“Oh, it’s fine, I can just get some from the bathroom,” I say, assuming he’s about to offer me a tissue.

But then he’s holding up one of those White Rabbit milk candies I saw him eating in his dorm, the creamy white wrapper smooth, almost the same shade as his outstretched palm. Confusion flickers over his features when he hears the end of my sentence.

We both pause. Catch our mistake.

God, why does everything have to be so awkward when I’m around him?

“Uh. Never mind.” I hold out my hand. “Guess I could do with some candy.” As he passes it over, his fingers brush against mine. Just once, briefly, there and then gone. So warm and light they could be confused for the flutter of birds’ wings.

It feels nice. Too nice.

I retract my hand as if I’ve been burnt.

“Thanks,” I mumble, busying myself with peeling the wrapper and bringing the candy to my lips. Immediately, the thin, papery outer layer melts on my tongue, and the rich, mildly sweet taste fills my mouth.

It tastes like my childhood. Like the long, luxurious summers in Beijing before I left for America, before my nainai passed away. Mama rarely let me have sweets, saying it was a waste of money and bad for my teeth, but every morning during the holidays, Nainai would hobble out to the local grocery store and buy little packets of White Rabbit milk candy, hiding them inside her handkerchief. Whenever Mama wasn’t looking, she would sneak one to me with a wink.

But my memories of her more or less end there.

She only called on my birthdays after we moved across the sea, said she didn’t want to inconvenience us as we tried to settle in, that she knew we were busy. Then, sometime after I turned nine, she died alone at home. A stroke. Preventable, if only she had the money to pay for a proper checkup and medical treatment, to ask for help when she wasn’t feeling well.

Baba and Mama didn’t even tell me she was gone until the day of the Qingming Festival.

My throat burns at the thought, at the injustice of it all, but this time, at least, I manage to force the tears back before they can form.

I don’t know why I’m so emotional today.

I sneak a quick glance at Henry to see if he’s noticed, but he seems suddenly fascinated by the awards display too.

“It’s been ages since I last had one of these,” I say, more to break the awkward silence than anything. “They were my favorite childhood treat.”

He turns to face me, his expression impassive. “Mine too.” He says this almost reluctantly, with great caution, like he’s disclosing some kind of confidential business information. “My mother used to give me one whenever I had a bad day at school.”

“Really?” Surprise leaks into my voice, and not just because I can’t imagine him ever having a bad day at school. Not even a subpar day. “I thought you’d have grown up eating all that fancy, expensive stuff.”