Andrew bit into a scrambled egg, ketchup, and Kraft Single sandwich on pan-fried raisin bread drizzled in ginger honey. How he didn’t spit it out immediately was beyond my taste buds and certainly made me feel better about his backbreaking price.

He swallowed his sweet-and-salty lump with a grin. “Thank you for making me feel like part of the family so quickly, Wang Ǎyí, Shǔshú.”

Ha. My parents were faking as much as he was. And nowhere near as well. I poked my misshapen ball of fried dough and cheese wrapped in a white fluffy bāo.

As Frankenbāo neared my reluctant mouth, our doorbell rang.

Saved by the bell. I dropped the monster, which, for the record, smelled exactly how I expected it would: not Chinatown sidewalk garbage on a hot day, but not edible, either.

Andrew, my father, and I all stood in hopes of using the doorbell to delay more bites, but my father held up a palm to insist he have the honor.

Andrew coughed a few times into his napkin, having stood too fast.

“Did you choke on a raisin?” I asked, rubbing his back like I guessed a good girlfriend would. I lowered my voice. “Because that’s a perfectly normal thing to find in your scrambled egg–honey sandwich.”

He let out a sudden cough-laugh, which made me jump.

“Hmm? Some inside joke?” my mother asked.

I nodded. Andrew and I shared a smile, but mine promptly fell when my father reentered the kitchen with a visitor in tow.

“Look who so kindly decided to drop by, Jing-Jing!” exclaimed my dad—now Vanna White—as he waved his hands up and down the visitor’s body to present him to the table. My father’s face was lit up like a Chinese New Year lantern, his previous hump-adjacent excitement over Andrew now forgotten.

My mother ran over and shoved an empty chair between Andrew and me.

For Hongbo.

Drew

This was most certainly Hongbo.

Slightly raised chin and half-concealed, half-on-display smug expression? He might as well have been wearing a name tag.

“Hey-o, boys and girls!” Hongbo said too loudly, followed by a chuckle.

Despite the obvious fact that I was here with Jing-Jing, like with with her, Hongbo marched right up to us and stuck a bouquet of bloodred roses under her nose.

“Roses for my rose,” he said, nudging her with the plastic wrapping in an effort to force her to accept. “You look… rosy… as always.”