how bad it was,” he says.
I lean back against the poster-covered wall and curl forward, tears streaming down my cheeks onto my leggings. Everything in my body stings. “How are Mom and Auntie? Does Nina know?” I manage to ask. My heart feels like it’s going to climb its way up my throat and out of my body.
“They’re being practical about it all. I’ve been delegated to making calls. The paramedics came this morning. We don’t know what happened yet.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. Remaining calm is Mom’s specialty. My theory is that it comes from her years of lawyering—If I let myself feel all the emotions I want to feel working in this legal system, I’d never make it through the day—and being raised by Pó Po, the most practical of them all—Everything comes to an end. That’s life!
“I’ll come over in a bit,” I say, dazed.
When Dad and I hang up, I bury my face in my hands and sob, not caring who’s watching. Pó Po can’t be gone.
After one last look at Bennett on stage, I head to the only place that can provide real comfort right now.
I push forward on the door of Lucky Monkey as I’ve done day after day after day, only to remember I have to pull. The door feels heavier. While normally butter and sugar welcome me in, today I don’t smell anything. I wind my way past browsing customers to the back counter and find Mae Yí-Pó shuffling back and forth. I can tell by the look on her face that she already knows.
“Olivia,” Mae Yí-Pó says. She extends her arms, and I bend down, letting myself be cocooned in her embrace. I squeeze my eyes shut to prevent tears from leaking out onto her shoulder, but no luck.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, sniffling.
Mae Yí-Pó holds me as my tears cascade down my cheeks. She gently pushes me back, holding me by the shoulders. “Come with me,” she says.
I follow her to the back office of the bakery where there’s another person sitting in a chair. My steps slow as I process who’s in front of me. She must’ve heard about Pó Po from her mom, who’s close friends with Auntie.
“Colette?” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”
Colette jumps up from her seat and takes a step toward me before stopping herself. She looks exactly the same as she did three years ago but has longer hair. People confused her, Nina, and me for triplets. We all may be mixed-race Chinese American, but we don’t look the same.
“Hi, Olivia. I heard about Pó Po. I’m so sorry,” Colette says sadly.
Mae Yí-Pó clears another chair covered in aprons and papers. “Please, both of you sit,” she directs to us both. “I’ll be back in a second.”
I walk past Colette and take a seat on the edge of the chair next to hers as Mae Yí-Pó leaves the room and quietly closes the door behind her.
“When did you get back in town?” I finally ask.
“Five months ago. I was in New York City for the past few years after…” She trails off.
I twist my ring. “How’d you find me?”
“When my mom told me the news, I had a sneaky suspicion you’d come here. It has always been our safe place,” she says. “I meant to get in touch earlier, but I wasn’t sure how. Then I saw you at that baking class, and you totally ditched.”
An unexpected laugh slips out at the thought. “I didn’t. My date slipped,” I respond, surprising myself by how natural our interaction feels. It’s as though no time had passed since we last saw each other.
Colette’s eyes widen, her mascaraed eyelashes framing her light brown eyes. “You have a new boyfriend? I…that makes me so happy to hear, knowing that you didn’t let your ex ruin love for you.”
Before I can correct her, she adds, “I saw the recent press on Lunar Love. You’re in charge now. That’s amazing. It’s what you always wanted.”
“It is. I am. I learned a lot ever since…” I start.
“About that,” she says, adjusting her position toward me. She crosses one leg over the other, her bare knees peeking through the rips in her baggy Levi’s. “I owe you an apology.”
“You—wait, what?” I say, stunned. “It’s me who owes you an apology. I hurt you with that incompatible match. I made you leave LA. I’m so sorry I messed up. I will always regret my mistake.”
Colette sweeps her long bangs to the side and shakes her head. “Mistake? Are you kidding? You were just doing what you thought was right. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s the men who we thought we could trust. It wasn’t your fault. But I’m sorry I cut off communication. I thought you were mad at me for the match not working out and for disgracing Lunar Love and you and Pó Po. I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t handle the embarrassment.”
I huff out in disbelief. “Never once was I upset with you for either of those things.”
Colette laughs humorlessly. “You were going through your own stuff, and I should’ve been there for you instead of running away. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere, either,” I say. Colette pulls me in for a hug, and I soak her oversized sweater with new tears.
There’s a light knock on the door, and Mae Yí-Pó pokes her head in. Seeing her sends me into another sob.
“What am I going to do without Pó Po?” I ask, hunching forward on my knees. The pit in my stomach grows. “What will happen to Lunar Love? I don’t know how to do this without her.”
“Too many questions.” Mae Yí-Pó sits across from us in her own chair. “You’re going to keep doing what you’re doing. She prepared you for this moment. You already have everything you need. I know your pain right now feels unbearable, but the last thing Pó Po would’ve wanted was for you to be sad.”
“How can I not be?” I weep. Colette hands me a tissue from Mae Yí-Pó’s desk.
“She lived to be ninety years old! That’s worth celebrating!” Mae Yí-Pó says in a more optimistic tone.
“That sounds so…cheery,” I say between sniffles.
“She hit a longevity milestone most of us could only hope for. The long, full life she lived is worth being happy about. I know that’s how she felt about it.” A small smile spreads across Mae Yí-Pó’s face. “By no means was she perfect, but she was as close as one could come. Her life is worth celebrating.”
“I never thought about it like that,” I say, more tears pricking the back of my eyes. “I can’t stand the thought of her suffering alone.”
“Oh, honey.” Mae Yí-Pó reaches over and grabs my hand. “She never felt like she was doing anything alone. She loved many and was loved by many. Your Pó Po was never one to make things about herself. She knew that if you were too busy worrying about her, you wouldn’t have been able to worry about yourself. And she cared for her family more than anything else in this world. It would’ve destroyed her more to see you all fuss over her.”
“I just…” I trail off. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“Because it’s not goodbye,” Mae Yí-Pó says. “This feels like an impossible loss. It will for a while. But you’ll soon learn that this isn’t the end. We take care of our ancestors when they’re gone, and while that doesn’t bring them back here to us, we become connected to them in a different way.”
I look over at Colette, who nods along with me, even though we seem to have no clue what she means. At this point, I’ll believe anything if it means I can be close to Pó Po.
“I have an idea.” Mae Yí-Pó stands and reaches for three aprons, handing us each one. “Let’s bake,” she says reassuringly.
“Now?” I ask.
Mae Yí-Pó sharply nods. “Right now. Like we used to.”
I feel the tension melting out of my shoulders. “Okay.”
“Let’s do it,” Colette says as she sweeps her dark brown hair into a low ponytail.
Mae Yí-Pó, Colette, and I sift flour, whisk sugar into yolks, and whip egg whites into stiff peaks. It’s a dreamlike feeling that brings me back to when we were kids.
“The secret to the Swiss roll’s fluffy sponge cake is how gentle you are with adding the egg whites into the mixture,” she says, delicately using her spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl and fold the airy peaks over themselves. “Don’t overdo it.”
I watch her skilled movements, allowing myself to get lost in the soft folds of batter. She pours the mixture into a parchment-lined baking pan and slides the tray into the oven. While the cake bakes, we make the filling.
“Do you remember the first time I taught you how to bake?” Mae Yí-Pó shouts out to me as she pulls heavy whipping cream from the walk-in fridge.
“Barely. That was so long ago,” I say. “Do you?”
Mae Yí-Pó nods as she mixes cream and sugar together. “You were so bored waiting around at Lunar Love for your Pó Po and Auntie. You told me that they allowed you to come here, when instead you had actually just left to do your own thing.” She laughs.
I smile. “Sounds about right.”
“Your Pó Po called to make sure you got here safely.”
“How’d she know I’d come here?”
“Because she knew you,” Mae Yí-Pó says kindly.
“I guess some things never change,” I say, shaking my head with a laugh.
Colette laughs along with me as she opens the oven door. “This is ready,” she says, removing a clean toothpick from the center of the cake.
“She waited all afternoon until you came back on your own time,” Mae Yí-Pó explains, lifting the sheet tray out of the oven with mitts.
“Was she mad that I had just disappeared?” I ask, the smell of vanilla permeating the air.
Mae Yí-Pó waves her hands. “She could never stay mad at you for long. You’d come sometimes, too, Colette.”
“What did we love making most?” Colette asks.
“Swiss rolls,” Mae Yí-Pó says with a wink. “You always wanted to make an entire roll to bring back to your family. Your Pó Po said it was the best cake she had ever eaten.”
After letting the cake cool slightly, Mae Yí-Pó delicately pushes the warm cake into a parchment-covered log. “It’s all about the pre-roll,” she says, tiptoeing her fingers skillfully along the edges. “This gives the cake its shape so that when it cools, it’s still flexible.”
“So that’s the secret,” I mumble. “I could never get that right.”
“It just requires a little guidance, patience, and a light touch,” Mae Yí-Pó replies.
While we wait for the cake to drop in temperature, we fall into silence, moving around one another as we wash the workspace clean with damp rags. Once the drips of batter have been wiped from the counters and the mixing bowls and testing spoons are loaded into the dishwasher, we’re ready to fill and reroll.
I smile to myself about the resurfaced memories as I spread lightly sweet filling over the golden center. The edges of the cake slightly curl, the parchment paper crinkled beneath it.
“All yours,” Mae Yí-Pó says, gesturing for me to do the final roll.
I slowly turn the cake onto itself as filling spills out over the spiraled edges. Colette sprinkles our creation with powdered sugar, and Mae Yí-Pó cuts the treat into slices.
“To June Huang,” Mae Yí-Pó says. We take bites of the Swiss roll. “Mmm.”
“These are always so much better right out of the oven,” Colette says between mouthfuls.
The airy cake comforts me. “It’s the best one yet. Do you think Pó Po would like it?” I ask.
Mae Yí-Pó takes a second bite. “She’d absolutely love it,” she says, wrapping her arm around me. “Never forget that, no matter what happens, your Pó Po is watching over you, just like she always has, and she’s very proud of you, just as she always has been.”
I slowly nod to acknowledge Mae Yí-Pó and what she’s saying. The creamy Swiss roll filling coats my tongue as I swallow down a fresh batch of tears.