“Wow.” I lift the glass of water at my place setting. “Your uncle really has impeccable taste.”

He chuckles, just as a waiter approaches. He clears his throat and motions at me to order first. I order beer (surprising myself, and thinking of Tai, who would rather die a fiery death than consume that bloating, migraine-inducing trash water), plus the “classic Dreamfry” with all the trimmings (not surprising myself). He tells the waiter he’ll have the same and throws on an order of fried scallops.

Soon, we’re toasting chípí with our beers, and I take a small sip.

“So,” he says, setting down his beer, “you hate Pocket Girlfriends, even though your uncle invented them. Do you hate science and movies just as much? Is there anything you love?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Wow. Cutting right to the chase, I see.” I wipe the condensation off my hand. “You do know my parents didn’t invent science and movies, right?”

He just shrugs, an intentionally obnoxious grin on his face. “I grew up hearing how amazing you two were, from my uncle and just about everyone else. I still hear it, when I’m doing administrative tasks for him, organizing all his damn files. He loves talking about how much promise you showed. But back then I didn’t know what he was talking about. While I was trying to learn how to ride a bike without training wheels, he would visit for tea and talk nonstop about how you American girls learned Vilosh, French, and English at the same time. How you understood Viloki customs better than your father, by age seven. How you—”

“Wait, what? Your uncle said that about us?” Piping-hot fried scallops arrive, with crackling edges, and we each spear one, scallops brushing. “Tai will love that.”

“Okay. But seriously,” he says. “Answer my question. What do you love?” He bites into the scallop and chews.

What do I love? Feeling safe. Feeling loved. Feeling welcome. Feeling— Seriously, shut the heck up, says Tai.

“Cake-batter ice cream,” I blurt out, just as a plate of crispy dumplings lands in front of me.

He can’t suppress his laugh. “What? Cake batter? That artificial trash that’s probably beaver gland and sucralose mixed with chewed-up cardboard?”

“Please never say that again. And I like that it’s artificial,” I say, blushing and biting into a dumpling, which explodes in my face.

He hands me a napkin with zero judgment. “You don’t like artificial love, but you like artificial flavoring.” He picks up his beer with a smile. “Got it.”

“That sounds like a bad advertising song lyric for a corporate food titan.”

“Let it be known this conversation is sponsored by—” He holds up his beer and tries to read the incomprehensible Belgian name on the label. “Wait, you didn’t even order a Viloki beer?”