Then Emma catches sight of him and freezes in mid-laugh. Oh shit, Oliver thinks. He tries for a smile, but it comes out all wobbly.
“Daddy?” she says, and Oliver could swear that it’s not a happy question but a fearful one, and his heart aches for this little kid.
He watches helplessly as she clings tighter to Julia, cringing away from him. What had Marshall done to this little girl?
“I’m not your dad,” Oliver croaks finally. “I’m your uncle. Uncle Ollie. I know I look like your dad, but . . . uh. We were brothers. Twins.”
“You remember that story we read, sweetie?” Julia says to Emma. “The one with the twin girls and how people always confused the two of them? But they were really different people, weren’t they?”
Emma nods hesitantly before regarding Oliver with suspicion. At least there’s a little bit less fear in her eyes now. “Not Daddy,” she says.
“Nope,” he says firmly.
“Okay, lunch is ready,” Vera calls out. “Hurry up, everybody sit.”
And with that, the awkward moment is past. Oliver lets out his breath, and Julia pats him on the shoulder as they walk to the dining room. His palms are still sweaty at the way Emma reacted to his face. He hasn’t spent much time with kids, but he’s pretty sure that they shouldn’t be reacting like that to someone looking like their parent. Hatred flares in his belly, white-hot, as he realizes just what a shit father Marshall must have been to her. He tries to shake it off, focusing instead on the moment.
Part of Oliver marvels at how easily Vera has claimed this space even though it’s the first time she’s set foot here. He catches Julia’s eye, and she widens those sapphire blue eyes of hers and gives him a helpless smile, and somehow, just with that one look alone, they’re suddenly back in high school, conveying entire messages with a single glance. He smiles back, and they gather round the dining table, where Vera has somehow produced an entire feast worthy of a Thanksgiving celebration, except of course they’re nowhere near Thanksgiving. Oliver counts at least a dozen different dishes, all of them steaming and looking as delicious as though they came straight out of a cookbook.
“Sit!” Vera barks. “Don’t just stand there gaping, later the food get cold.” She turns to Emma, who’s clinging to Julia’s neck. “You,” she orders Emma, “are my assistant, so you must sit next to me.”
“Oh, she’s—” Julia begins, but stops in surprise when Emma unwraps herself from around Julia’s neck and nods.
“I sit there,” Emma says, pointing to the baby chair that’s been set next to Vera’s seat.
“Okay,” Julia says hesitantly, but Oliver can read her expression, even after all these years, and she doesn’t look unhappy about it. More like pleasantly surprised. She places Emma gently in the high chair and clicks the buckles into place, then hovers uncertainly behind her.
“Sit,” Vera demands, pointing to a chair two places away from Emma with a wooden spoon. Julia meekly does as she is told, and Vera turns her laser gaze to Oliver. He feels his pores open up and start to sweat under that stare. “You, sit there.” Between Julia and Emma.
“Um . . . okay.” He does as he’s told and wedges himself in the seat between his niece and her mother, who he’s very much trying to not have feelings for.
Sana and Riki are told to sit next to Julia, and when Vera is satisfied with the arrangement, she harrumphs. “Okay, now eat.” She stands, grabbing a serving spoon, and starts doling out food onto everyone’s plates. “This one is black pepper beef, you eat more of this, Julia, you look very pale, very anemic, you must have more beef. And you, Riki, you look very constipated, so I cook this one for you, steamed cod with black fungus.”
Poor Riki turns red and sputters, “I’m not—um, I’m not constipated.”
Vera simply tuts as she serves up an extra-large portion of fish and black fungus on Riki’s plate. “I can always tell just from looking, you very constipated.” She turns her attention to Sana, who visibly shrinks back in her seat. “And you, you seem very chilly, too much yin. You should have more heaty foods, that will increase your yang. Here, spicy garlic tofu, will warm you up.” Sana sighs, probably relieved that Vera isn’t talking about her bowel movements. Vera side-eyes Oliver, and the back of his neck prickles. “And for you, Oliver, I make rice wine chicken with glutinous rice. Very comforting. I think you are needing some comfort food, yes?”
His stupid throat closes up at that, because, yes, Oliver does need comfort food, and a Chinese version of chicken soup sounds like something he would kill for right now. He nods as she spoons fat chunks of chicken, so tender that it’s falling off the bone, and rich broth into a bowl. It smells heavenly. Like coming home, Oliver thinks, inhaling its rich, complex scent.
For little Emma, Vera serves up a bowl of stewed beef noodles, and from somewhere in her pocket, Vera produces a pair of child’s chopsticks. The chopsticks are attached to each other at the top, so they’re easier to use. She places them in Emma’s hand and says, “Now you eat like a big girl, because you are my assistant, okay?” Emma nods and spears the chopsticks into her bowl, using them to shovel the thick noodles into her mouth.
Everyone digs in, and for a minute, the only sounds around the table are of cutlery clanging against bowls and plates. Vera is busy serving up more food onto people’s plates. Oliver has just taken two bites of his chicken stew when a pile of braised pork belly appears on his plate, alongside a mound of garlic-fried bok choy. He can’t remember the last time he gathered with other people and ate together like this. He can’t remember the last time he had food this good, food that doesn’t just fill you up, but also nourishes you, body and soul. With every bite, Oliver can feel the love and care that have gone into the preparation, and both his stomach and his heart are being fed right now.
“This is so good, Vera,” Sana says. She spears a chunk of tender pork belly and inhales its scent, closing her eyes. “Oh my god, this is amazing. It’s just got that home-cooked taste that you know you’ll never find at any restaurant. I feel like a kid again.”
“Mm.” Riki nods, his mouth full of cod. He swallows and says, “To be fair, I’ve never had black fungus before, but I know what you mean. This food tastes familiar somehow. It’s kind of addictive, actually.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Julia says. “It tastes like food your grandma would make you.”
Vera smiles a quiet, knowing smile, then turns to Emma. “How is my sous chef doing? Wah, you almost finish it already!”
Emma grins and opens her mouth, showing a mouthful of half-chewed noodles. “I eat the yummy noodles.”
“Close your m—” Julia starts to say, but Vera says, “Oh yes, very good. You eat the yummy noodles,” and Julia’s mouth snaps shut. She stares at Vera. For a second, Oliver wonders if Julia is annoyed at Vera for the interruption, but she doesn’t seem irritated. She seems more . . . curious, looking at Vera in what Oliver can only describe as wonderment.