But she was already leading me to the first painting. My palm pooled with so much sweat I worried she’d slip out.

“Here we have a light blue terry cloth, much too old and probably should’ve been thrown out years ago,” I joked, gesturing to the embarrassing towel covering the first painting. I wiped my sweaty hands on it because, why not try to own the nervousness? And then I whipped it off with a flourish (Type C.2–style) to reveal a full moon in hues of blue, purple, and red, partly hidden behind dark clouds but managing to shine through even at the covered parts. Tree branches peeked out from the bottom, reaching for the light at first but then withering and giving up.

She gasped. I may have breathed a sigh of relief. And maybe melted a little.

Marshall had affixed the paper to the chair back with putty. It was the first time I’d ever seen my paintings purposefully displayed, and this less-than-classy presentation on a splintering chair felt very me. Raw, down-to-earth, and a little broken.

Chloe was staring intently, her head flitting around with sharp hummingbird movements to take in all the details. Her smile grew so wide I could see most of her beautiful, very white teeth (which was my favorite smile of hers).

Because I’m me, I jabbered to fill the silence. (Why couldn’t I just let her xīnshǎng in peace?) “So, have you ever written or painted with máobǐ?”

“In Chinese school,” she answered. I could tell from her expression that she hated it—the máobǐ, not my painting (phew).

“Well, I use máobǐ and rice paper. At first it was because my parents had it lying around, but then I got really attached to the combination, especially after I started playing with the paper to get different textures.” I pointed to the painting in a spot where it was especially three-dimensional. “I want the moon to feel completely present, to be the focal point even though it’s not the largest object on the page, you know? So I scrape, fold, and crinkle the paper until it creates—”

“Magic,” Chloe finished with a whisper.

She pulled her phone out and shined the flashlight directly on the moon for a better view. Then she examined every fiber of that paper (it felt like), murmuring here, whispering “oh” and “wow” there, and almost seeming to forget I was present.

I felt like I was about to soar up into the sky like Cháng’é.

Chloe looked from the moon to me. “Did you actually used to go moon-gazing with your mother? Or was that just part of your cover story?”

My heart skipped a beat. Not only had she remembered that detail from Thanksgiving, but… that was exactly why I painted moons.