“For a heart,” I say softly.
Chapter Nineteen
Before Cam stole the flyer and ran.
Before I confessed to him under the trees.
Before he first tumbled into my room withGay Treasures.
We were friends.
Friendsfriends. The kind of friends who are supposed to stick together, no matter what. In a city where buildings are changing hands and names faster than a seasonal menu at a fancy restaurant, it’s people we depend on to be constant. People are the ones we count on not to turn from exposed brick to faux shiplap overnight.
I still remember the way Cam’s hand brushed over my shoulder the morning we discovered that we’d lost Damascus Bread & Pastry to yet another Starbucks. Starbucks was doing the thing it had been doing all around the city: trying hard to pretend like it wasn’t a giant corporation taking over another mom-and-pop storefront. Every new opening was like watching a wolf wear a sheepskin onesie.
As we surveyed the wreckage—the hasty paint job, the unfamiliar employees, the faint smell of cardamom that felt like a scream in the distance—Cam reached over and gave me a strange half hug. His palm skated over my sleeve, pressing solidness into me when I needed it most. But then his hand settled on my arm, pressed fabric turning into pressed skin, and everything inside my chest that he had just smoothed down suddenly sprang back up, wild and untethered. He was supposed to anchor me, and instead, unexpectedly, he had set me buoyant. I probably would have floated right into the ugly shiplap ceiling if I hadn’t been wearing my Doc Martens.
I knew then. Even before he took off a year later, I realized the friendship was unraveling. Things were changing between us—his skin on mine like crisp, new wallpaper.
The building we’d made was turning into something else.
We walk through the main doors of the Chong-Moon Lee Center. Almost immediately, time seems to fold back, to soften into the texture and warmth of porous stone and incandescent lightbulbs. Both the floors and walls have the same pattern of marble, like a swirl of milk just stirred into coffee. Two alcoves are stamped into the hallway with scallop-shell archways. An intricate honeycomb design blooms over the arched golden ceiling.
“Well,” Julia says as we let the front doors close behind us. “This definitely feels a lot older.”
“And a lot more like a place to hide treasure,” Gabriel says, rubbing his palms together.
Sunny is too eager to say anything. She spots the front desk and beelines for it, already pulling out her wallet.
The young Asian American woman sitting behind the desk waves her off.
“First Saturday of the month,” she says. “Free admission. Donation only.”
“Oh.” Sunny pauses. “Can you take donation by card?”
“Of course!” The girl beams, her cheeks tinged pink like apples in early fall. She scooches the register slightly closer to Sunny.
Sunny taps her card and presses a button, then shoots us a look over her shoulder. I scramble to pull out my own wallet.
“Right! Yes! I want to donate.”
“Me too,” Julia adds quickly.
Gabriel beats both of us with mobile pay. “I love donating!”
The girl at the desk smiles politely at the rest of us as we tap our cards and phones. She hands us each an “I donated!” sticker, then holds out a QR code.
“Your digital visitor guide,” she explains as we scan it. “The last page has a map of the full museum. Our permanent collection is on the top two floors. The second floor has the Japan and Korea wings. The China wing is split between floors two and three on the north end. South and Southeast Asian art is on the third floor, south end.”
“Thank you,” we all say.
She stares at Sunny for an extra moment before turningback to her computer. I check over my shoulder to see if Sunny noticed, but she already has the digital guide open on her screen. I open mine too and quickly find the map.
“Should we have asked about the architecture section?” Julia whispers.
Sunny looks up from her phone. “From the old library? How the hell would she know where it used to be?”
“Maybe we should have asked someone at the new library,” Gabriel says. He pauses on a step, as if we might turn around and head back out.
