I peek inside the brown paper bag and can’t help but laugh—momentarily forgetting that I’m still mad at him. “How did she do that?” I murmur to myself.
“What?” Henry says.
“Somehow Diya packed not just the curry—but also utensils, napkins, and rice,” I say, marveling at how everything’s expertly wrapped and fitted together. “Max Auntie skills.”
“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly.
I cock an eyebrow at him as I pull out the curry and rice.
“I shouldn’t have exploded on you like that,” he continues, his words falling out of his mouth like he can’t say them fast enough. “I shouldn’t have . . . said what I said. You’re right, I got uncomfortable back there”—he jerks his head in Jitlada’s direction—“and then I tried to act like everything was okay because . . . well. Because that’s usually what people want from me. A big smile, no complaints, nothing more complicated than that. Just happy to be here.” He affects the cheesy, jovial grin I was so confused by.
I pop open the rice and spoon a little curry on top. “When you say ‘people’—”
“I mean literally everyone,” he says. “My agent, who thinks I should be grateful for every stereotypical two-line gig that comes my way. My white actor roommates, who like to tell me I should be stoked that diversity is so ‘trendy’ right now. Everyone I’ve ever tried to date, who only wants the Prince Charming cheeseball they see onscreen. My parents—”
His voice catches, and he swallows hard. “They straight-up refuse to even talk about my panic attacks. They just want me to act like it’s not a thing.”
“I know a lot of old-school Asian families aren’t super up on how to best handle mental health,” I say, stirring my food so the curry mixes with the rice. The all-encompassing spicy smell makes both my mouth and my eyes water. “But do they really not know how common anxiety disorders and panic attacks are? Have you talked to them about any of the ways Grace has been helping you, how that’s made you feel like you can . . . I don’t know, start to handle what you’ve been going through?”
“No,” he says flatly. “Because I know what the response would be.” He hesitates, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. I offer him a bite of my curry/rice combo, which he gratefully accepts. “Neither side of the family ever accepted my parents’ marriage,” he says slowly. “So they’ve always tried to hold me up as some kind of proof that it’s actually perfect. Because I’m so perfect.” He flashes that fake smile again. “And whenever part of me doesn’t fit with their idea of ‘perfect’ . . . ” He shrugs, his smile turning bitter. “I love them so much. But sometimes I feel like they only want a certain version of me—not who I really am.”
“You want to be a whole you,” I say, remembering his words from our Grand Central Market meal.
“Yeah,” he says, giving me a rueful smile. “But I’m sorry I shut down and blew up like that. I took all that out on you, and you’re the last person I should be angry with.”
“I don’t want the Prince Charming cheeseball,” I say. “I was totally repulsed by the Prince Charming cheeseball, remember?”
He laughs, surprised. “That’s one of the things I liked about you. Immediately.”
I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blush. I pop another spoonful of curry into my mouth and luxuriate in the explosion of flavor—and the intense amalgam of spices, which do indeed turn my tongue numb.
“I shouldn’t have blown up on you, either,” I say, mixing together a perfect bite. “I just, um. I’m never this . . . open. With anyone. It makes me feel so, like . . . exposed? And I don’t usually . . .” My blush deepens. “I’m having a lot of new experiences tonight.”
Spilling my guts to a near stranger.
Going to an Asian Hollywood meetup.
Kissing Henry Chen in an epic alley.
“Tell me about this audition,” I say, shoveling more tongue-numbing curry into my mouth.
“Ah.” He laughs a little. “You are relentless.”
“Difficult,” I say, sounding out each syllable.
“I think more like . . . tenacious.”
“Passionate?” I say.
“Whatever you are . . . I like it.”
We let that sit between us for a moment, my blush raging. I wonder if his is, too.
“Those people in there—the Asian Hollywood gang,” I say slowly. “They seem to really love the whole you. When you said you wished you had something like the community in Little Tokyo . . .” I jerk my head toward the restaurant. “I think you do. I think you found it.”
“Maybe I have,” he says softly.
“And they seem very invested in this audition. So yeah, I want to know more.”
There’s a long pause. I just keep eating my curry. I want him to feel like he can word vomit on me as freely as I’ve been doing with him.
“This audition,” he finally says. “I actually really want it. I want the part.”
“Hot Guy Hank Chen, Action Star,” I say, giving him a small smile. “I can see it.”
“Yeah, it’s just . . .” He shakes his head. “I think if it was just that, I’d be fine. I’d go in and read and listen to people tell me why my ‘look’ isn’t right, or ask me to put on an accent, or show off my abs and do splits like I’m some kind of trained monkey. But with this one, they’ve said they’re going to tailor the part to who gets it. I could actually play a specifically Chinese-Filipinx character for the first time ever. And it’s the lead. I could show people . . .” He trails off, his gaze going unfocused as he stares out the windshield.
“You could show people who you really are,” I finish. “That whole you.”
Beyond Hank Chen, Prince Charming Who Can Do the Splits. Hank Chen, Vapid Pile of Muscles and Nothing More. Hank Chen, Perfect Pan-Asian Son and Living Proof of His Parents’ Perfect Marriage.
He turns to look at me, his mouth quirking into a half smile.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It’s a huge opportunity. But the stakes are so
