Her heart constricted even as she tried not to smile at her silly little brother who thought he needed to be shy about his feelings. There were many answers to this question: answers that were true, answers that were helpful, answers Tinseng maybe wanted to hear. A few years ago, she would have told him something very different. Now, though, she mostly told the truth.
“I knew when we spent that weekend with everyone in Macau.”
“But he was so awkward then!”
“I know.” Yukying smiled down at her hands, remembering. “I’d wanted him to make a good impression so badly, to show you all the man he’d become. But he sort of failed, didn’t he?”
“Well . . . he wasn’t that bad,” Tinseng said generously, since they both knew it really had been that bad.
“I thought I would be embarrassed,” she said. “I was afraid I would . . . want to scold him . . . or hide him.” Like Mother had been with Father, she thought; she’d been so afraid of finding that inside herself. “I had an image of the Laurence I wanted him to be for you. I wanted to show you the Laurence I saw when it was just us. But . . . it was okay that he wasn’t. I ended up liking the sarcasm you drew out of him and the way he followed along when you and Cheuk-Kwan talked. No matter which part of him I saw, I still wanted to stand next to him, to help him, support him, be proud of him. When I realized that, I realized I’d found someone I could always be with, no matter the circumstance. He could trust me with every part of himself, and I would never reject him.”
Tinseng nodded, focused, like he was trying to memorize every word. “How do you show someone that? That they can trust you with every part of themselves?”
Would Tinseng listen if she told him the best way to build trust was to show the vulnerable parts of yourself first? Would he stop avoiding difficult conversations for once? It was unlikely; sincerity wasn’t a currency Tinseng used. His pockets had always been empty of trust.
“You can also show them with your patience, and your attention. With your honesty. And by listening.” She leaned over and tapped his nose with a finger. “By not interrupting.”
“What if they like being interrupted?” he wheedled.
“Then it must be fine,” she teased back. “What else do they like?”
“They like being challenged. They like getting the rug pulled out from under them, even if it irritates them at first. Excellence—they love anything that excels. Games, as long as no one gets hurt and everyone wins. Unless he’s being competitive—then he loves crushing his competition into a fine powder. It’s the best; it really is. He’s so effortless about it! Oh, and he loves showing off. He’d never admit it, but he does. He likes seeing people be good.” His voice quieted as he added, mostly to himself, “He likes when he catches me paying attention. He likes knowing I’m . . .”
”Knowing you’re what?” she prompted gently. Tinseng shook his head, still lost. “A-Seng, if you feel this way, why haven’t you asked him to stay with us?”
“Who says I haven’t?”
“Shan Dao himself, this morning.”
“Ah. Ha-ha.” An embarrassed flush spread across his cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or are you making it more complicated than it has to be?”
He paused long enough that Yukying almost believed he’d lost his thought entirely. Finally, he planted a theatrical kiss on her cheek. “You’re so wise, jie. Let’s get back in the water, eh?”
In the end, she let him get away with it; she had promised not to ask why. Besides, she thought as she followed him down the steps into the shallow end of the water, what are older sisters for, if not to hide behind their skirts? They had the rest of the trip to work things out. With how deeply Tinseng felt about Shan Dao, she was certain he wouldn’t be able to hide himself forever.
After dinner, their group claimed a corner of one of the smoking rooms. Without the burden of their tablemates, they were free to speak in Cantonese, and conversation flowed to more personal topics. They had three years of news to catch Tinseng up on, nearly three for Chiboon. Cheuk-Kwan related to Tinseng and Shan Dao the refugee crisis that had only worsened, the typhoon that hit last year, the water crisis being mismanaged by every level of government. It was a hard time for Hong Kong, but then, it was a hard time everywhere.
“Tell me about you, Yukying.” Chiboon looked over at the brothers, who existed in their own little world. “Since I don’t think we’ll get them back for a while.”
“Oh, there’s not much to tell . . .” she started to say. “Just a little volunteering.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Laurence broke in, then heard how that sounded and stammered, “Ah, sorry—what I meant was: She’s being modest.”
“Well then, I’ll go to a more trustworthy source,” Chiboon said. “Tell all, Laurence-ge.”
Ignoring Yukying’s protests, Laurence told Chiboon that her work wasn’t just volunteering. The refugees from China had caused a real crisis for the city. There was new public housing, but obviously it wasn’t enough. The refugees were fleeing the famine more than anything, and they were all poor, hardly a skilled worker among them. “It’s not like we need more farmers,” Laurence said. “So Yukying started a literacy program.” It mobilized student groups and church committees, and was training volunteers to go to homes rather than making the already overtaxed refugees travel to a center. “It should be supported better,” he admitted, “but right now it gets by on donations.”
“I never thought I’d hear you openly critical of the governor, Li Yingtung.” They turned to Tinseng, who watched Laurence with a neutral sort of attention Yukying knew could be dangerous. “I remember you being very vocal in your support before I left.”
“That was before,” Laurence said.
“Before my sister, you mean.”
“Yes. Before Yukying, I was an ass.”
“I always knew, but it’s nice to see you finally admit it.”
Laurence rolled his eyes. “Anyway. Just as the refugees slowed down, we had the typhoon.”
“It was fucking bad,” Cheuk-Kwan agreed. “Entire sections leveled.”
Tinseng shook his head. “They published that only a few thousand were left homeless, but I knew better than to trust it.”
“A few thousand.” Cheuk-Kwan snorted. “Try more like seventy thousand.”
“Or more,” Yukying agreed. She’d seen it. Tinseng blinked, a little pale.
“Seventy thousand. That’s . . .”
“And Yukying’s organization is one of the biggest groups helping,” Laurence said, chin in the air. “She’s doing more for them than anyone else in the city.”
“Oh, that’s not—”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Tinseng spoke over Yukying’s denial. “How much have they rebuilt?”
