The Year of the Crocodile Read Online Free PDF Page A

wrist. His hair, a mix of gray and white and dark, is a mess.
    He needs to shave.
    He needs to explain why he’s here.
    â€œHey, Tina,” he says, like nothing is weird about his presence. “Nice to see you again.”
    â€œYou see?” my mother says behind me. “Fireworks are traditional for the new year.”
    Shit.
    â€œAdam.” I swallow. “I didn’t know you were…” Son of a bitch. I glance behind me at Blake. He still hasn’t noticed his dad is here, but he must have known. He must have known. Right?
    Fuck. I’m not sure how to introduce Adam to my parents. I’ve fielded snide comments from my mom for almost a year. My dad has given me as many pointedly neutral remarks.
    Adam Reynolds? He’s not exactly the kind of man who backs down from snide comments.
    There will be mushroom clouds.
    Mine first. I’m going to kill Blake.
    But my mother stands up from her seat on the sofa. “Adam.” She walks toward him like she knows him. “So glad you could make it.”
    â€œHey, Hong Mei. Thanks for inviting me.”
    They stop in front of each other, looking each other up and down like stiff-legged suspicious cats. My mom is a full foot shorter than Adam, but there’s a bristle to her that more than makes up the height difference. I have been dropped into bizarro world. How… What…
    He hands her the box. “I brought cake.”
    She frowns. “Cake? You call this cake? What did you do with my cake?”
    Her cake? What cake?
    â€œHad it couriered up to Cyclone,” Adam says with a shrug. “I figured that since I have to actually eat whatever shit I brought, I’d get something a little…” He pauses.
    â€œThink carefully,” my mother says, holding up a finger in warning. “Do not say that you obtained a better cake than the one I made for you with my own two hands.”
    Adam snaps his fingers. “Thanks. That’s precisely the fucking word I was looking for. Better . Yes, I’ll fucking call it better. What the fuck is But-R-Crème anyway? That shit sounds fake as fuck.”
    â€œOf course it’s fake,” my mother snaps. “But if you think fucking is fake, I feel very, very sorry for you.”
    The mushroom cloud is happening in front of my eyes.
    Instead of getting upset, Adam shrugs. “Point to you,” he says. “And yes, the cake I brought is a fucking salted caramel chocolate. It’s better. Ten out of ten people with fucking tastebuds prefer caramel to trans-fat emulsified fucking corn syrup, or whatever the fuck that shit was.” He wanders over to the table, laden with food. He sets down his cake box and takes some bottles out of the bag.
    â€œSoju,” he says.
    Goddammit. I was wondering why my mom didn’t get any soju this time around. I knew something was weird.
    â€œAdam,” my mother is saying, “let me introduce my husband. Jian, this is Adam Reynolds. Adam loves China.”
    â€œHow exciting,” my father says. He stands up and holds a hand out to Adam. “So do I. We have that in common.”
    If I’d had time to prepare them, I’d have told them that he hates handshakes. It probably wouldn’t have changed anything.
    Adam looks at my father’s outstretched hand. Very slowly, he takes it.
    My mother and Adam have obviously met, or at least talked—how, and to what purpose, I have no idea. They’ve met and the world didn’t end.
    Surely the apocalypse is coming soon.
    â€œEspresso!” Mabel is saying. “Five seconds left. Blake, do another one, do—”
    She stops mid-sentence. Blake is frowning at us. “Dad?”
    â€œHey.” Adam holds up his hand in a perfunctory wave. “Good to see you, asshole.”
    â€œDad, what the fuck are you doing here?”
    Adam Reynolds ignores this. Instead, he uncaps the soju and accepts a plastic cup from my mom. “So