I JUST WANT YOU TO LIKE ME | ✓

▬ 02: enemy territory

Ziri tugs at the thick cotton of his pleated trousers. As many times as I told him he doesn't need to do owt to make himself palatable, he insisted I stop at a BP so that he could change out of his maxi skirt in the toilet.

But whatever masculinity Ziri is attempting to obtain by wearing trousers is diluted by the braids that brush the base of his shoulder blades. And his general demeanour. Ziri has never spent a minute in his life pretending to be straight, and it's glaringly obvious. It's one of the infinite things I love about him.

He clutches the gift mứt tết in his lap and cranes his neck to see the house through his window, though if he hopes to find some markers of character to judge, the house disappoints him. It looks exactly like the others on the street, down to the lace curtains in the kitchen windows and the hanging planter by the house number currently home to a sphere of snow.

'It'll go fine, inshallah,' Ziri says, though the mứt tết might crumble in his grip if he squeezes any tighter.

I'm at least twice as nervous as he is; I barely manage to get the key out of the ignition. I give myself a final check in the mirror to make sure I've taken out my septum piercing and haven't somehow gotten face tattoos and forgotten about them. Then I get out of the car.

Ziri's steps are cautious, though I doubt it's got anything to do with the ice and his wearing Converse. He stops in front of me.

I move a braid from the left side of his head to the right to clean up his middle parting. 'I love you,' I say, because I can't make any promises about my grandparents.

Má opens the door before I can ring the bell. Relief is etched into every premature wrinkle on her face, and she steps out of the house to hug me so that my hand tears out of Ziri's. I allow her to tuck herself under my chin and exhale all the anxiety she has amassed over the past two days into my chest.

Staying in your dead husband's parents' home would be tense enough even if said parents had considered you good enough for their now-dead son. This is worse for her than it could ever be for me.

'You're finally here, Thỏ,' Má mumbles so that nobody else hears. Her gratitude invites my guilt along, and it never declines.

'I had work,' I explain, though I could've arranged for more days off. It is Lunar New Year, and we're allowed to request days off for cultural holidays, especially considering that I've worked every Christmas since I started at the warehouse three years ago. 'I'm sorry.'

Má ushers me into the house in front of her like a shield or an offering to temperamental gods.

Bà Nội and Ông Nội wait in the entrance. I allow them to get through the usual greetings and comments about how I should cut my hair and how I've gained weight before I bring Ziri to my side to introduce him.

He greets them in Vietnamese and looks at me for confirmation. I smile.

If Ziri puts his mind to learning it, he'll speak better Vietnamese than I do within a month. Sometimes he feels bad for speaking only coloniser languages and knowing only a handful of phrases in Tamazight or Fon, while I can hardly string together grammatically correct sentences in English.

'Thank you for having me. I brought this for you. I mean, Miles brought it. I paid for it. He told me to buy it. It doesn't matter.' Berating himself, he offers the mứt tết to Bà.

She smiles as she accepts it, but can't quite stop her eyes from wandering. Neither can Ông. Ziri politely pretends not to notice, a skill he has far too much practice in. The entrance shrinks around us until Bà catches herself.

She moves out of the way. 'Well, please come in.'

Iris sits on the stairs, inspecting the ends of the teal streaks in her hair, clearly unable to comprehend why she has to be part of this ceremonial welcome when she's met both of us before and couldn't care less. She has one earbud tucked dutifully into her ear to stop her from becoming entirely homicidal with boredom.