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I climbed in and tried not to give her a sappy grin.

  “Hey,” I said, all the extras dying on my tongue: I’m so happy to see you. You look nice. I’ve been painting sheep in weird outfits for you, but you’ll never know because that’s just strange.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Of course. Are you?”

  She shrugged, then chewed her bottom lip. “My mom may have taken a step back, so… just be prepared. Okay, that’s an understatement. She definitely took twenty steps back. Hongbo’s parents have been wooing her.”

  I—Drew—was about to respond and reassure her when the Uber driver interrupted. “Why did I pick you up there? You could’ve walked to the destination.”

  That happened maybe one out of five times.

  But we were already pulling up to the now-familiar three-bedroom, three-bathroom gray house with its bright red door. Jing-Jing and I exited the car without answering his question.

  Right before she rang the doorbell, I raised an arm to block her path, taking care not to make physical contact.

  She flinched anyway, sending a pang and, more importantly, a reminder, through me.

  “Yes?” she asked, her voice soft but her body tense.

  I reluctantly let my training take over, flipping the Andrew switch.

  I smiled at her in the way that was supposed to relax the client (corporate made us practice in the mirror, then with each other). “Hey. This will go great. It’s not unusual for the parents to have taken a step back with time, no matter how well the first job went. And regardless, we’ll have some fun.” I gestured to her face. “Your current expression might make your parents think you’re just constipated, but it also might make them think we’re going through a rough patch, which isn’t the best way to start this off.”

  She laughed, just as I’d hoped, then pressed the doorbell with an upward tilt to her lips. “What if I’m also constipated?”

  “Then I’ll run out and get you some prunes.”

  She shook her head. “No need. My mom stocks up from Costco, exactly for this purpose.”

  “Some things transcend oceans and culture, right? Prunes must really work.”

  We were both laughing—genuinely—when the door opened.

  Chloe

  My parents hugged me, and then my mother hugged Andrew stiffly while my father stuck an unenthusiastic hand out.

  Once inside, Andrew handed them the poinsettia he’d brought, which my mother placed in front of the fireplace beside the still-full box containing the unassembled artificial tree.

  My father cleared his throat. “We are so sorry to do this, but we were called into the office with a couple of last-minute emergencies. You know how it is before the holidays: the pain threshold changes and patients call when they normally wouldn’t have.”

  Damn it. That was hard-earned paid-for time we were losing.

  “Maybe they can come with us?” my mother suggested.

  My dad glanced at Andrew—and not that subtly—before saying, “I already called Patricia to come in and assist. It’ll be quicker that way.”

  What was that about? I mouthed to Andrew. He bit his lip and looked away guiltily.

  Once my parents were out the door, I started wondering how this empty stretch could best serve our mission, but Andrew already had a plan.

  He rubbed his hands together. “It’s time.”

  “For what?”

  His hands burst apart as he said excitedly, “Christmas cookies!”

  I blinked at him.

  His hands dropped to his sides. “Are you not a fan of baking Christmas cookies?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never made them before.”

  “Well, let’s remedy that and give you some data so you can decide where you stand.”

  * * *

  “No milk, no baking powder, and ten-year-old vanilla extract,” Andrew said, drumming his fingers on the counter after he’d scoured every nook and cranny of the kitchen. “The milk one is really the wrench.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Holy crap, does this explain Frankenbāo?”

  His mouth dropped open. “Maybe. Partially. I also have been wondering—yes, I’ve spent way too much time thinking about it—if there’s something related to the fact that sweet and savory seem to go together more in Chinese cuisine, and maybe that’s part of your mom’s inspiration?”

  I pointed a finger at him because he was onto something. “Oh my God. She hates American sausages because they’re ‘just salty,’ and she loves the Chinese ones that have a little sweetness to them. Oh! And! She used to tell me about these sausages she’d go to Tainan to get, with sugar in the middle.”

  He snapped, then pointed at me, saying one word per gesture. “Mystery. Solved.”

  “You put the Drew in Nancy Drew, Andrew,” I joked.

  He gave me such a strange, unreadable look I opened the fridge for something to do. “We have coffee creamer,” I announced after poking through.

  “Your parents drink coffee?” He came over to peer into the fridge with me.

  “Uh, my mom… drinks that as is.”

  Andrew gagged.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “She really likes sweet stuff, then.”

  “Yeah, maybe it’s not so much a Chinese thing as a ‘my mom’ thing.”

  “Well, her sweet tooth may have saved our cookie mission.” He grabbed the carton. “Let’s do it.”

  We also had to substitute giant noodle-soup bowls for mixing bowls, but after getting past those fairly big hiccups, we were finally measuring and sifting and stirring.

  While I was beating the eggs with chopsticks, Andrew moseyed over to preheat the oven. I yelled, waving my hands for a second before shutting it off.

  “Wha—” he started, but I opened the oven door and hastily pulled out pots and pans and extra dishrags.

  “How did you of all people not know this was a possibility? This one I know isn’t just us—I have other Asian friends who use their oven for storage.”

  He hit his forehead with a palm. “Yeah, okay, I’m embarrassed I didn’t realize that.”

  He helped me clear it out, then set the oven to 375 degrees.

  We finished mixing and spooned out the batter in silence, the only sound being the beep of the oven when it was ready. We whisked around the kitchen, focused on our tasks, but the limited space made his arm brush against mine as he discarded dirty dishes in the sink, and my butt bump into his side as I leaned down to open the oven door.

  He stuck the cookies in, I shut the oven door, and we set the timer together, me punching in eight minutes and him hitting the start button when I was done.

  We both paused, then turned toward each other, our faces millimeters apart.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” His eyes were laser focused on mine, and though I felt an urge to look away, I also couldn’t.

  “Are you doing okay with, you know, everything?” he asked with so much compassion I melted a little. “I know this month hasn’t been the easiest.”

  I nodded. “Um, thanks for all your support. You went way above and beyond the job description.”

  He looked away, his forehead furrowed in thought—in uncertainty, I realized. Then the worry lines disappeared, replaced with resolve. “I didn’t do it because of the job,” he told me, his voice unwavering.

  I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t.

  His face softened. “And just so you know, I wasn’t in character before, when we were texting.” His voice was hushed, almost inaudible. But I heard. How could I not, when I was so completely focused on him, his lips moving, his chest rising and falling?

  “I already knew that.” Now my chest was rising and falling so rapidly it became my focus.

  He looked like he wanted to lean in, but he held back, letting me lead.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “And it’s messing with my focus on this job. On everything. It’s why I didn’t think about how there was proba
bly stuff stored in the oven, why I’ve been sweating through this shirt worrying about whether I can keep it together this week, why I’ve reread your texts so many times I can probably recite them back to you from memory.”

  Without thinking, I replied, “Me too.” To all of it.

  And suddenly it felt like the dam within was bursting, and I couldn’t hold everything in anymore. The desire for him to lean down toward me until our breath mingled was winning, pushing out all the other thoughts that no longer felt so important. How much could it hurt the mission if we did kiss just this once? In that moment, with his glistening lips not far from mine, with the scent of sugar and holiday warmth emanating from his tall, lean body, I couldn’t think of a single reason why this would be a problem.

  I glanced at his mouth, then back up at his eyes. “If we give in to what we’re feeling, it would only help sell the story, right?” I whispered, my voice sounding as choppy as I felt.

  “Mm-hmm,” he murmured.

  My mother burst in, and we jumped apart guiltily even though, what the hell, we were doing exactly what we were supposed to be doing. Except not. Oh my God, why had I spun such a complicated web?

  “Oh!” my mother exclaimed, her face turning red. “I hurried home because I felt bad we were losing time together. I, uh, hunh.”

  The oven timer went off, and the shock on her face grew. “You used the oven?”

  Andrew hurried over, used a rag to take the cookies out, then stuck a chopstick through the thickest one to make sure they were done. “No dough residue—came out great!” he said with way too much enthusiasm.

  He transferred a few cookies onto a plate, and the three of us dug in even though they were way too hot; we just needed to fill our mouths so we wouldn’t have to talk about the weirdness in the air, even though there shouldn’t be any weirdness. I’d been caught almost kissing my supposed boyfriend, so why did everything feel so wrong?

  The answer: For my mother, because Andrew wasn’t Hongbo. For Andrew and me, because our situation was an Escher drawing come to life. Now that the spell was broken—thanks, Mǎmá—my turned-on-again brain understood how close I’d been to letting momentary pleasure threaten the mission. What if we went down that road and messed up his cover in front of my parents? Because I couldn’t get to know the real him without risking what we were trying to accomplish.

  I would not let my feelings get in the way again. Eyes on my douchebag-free prize.

  I took a bite of cookie, then immediately spit it into the sink. “Oh my God, way too sweet,” I said with a cringe.

  “Blech, yeah,” Andrew agreed, swallowing his but with half a cup of water. “Guess the creamer was too much.”

  “These are fantastic!” my mother exclaimed, her eyes bugging out. “Good job, you two.”

  Andrew and I burst into laughter that was heightened by both the inside part of the joke and the tension bubble bursting.

  “What?” my mother asked, taking another cookie. We just kept laughing. “What is it?”

  Chloe CHAPTER 26

  THE PRICE OF PEARS

  As my mom disappeared to freshen up post-work, I couldn’t meet Andrew’s gaze. I cleaned the kitchen like my life depended on it. For once, I was relieved when my mother returned.

  “So, Andrew,” my mother said, trying to sneak another cookie off the pan without us noticing. “I heard about your shadowing… fun at the dental office last time. Have you given any more thought to my lǎo gōng’s wise advice?”

  I looked at him questioningly, but despite what he’d said earlier about being distracted, he was ready.

  “Of course, but I’m not worried,” he said easily. “It was my first time, and I’ve already made plans to shadow my parents in a few surgeries over spring break.”

  My mother raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. But our house rumbled as the garage door opened and she hurried away to greet my father.

  “What happened when you shadowed?” I asked.

  His gaze dropped in embarrassment. “Um, it was the closest I’ve ever come to losing my cover. Dentistry is disgusting!” He winced, then joked, “Are you going to drop my rating down to four stars?”

  I laughed. “Hey, I hear you. There’s a reason I’m not following in their footsteps, which they’re disappointed about. They’re still pushing me to apply to dental school, ‘just to see.’ ” I mimicked my mother’s voice: “ ‘It’d be perfect, Jing-Jing! The economics classes will help you run the business—you’d be unstoppable! How easy would your life be, inheriting Wang Dental Palace and all our hard-earned patients?’ ”

  Andrew lowered his voice and said, “Well, I followed in my grandpa’s footsteps, and it’s what caused the rift between my parents and me.”

  My mind filled with questions. What did your grandfather do? What happened to him? What happened with your parents? Do you regret your decision? Are you okay? What… do you think of my situation based on your experiences?

  But then I remembered: If I didn’t get rid of Hongbo now, the outcome was so bad I couldn’t even think about it.

  Eyes on the douchebag-free prize. Even if it gutted me. “Sorry, but I think you were right before. We need to stick to your rule. To prevent confusion.”

  The shock that flashed in his eyes quickly turned to understanding, but I still loathed myself.

  “Of course. I’m so sorry,” he said just as my parents shuffled in with plastic bags of food.

  Andrew and I set the table with utensils and plates as my parents laid the takeout boxes in the middle.

  We all leaned forward and removed the lids to reveal stir-fried chicken, scallops, duck, and fried rice from the Chinese café next to my parents’ office.

  “Thank you so much for this feast!” Andrew said enthusiastically to my parents.

  “Thank you for joining us for the holidays,” my mother said, half-assed, with zero enthusiasm.

  Silence descended.

  As we dug into the food, the quiet stretched on, and as it grew, so did my stress. Before Andrew, being home—“home,” really, with air quotes—had been this, all the time. It hadn’t happened over Thanksgiving because Andrew had been a novelty then and my parents a smidge more open-minded, but tonight the silence wrapped its claws around my neck and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe.

  Then my instincts kicked in, and I had an overwhelming urge to just scarf down all the food in front of me, partly so I could escape to my room sooner, but also because I needed something—anything—to do so it wouldn’t be this suffocating.

  My other option was to talk, telling whatever boring story I could think of just to fill the air with meaningless drivel that my parents could nod their heads to absentmindedly without actually listening. But that was painful in another way. And drawing attention to myself sometimes led to worse outcomes, like my mother complaining about my “muffin belly roll,” “turkey chin,” or “inflamed skin.”

  I shifted in my seat, adjusting my clothes so that my shirt was puffed out and my waistband above my stomach. I also held my chin a little higher. But there was nothing I could do about my skin.

  I hated myself in this house. I hated what my priorities became, what I worried about, the things I said and, more so, didn’t say. I used to think it was the house itself, but now I realized how obtuse that logic was; it was obviously because of my parents, me, and our relationship, not a stationary thing. But still, I found myself wishing we could go out to a restaurant, to at least have some background hubbub. Rent for Your ’Rents encouraged home meals when possible, though, to prevent potential run-ins with past clients.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” Andrew said, shocking me out of my thoughts.

  “What?” I said before I remembered myself. “I mean, thank you.”

  My mother’s eyes were about to pop out of her head.

  “You really do,” he said, softer this time, and I could tell he didn’t have to reach far to look at me like I was the hoisin sauce to his duck. It made my heart bo
th soar and sink.

  “Thank you,” I repeated, trying to match his tone but my voice coming out squeaky.

  My mom narrowed her eyes at us, and even though there was no way in hell she could figure out what was really going on here, I started to sweat down under.

  Instinctively, to distract them, I said, “My quarter went really well.”

  When my father’s eyebrows lifted, I revised it to “My semester,” because they still hadn’t figured out that UChicago was on a quarter system, even though I had tried to explain it multiple times.

  “All As?” my mother asked, not looking up from her food.

  “Yes.” I had worked my ass off to do it, too.

  My father nodded at me.

  I knew this was how it always went—I had to offer my good news unprompted, and they didn’t know how to be nice, normal humans about it—but even after nineteen years of practice, disappointment still shot through me. Suddenly my achievement felt less triumphant.

  Was this their plan? To make me ask more of myself because nothing was ever enough? Probably not—they were likely just incapable of reacting any other way.

  And then, as always, it got worse.

  “I was a straight-A student at Táidà, and I was shūjuàn jiǎng,” my father bragged, not looking up from his plate. As if I had any clue what that last thing was.

  Andrew’s knee jerked and bumped into mine. I glanced at him, and though he had a smile on his face, his masseter muscle was clenched, making his jawline and temple flex.

  “That’s great, Bā,” I said robotically, my questioning eyes not leaving Andrew.

  “I was also number seven in my dental school cl—”

  Andrew abruptly stood, grabbing his water in the process and raising it. “Jing-Jing, I am in awe of you. What an amazing achievement, getting all As.” He lifted the glass in a sharp movement, some liquid splashing over the side. He ignored it. “Gōngxí.”

  Everyone sat frozen, including me.

  “You interrupted my dad” were the words that chose to come out of my lips. Mainly because I couldn’t say, Get your shit together and focus on the mission! Unless this was part of it?