Rent a Boyfriend

  For Anthony, who taught me how to dream.

  And for anyone who believes in love.

  Author’s Note

  Dearest Readers,

  This book is inspired by a real-life practice in some Asian countries where women hire fake boyfriends (often from classified ads, sometimes from a company) to bring home, commonly at Lunar New Year, to alleviate the pressure from family to find a husband. For this novel, I adapted this practice into a fictional diaspora version, with all details—including the company Rent for Your ’Rents—created to better fit the American setting.

  I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it!

  Author’s Note about Mandarin Words

  In this book, Mandarin words are spelled using the pinyin system, with the lines above the vowels indicating the pitch contour of the voice:

  A straight line (ā), the first tone, is high and level, monotone.

  Second tone (á) rises in pitch.

  Third tone (ǎ) dips, then rises.

  Fourth tone (à) starts high and drops, producing a sharp sound.

  For some of the Mandarin phrases, I chose to depict the tones as the words are pronounced in conversation in my family’s accent. There may be some discrepancies with other accents and dialects.

  The meaning of the Mandarin words can be deduced from context—sometimes a vague idea, sometimes fully defined. The glossary included at the end is optional.

  THANKSGIVING

  Chloe CHAPTER 1

  MATCH.COM ON STEROIDS

  November 26

  Almost everyone is nervous introducing their boyfriend to their parents for the first time, but I was about to pee my sweat-soaked undies because, well, I hadn’t met him yet either.

  Since he already knew my life story (at least the parts that mattered), it was “highly recommended” we not meet before the “assignment” to minimize confusion. Which meant my Uber picked me up from the airport and picked him up a block away from the destination, i.e., my parents’ house. Thanks, George, Toyota Camry, for earning your five-star rating by not asking us what the bejesus was going on.

  As we waited on my parents’ stoop and the doorbell echoed through my feng-shuied three-bedroom, three-bathroom childhood home, I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I was sure he was trained to keep the judgment out of his eyes, especially because I was the hand that was feeding him, but maybe the real problem here was that, between the two of us, he wasn’t the one judging me.

  My parents flung the door open and exclaimed, “Jing-Jing!” before wrapping me in hugs.

  Over my father’s shoulder, my gaze flicked to my “boyfriend” instinctively, to try to explain with my eyes that I had two names. But then I remembered I had only given the company (and thus him) my Chinese name, which was usually only heard between the embroidered wall scrolls of this house. My decision to list my legal but seldom-used name had been strategic in nature: to put it eloquently, I knew my parents would lap that shit up. It had to be true love if he was the first person outside our little Chinese community I’d told my real name to, right?

  I’d dubbed myself Chloe in second grade after the hundredth joke about Jing-Jing sounding more like a song than a name. On a whim I’d started telling everyone to call me Chloe, after the universally loved golden retriever in my neighborhood. I think I had unconsciously hoped that there was some secret sauce in the name and that adopting it would make people like me more—which, sadly, worked. Soon it became who I was, more so than Jing-Jing. But the first and last time I had a friend over and she called me Chloe in front of my parents, my mom choked on her soy milk and my dad swallowed a tea egg whole. From then on, I kept my two worlds apart.

  With the confidence of an Asian American who is used to lying to her dragon parents—the ones who named me Jing so I would shine in everything I do—I said, “Mǎmá, Bǎbá, this is Andrew.” Shit. Had I remembered his name correctly? Not that it mattered: his “correct” name probably wasn’t his real name anyway, so Andrew Shamdrew, po-tay-to po-tah-to, right?

  My dentist parents examined now-Andrew up and down like he was a mystery specimen under their loupes. I had to hold back a laugh. In some ways, Andrew wasn’t hiding anything, and in other ways, Insert Name Here was hiding everything.

  “Ǎyí, Shǔshú hǎo,” he greeted my parents, calling them the polite and more-than-appropriate “Auntie” and “Uncle,” which usually made me pause because the direct translation didn’t make sense to my Americanized ears. You can’t mix cultures that way, my mother always scolded.

  It took me a moment to notice that Andrew’s perfect Mandarin had been spoken with a Taipei accent. Damn, this company was good, like Match.com on steroids, except they were matching him to my parents, not me.

  Andrew smiled a healthy, toothy grin that made my parents’ eyebrows shoot up in pleasant surprise. I wondered whether the company had paid for those sparkling, just-Cavitroned pearly whites.

  “Aiyah, you have great oral hygiene,” my dad said, which, okay, if it was that easy, why did I have to pay a make-your-nose-and-gums-bleed amount to rent Andrew today? Good aiyahs weren’t easy to come by, but I guess anything teeth-related was a shortcut.

  My mom’s eyes darted to the UChicago crest on Andrew’s zip-up sweater. That nontrivial detail had been my choice, and I still so clearly remembered checking—or I should say, clicking—the UChicago box after scrolling past Stanford, MIT, Yale, Princeton, and, of course, Harvard. I could’ve earned extra mooncake points (my parents would never eat brownies) for Harvard, but it had made the most sense to have “met” Andrew at school. UChicago wasn’t the college my parents had wanted me to attend at first, but they had since come around after it became higher ranked than “most prestigious” Stanford down the street from us.

  “Qǐng jìn. Qǐng jìn,” my mother said as she ushered us in with over-the-top manners. With guests, she only had two extremes: so polite it was fake or so honest you wished she’d lie. I was grateful it was the first one. For now, my brain warned.

  With a dip of his head, Andrew handed her the box of mooncakes he’d brought. God, was this in his training? Or had he grown up like me, in a traditional, we-stick-acupuncture-needles-in-our-faces-when-we-feel-bad household? I wondered if he also intimately knew the smell of Salonpas, the pungency of which made me simultaneously want to hurl and hug my parents—which, coincidentally, was a pretty accurate summary of my entire relationship with them.

  Except… it didn’t matter whether Andrew knew the stink of Chinese herbal medicine and how it sank its bitter claws into everything in the laundry. Because he wasn’t actually my boyfriend.

  My father ushered us to the dining room table, which, to my surprise, flaunted a crispy, golden-brown turkey in the middle. It was just sitting there lazily, as if there had been one every year instead of the zhàjiàng noodles, dumplings, and stir-fried hollow-heart vegetables, which now took a side seat but of course were still present—because how could you not have any Chinese food on Thanksgiving?

  I briefly wondered what Andrew’s Thanksgivings were like—did his family also eat Chinese food? Did he know the veggies were called kōng xīn cài?—before I snapped out of it and realized my parents were looking at us expectantly, eyes hungry but not for food.

  Game. On. All I had to do was convince my parents that Andrew was the love of my life and theirs. Piece of (moon)cake, right?

  Drew CHAPTER 2

  JUST ANOTHER DAY

  Ileaned over and placed a caring hand on Jing-Jing’s shoulder before pulling the chair out in a subdued manner—no flourishes. Her parents were classified by the company as Type C for affection, and those Type C eyes ate up my quiet, kind, zero-PDA gesture. (In Type A circumstances, I would have kissed her on the he
ad or cheek; Type B, placed my hand on the small of her back; and Type C.2, I would’ve been a bit more theatrical with the chair pull).

  Mrs. Wang nodded at me and smiled a genuine mom smile (meaning her eyes crinkled and her lips lacked any trace of judgmental pursing).

  It was almost too easy.

  Jing-Jing, who had been thrown off a little at first (such a newbie—I was clearly her first rental), quickly righted herself. “Andrew, you’re always such a gentleman.”

  I’d chosen the name Andrew because it was close enough to my real name to prevent any potential mishaps but still different enough that every time it touched my ears, I remembered the part I was playing. And, of course, Andrew sounded all proper and good-boy and shit, best foot forward, all that important gobbledygook. It was funny how much of a difference an “An” could make, but trust me, that gap was huge. Those two little letters flipped a switch in my head, and as for the real me? I was so much more of a Drew, both literally and figuratively. I told my parents that if they were so hell-bent on me not being an artist, why did they name me Drew? Well, I used to tell them. We haven’t spoken in years.

  Hence this job. Great pay, amazing benefits including dental (which I now understood was a worthwhile investment for the company based on how Dr. and Dr. Wang gushed over my recently cleaned teeth).

  I smiled at Jing-Jing, my lifted cheeks pushing into my frames, which were another subtle reminder of my role. My glasses had no prescription (unless it was a prescription for appearing smart and unthreatening to parents with Category 1 personalities), though I had added the blue-light blocker—might as well make those babies at least somewhat functional. I looked from the supposed love of my life (my second one this week) to her parents, and I softened my eyes by thinking about the new set of brushes I’d be able to buy after this commission. And, just like I was lying to all of them, I lied to myself that those brushes were the one thing missing. That they’d get me one step closer to fulfilling my dream (the real one, not the rotating ones I told clients’ parents). Really, though, Successful Artist Drew was just another character I tried to play, except it was the only one I failed at.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wang motioned to the food, and I dished some zhàjiàng noodles to Jing-Jing before passing the bowl to her parents. Man, it had been a while since I’d inhaled that sweet-and-spicy scent. It was the smell of our kitchen after the Chan boys—ahem, men, as my dad would correct me—played a sweaty, ultracompetitive game of basketball. As the aroma enveloped me, I heard his gruff, comforting, yet haunting voice in my head: You’ve got to earrrn your noodles!

  I hated basketball. And now was not the time to be thinking of him, not when I had a different, fictional (read: loving) father to be telling stories about.

  More plates were shuffled around, utensils clinked, and Jing-Jing shot me a nervous grin. I gave her a reassuring smile and nod; so far this was textbook. In fact, the silence was comforting, probably because of the familiarity from my childhood and from a chunk of the other jobs I’d done for Rent for Your ’Rents in the last year and a half. But as I spooned out some kōng xīn cài and the vegetable’s garlicky sauce dribbled haphazardly onto my plate, there it was, at the back of my head, niggling like the goddamn parasite it was: You and your family have so many issues because of this very silence.

  The collar of my shirt was suddenly choking me, but because touching it wasn’t an option, I forced myself to think about anything else: what I was going to paint first with my new brushes, the smell of the food before me (which really was heavenly; the Wangs had gone all out), and—who was I kidding? All I could think about was how I couldn’t breathe, how everything was closing in, and what the hell was I doing here?

  I focused on the itch, which only made it worse. Mental note: ditch this brand and go back to Tommy Hilfiger despite the extra cost. Maybe if I told corporate how it had endangered my cover, they’d do the splurging for me.

  Jing-Jing put her hand on mine, probably because she sensed my spinning from her front-row seat. How? I have no idea. Maybe she had a gift for this and should look into a position at Rent for Your ’Rents. When I glanced at her, she gave me a warm smile that extended to her eyes, and I found myself returning her grin.

  Back on track.

  Chloe CHAPTER 3

  ROUND 1

  Wasn’t he supposed to be the professional? Wasn’t I paying for excellence, not nerves and awkwardness?

  Or… was this part of it? Maybe he was playing the doting boyfriend who cared for me so much he was nervous about impressing my parents.

  I tried to relax by reminding myself there was a money-back guarantee: If the operative did not achieve the mission of providing a boyfriend worthy of parental approval, as vague as that was, I could ask for a full refund. Heh, “operative,” like he was James Bond, except he would be nerdy, well-mannered, and loyal—a.k.a. “guāi,” as the website promised—and an Asian parent’s dream. The operative’s attractiveness was also assured to be high enough to promise cute babies, but not movie-star high as to invoke worries of future cheating due to endless opportunities.

  Now that our plates were full of sides, my father stood over the turkey with a knife in his non-dominant hand and a fork in the dominant one. Hover right, left, above, poke the turkey.

  Andrew looked to me for a moment, and I read the question in his eyes: he wasn’t sure whether or not to jump in and help. To be honest, I wasn’t sure either—my father liked to be the head of the house, but he also clearly had no idea what he was doing and wasn’t a fan of embarrassing himself.

  I smiled blankly at my supposed beloved.

  “Shǔshú,” Andrew said, standing slowly, “you’ve been cooking for days, and I’d be honored if you let me do some of the work. May I serve you and Ǎyí? I probably can’t carve it as well as you would have, so I hope you’ll forgive any mistakes. But you deserve to rest and enjoy the evening.”

  Barf. It seemed way over the top to me, but my father was on the verge of humping Andrew’s leg. Worth every penny, wasn’t he?

  As Andrew cut into the turkey and produced gorgeous, symmetrical pieces—was that in his training?—my father cleared his throat.

  “So, Andrew, tell us about yourself.”

  “Yes, Jing-Jing has been strangely quiet about you!” my mother exclaimed dramatically. “You know, we were shocked to learn about your existence.” Just as shocked as I had been when I’d made him up under dire circumstances two months ago.

  My parents folded their hands on the table and waited expectantly.

  I swallowed hard and tried to telekinetically remind Andrew what was at stake: my freedom from Hongbo Kuo. Disgusting, chauvinistic Hongbo, whom my parents wanted for me for all the wrong reasons, and who wanted me for even worse reasons. If it weren’t for Hongbo, there’d be more money in my bank account and Andrew would be at some other poor girl’s house this Thanksgiving weekend—and I meant “poor” in both senses of the word.

  Andrew smiled easily, full of charm and, somehow, love. “Well, Jing-Jing hasn’t been quiet about you! It’s been such a joy hearing her childhood stories about the warm household she grew up in. I’m sure if I had known her when we were kids, I would’ve fallen in love the second I saw her teaching her Barbies math!”

  My parents laughed heartily, filling the dining room with so much of the rare sound that, I swear, our austere photo of Yéye at the head of the table narrowed his eyes even more.

  I imagined Andrew with a mental checklist, just working his way through every memory and factoid I’d uncomfortably offered up on my very extensive application—so extensive I’d even had to give them access to my contacts and social media to ensure my assigned operative didn’t have a previous client who ran in any of my circles.

  “Although,” Andrew continued, “I guess that would’ve been a little strange given that I’m two years older, and when you’re that young, two years feels like a lifetime.”

  “But not anymore,” my mother added quickly with a smil
e.

  I could practically hear her as if she’d spoken the words aloud: Men mature slower than women, so marrying up in age is always a good idea, Jing-Jing. Especially because once you hit MENoPAUSE, the men will run right out the door—they hit pause on the marriage, that’s why it’s called that, I’m sure of it! So finding someone older means they’ll look wrinkly too and won’t flee.

  Sigh. I just… I can’t.

  For the record, Chloe does not stand for this kind of antifeminism, but right now I was Jing-Jing.

  “If you’re two years older, then you must be graduating this year,” my mother said. “How wonderful!”

  Andrew nodded. “I’m applying to medical schools right now.”

  “Thank goodness!” My mother slapped the table. “I just learned recently that getting into a good college isn’t enough!” She turned to me. “Jing-Jing, do you remember Jeffrey Gu? He was the high school valedictorian last year and went to Stanford? Well, I heard he dropped out!”

  I tilted my head side to side in a well, sort of gesture. “Jeff started his own company, Mǎmá. He left Stanford because he just received funding from a venture capitalist.”

  “He’s a bum! He wears flip-flops and hoodies to work! And I heard he plays Ping-Pong and takes naps during the day!”

  I held back a laugh. “I think Jeffrey Gu—one of Forbes’s latest Thirty Under Thirty tech CEOs—is just fine.”

  She shook her head at me. “Dropping out of college is never okay.”

  “Maybe it’s okay if you’ve already raised a million dollars for your company,” I mumbled. Then I noticed Andrew’s tightened shoulders and realized we were getting off track.

  “Anyway,” I said, dragging the word out. “We were learning about Andrew, who is not a college dropout like Jeffrey Gu.”

  “No, he is not,” my mother said fondly, giving Andrew all her attention. “Please, tell us about your family.”