Page 107 of The Plus One Pact

"Us?" He hates dessert.

"You," he says.

I slip my cell phone into my pocket. "Ready when you are."

Of course, Cynthia picked a Vietnamese bakery all the way in Garden Grove. It's a nice place. Authentic. The sort of place where we used to go for raisin buns, perfect triangles, and coffee with way too much sweetened condensed milk.

This is a place we used to go as kids. All three of us.

Back then, it was a cute, no-frills sort of place, with white walls and rows of sweets in plastic. Now, it's different. Designed to attract another sort of client.

The walls are pink. The desserts are in French. And, sure, there's typically some French influence in Vietnamese cuisine, but I don't remember any of these from when we were kids.

This is—

Well, this is hipster shit.

We order black coffee with our test cake. It's a simple anniversary cake. Orange with almond icing. Like the cake they had on their actual first anniversary, way back when Daniel asked Mama to help him bake for the occasion.

Only made by experts this time.

Not that I'd ever suggest such a thing to Mom.

We take the cake and coffee to the silver chairs—those same ones in every hipster coffee shop.

"Is this what you see for the cafe?" Daniel looks around the space, noting the flow of customers. Mostly hipsters. Or at least the Orange County version. People with a lot of money and a desire to have something nice and new.

Not the cheap, authentic shop we loved.

Not a reflection of two cultures merging.

"No," I say. "I don't mind the prices. Or the decor, even. Though it is a little pink." Like a bottle of Pepto Bismol threw up on the walls. "I imagine something more subtle for us."

"The Mexican and Italian flags on the ceiling." He takes a sip of his coffee and shakes his head. "They're charging twice as much for coffee half as good."

"Your tastes changed."

"They did. And this is worse."

I test my coffee. Come to the same conclusion. "You tease, yes, but the flags have the same colors. It's not a bad idea."

"It's not the worst idea," he says.

"You always say Orange County is a perfect image of America as a melting pot," I say.

"Really? Do I work for the Orange County board of tourism?" he asks.

"It is," I say.

"People will like it," he says. "I don't argue with that. But this will be a lot of work, Rome. Whatever you're doing for money now is working. You're going to have to work twice as hard for half as much. And we need Mama’s cash to fund this. I don’t have the capitol. And I’m guessing you don’t either."

I don’t. He’s right. "I know."

"We each need to put up half. I can’t do the whole thing.”

So I need to convince Mama to hand my share of the inheritance over now. I need Ivy around now. But I can do that. Whatever it takes. I nod, of course.

“And you're ready to give up your… job?" he asks.