Rent a Boyfriend Read online

  Andrew was focused on the turkey, his eyes unreadable. “Our families have a lot in common, actually,” he answered as he dished a glistening cut of dark meat onto my mother’s plate.

  She beamed and nodded her thanks.

  “My parents met in Taipei at church, got married, and then immigrated here for medical school. My older brother and I were both born and raised in Chicago, in a supportive church community.”

  “Chicago?” my mother interjected. “As in, they’re still there?”

  She’d always hated how far I was from the West Coast, and I knew the idea of having Andrew’s parents nearby would please her. So of course he answered…

  “Yes. They both work at the UChicago hospital.”

  Strangely, my mother’s face darkened, the opposite of what I’d expected. The first time so far tonight, so overall I should be relieved, but I’d really thought I’d nailed all aspects of this.

  Luckily, my father’s eyes were about to pop right out of his skull. Take that, Hongbo. Your family may be rich, but Andrew just checked the money and prestige boxes, sucker. And yes, we might have been playing into the fact that my parents wished they had gone into medicine instead of dentistry after hearing too many “couldn’t get into medical school?” jokes. I was not above cheap shots.

  “What specialty?” My father’s voice was only a smidge louder than a whisper.

  “Surgery.” A lauded field with a department large enough that my parents wouldn’t bother learning how to google just to confirm. And my dad might have once hinted at wanting to be an oral surgeon, but he hadn’t been accepted into any programs—if I was going to take a cheap shot, might as well go all out, right?

  “Wow, surgeons at the University of Chicago,” my father repeated, like he was trying to make the information sink in. My parents called the university by its full name, as if that somehow made it more prestigious.

  “So you went to the University of Chicago because your parents guaranteed you a spot?” my mother asked Andrew with one eyebrow raised.

  “I did briefly consider Harvard and Stanford, but I couldn’t turn down a top biology program down the street from my family. Now, UChicago’s biology may not be as good as its economics”—he nudged me with an elbow—“but not all of us can handle a major that rigorous.”

  Jackpot, on so many levels.

  My father said, “You turned down Stanford?” at the same time my mother said, “You think economics is a good field?”

  Yes, they were digs at me, but I would take the hit to remind them that UChicago was not a schlub school and that economics was not a “cop-out,” “easy-A” major. Might as well get my money’s worth and kill several birds, right? And the unexpected turkey on the table was a bonus dead bird.

  I was smiling into my gravy, a little smug and a lot relieved, when my mother asked the last question I would’ve guessed. I mean, it wasn’t even on the list I’d curated for Andrew, and that was the most comprehensive form I’d ever filled out, more probing than my college apps.

  “What drew you to Jing-Jing?” she asked. Her eyes were dreamy, but I saw the malice beneath. How she was just waiting for him to admit he didn’t know, or that, like her, he thought my smile was too wide, my hips and chest too small, my personality too anxious.

  Andrew had flinched at the start of my mother’s question as if the word “drew” had clued him in to what was coming next. He must have prepared for this—I mean, come on, this was the most obvious question a mother would ask, and even though I hadn’t thought to put it on the list, surely the company had?

  “That…,” Andrew began slowly, “is a difficult question, because there are too many answers to choose from.”

  Barf. Please.

  He turned to me and put a hand on mine briefly, so purposefully it felt timed, which it probably was. It took all my concentration not to pull away and to instead look at him as if I were gooey inside. It didn’t work.

  He chuckled, which startled me, and then said, “That’s a perfect example right there. I love how she’s so strong and independent she can’t just take my compliment or enjoy when I graze her hand affectionately. So endearing, isn’t it?”

  My mother’s raised eyebrows said no, but the way she was gazing at Andrew said, Please marry my daughter.

  “But the very first thing that drew me to her? Was how her life is so neatly stacked into little boxes. I admire it, that kind of structure and discipline. I’m sure her success in life—being at UChicago and thriving—is due in no small part to this. And to you both, of course. I also love how passionate she is. I’ve never seen anyone fill out a mundane form with as much exuberance as her.”

  I almost burst out laughing. He winked at me, and a tiny frozen piece of my insides indeed melted into gooeyness.

  My parents beamed at each other and at him (but not me), and we finished that restaurant-made turkey with gusto.

  * * *

  There was something about my parents wanting to impress Andrew that churned the guilt in my stomach. Except… they were the reason I was engaging in this convoluted charade. And yes, I was aware of the absurdity, in case anyone thought otherwise.

  After chrysanthemum tea and pumpkin pie from a box with a hastily scratched-at price tag on top, the awkwardness notched up. To eleven.

  My father cleared his throat, then gestured to the sheets stacked on the couch. “We’re traditional, Andrew. We assume there’s no…” He blushed.

  “Hanky-panky,” my mother supplied with a completely straight face. I wondered where she’d learned that phrase.

  Andrew turned red as well, and, given the flush I felt in my cheeks, I guessed we were a pod of lobsters in that moment, minus Mom.

  “Of course, Wang Ǎyí, Shǔshú,” he said, seemingly fighting the urge to take a step away from me. You and me both, buddy.

  I bid everyone good night and made a quick exit. As I padded up the stairs to my childhood bedroom, my parents’ gaze followed me, something foreign gleaming at the edges of their crow’s-feet. Pride, I realized. Oh, if only they knew the truth.

  I put on pajamas and brushed my teeth in a haze. When I walked by the circular mirror that I’d picked out in first grade, I cowered. I didn’t want to see myself. Because what if I no longer recognized who that was?

  I flopped onto the bed and squeezed my eyes shut. But the vision of my parents looking at Andrew and me with so much hope was burned into the backs of my eyelids.

  How did I get here? I mean, I knew how I’d gotten here—with desperate lies that fed off one another and grew until I couldn’t contain them anymore. So I’d hired a ringer: nerdy Asian James Bond. James Bong. Banh. The name is Banh. James Banh Mi, the best thing since sliced baguette with seasoned meat, cilantro, and pickled veggies.

  Once I ran out of Bond puns, my mind wandered back to the web of lies I’d spun myself into.

  The only way to distract myself was to focus on something equally horrifying but less painful. So I thought about every weird thing I’d said and done my entire life, like that time I met a cute guy in game theory and at the end of our conversation couldn’t decide whether to say “Lovely chatting” or “See you,” and I instead said, “Love you.” God. Whenever that memory replayed in my head and I heard “Love you” in my sad, squeaky voice, I let out a whimper. Could I be any more pathetic?

  Yes, by hiring a fake boyfriend.

  I was my own worst enemy.

  Eventually, around two in the morning, I threw the sheets off and went in search of some cold pumpkin pie.

  Drew CHAPTER 4

  JUST ANOTHER NIGHT

  I’m helping her I’m helping her I’m helping her…

  Without fail, I always needed to chant those three words to fall asleep during a job. At night, alone with my thoughts, I always felt a tiny bit disgusting, maybe even a little cheap, despite the fact that I was anything but (now that I’d had dozens of perfect reviews, my prices were blush-worthy).

  During the course of every assi
gnment, there were always things that poked at my insecurities. In this case, Jing-Jing’s mother speaking as if dropping out of college was the worst move ever (even if you had a million-dollar company to run) had made my college-dropout ears burn like hell. And Jing-Jing’s response, though not the worst, hadn’t soothed me any. Not that it was her job or anything. It just sucked. I already judged myself enough for a lifetime’s worth, so did I need everyone else judging me too?

  To fall asleep, I usually had to remind myself of the bolded section on the client’s form, the one I always memorized. The answer to Why do you need our services?

  I had never met the suitor Jing-Jing had written about, but now that I’d had one dinner with her, I could see her punching out her answer with forceful keystrokes, a little sideways purse to her lips. Amazing what you could learn about someone in a short time when your meal ticket depended on it. As with almost every single one of her answers, she’d gone all out, detailing how her parents and Hongbo’s parents wanted them to be together for “all the wrong reasons,” which revolved around their families having been friends for decades and believing their children would be a fantastic match despite them having nothing in common. Not to mention Jing-Jing’s obvious disgust for him, which she had sort of tried to hide at first (“he’s just not quite right for me, personally”) but also not really, especially by the fourth paragraph (“I think even his mustache is evil—it twitches every time he mentions his Lamborghini, Sheila, which he named after the model who rolls around naked on top of a Lamborghini in some music video”). For the Wangs, it also didn’t hurt that Hongbo’s family was stupid rich due to the success of their tech company, No One Systems, which was, according to Jing-Jing, “thriving despite its founders not realizing that the period in No. One is important and that No One means something else.” (I may have laughed reading that part.)

  In her desperation to escape dating “one of my former bullies,” Jing-Jing had lied about already having a perfect boyfriend. Her parents had agreed to give the supposed love of her life a chance—one chance—so enter Rent for Your ’Rents. Enter me. My mission (should I choose to take it, which, yes, I obviously did) was to win over the Wangs and make them feel secure enough in Jing-Jing’s and my loving relationship to turn down the heir of No One Systems. Which meant that on this job, Andrew Huang had to be rich and successful, with a bright enough future to rival Hongbo’s. Given how the Wangs had reacted to my parents’ jobs plus my UChicago education and potential doctor future, we were right on course.

  I was helping her. Providing a much-needed service. Without Rent for Your ’Rents, what would she have done? She’d mentioned in her application that talking to her parents wasn’t working, that they were convinced they knew better for her future than she did (man, did I know what that was like), so in some ways this position was honorable and not sleazy or a joke, right?

  I wriggled around, trying to find that comfortable spot—you know the one, where you sink down so far it feels like you’re melting. But I couldn’t find it. My couch-bed was beautiful (burgundy leather, button-tufted, rolled arm), but it wasn’t made for melting. Or any sort of comfort, really. Too cold to the touch, and not broken in enough to conform to my body at all. It matched the rest of this house in its clean, minimalist, not-quite-lived-in style. Sterile, like a dentist’s office. The house was spacious for Palo Alto and the ridiculous pricing, but in another city it would have been on the smaller side for a family with two working dentists, I was guessing. Perhaps that explained the modernist approach to the interior design—an attempt to make it grander than the size and layout inherently were.

  All in all, it wasn’t the best or worst couch I’d slept on for a job. The jackpot was getting a king-size bed to myself, which had happened twice, and the range for other jobs had included bunking with a younger sibling, an air mattress on the floor, and even a sleeping bag in the dog’s room (Denny was very friendly and cuddled me as I slept).

  As I tossed and turned that night, I told myself it was because I was missing my Froot Loops pillow, the little one with the faded Toucan Sam that I liked to hug when I slept. The one my little brother, Jordan, had given me so long ago you could barely make out Sam’s eyes now. I hadn’t seen Jordie since my falling-out with my parents, and the most we caught up these days was exchanging Are you okay? and I’m fine texts once at the start of every month (a.k.a. the most he felt he could do without ruining his relationship with our parents too). Jordie was currently three months into his freshman year at Berkeley (the golden sheep to my black), and three quarters of the time I was glad I had dropped out of college so that he could afford to go now and do more with it, like study computer science instead of art history.

  Maybe some late-night pie would help me sleep. Except, that was a creepy thing to do in a stranger’s house. Even if I were her boyfriend, or maybe especially if I were her boyfriend, I wouldn’t want to make myself too at home and overstep the imaginary boundary. Or perhaps I was oversensitive because of my first client, Michelle. Less than an hour into the job, I’d used the fancy soaps in the bathroom, only to be screamed at by Michelle’s mother. Apparently, those “display-only” soaps (which, in my defense, had been located closer to the sink than the regular soap) had been in her family for fucking generations, as if that were a thing. Not that I’d know—the only family heirloom we Chans passed down was insecurity and an inability to communicate. Michelle was my only client who’d asked for a refund, but those damn soaps haunted me at night when I couldn’t sleep, especially on jobs.

  To get my mind off midnight pie, I started counting jumping sheep wearing different pajamas (the wilder the better, all designed by me, of course). And finally, finally, I started drifting off.

  Then I heard footsteps.

  Chloe CHAPTER 5

  MIDNIGHT MOONCAKES

  Andrew’s tall frame was smooshed on the couch, his back to me and his face buried between the cushions. It must be terrible to sleep in so many strangers’ homes, feeling vulnerable, assuming a different identity. Unless the person I’d seen tonight was just him? Doubtful. At least he was well compensated for his discomfort?

  Despite having grown up in this house, I stepped right smack-dab in the middle of the creaky step, the one that had been squeaky since I could remember and was identifiable by its crooked wood. I was so totally off my game here, even though the definition of “home” told me I should feel otherwise. My eyes darted over to the couch as I inched closer to the kitchen. Given Andrew’s too-steady, too-quiet breathing, he must be awake. Whether it was my fault or not, I wasn’t sure. I briefly considered abandoning my mission altogether, but… pie. Instead I tried to hurry past him.

  I’d cleared the living room, my back now to him, when I heard, “Couldn’t sleep either?” from behind me.

  I pasted on a smile and turned to face him. After a couple of awkward seconds with me rocking back and forth heel to toe, I uncharacteristically admitted, “Most people can’t wait to get home and sleep in their childhood bed, but it makes me a ball of—”

  “Shénjīng,” he finished for me. The Mandarin surprised me, enough to make my head pop back—and your double chin appear, my mother said in my head.

  “Uh, yeah.” Except I wouldn’t have said it in Chinese.

  “I picked up on your nerves during dinner,” he said in a low voice as he stood and followed me to the kitchen. While I turned on the light and took a quick survey of our options, he continued, “Is it because I’m here and you’re worried about how it’s going? Because I can tell you from experience you can let some of that anxiousness go.”

  “Thanks,” I said, even though my unease in this house had been present since way before I’d paid him into my life.

  I grabbed the pie and some paper plates. But right before I dished it out, I pointed to him, then the pie, and raised my eyebrows to ask if that was what he wanted. His eyes widened in surprise before he caught himself and nodded at me.

  My gaze focused on my busy han
ds as I asked, “Are you not used to people asking what you want? Because your job is all about pleasing others?” I briefly wondered what his family was like and what they thought of his Rent for Your ’Rents position.

  “It’s a rarity because of the line of work, yeah, but I assume most of the world is like that too?”

  I shrugged. “People are selfish.”

  The silence between us filled with unspoken experiences, but the agreement was palpable.

  My tongue savored each bite, rolling it around to mimic all the thoughts rolling around my mind.

  “Don’t you want to ask me more questions? Like why I did this?” I asked.

  “I already know why.” He was staring down at his pie.

  “Well, you know what I chose to tell you, on paper.” And I may not have told you everything, because I just couldn’t bring myself to. “You can’t fully understand from just a few words, can you?”

  He shrugged. “You’re pretty good with them.”

  “You flatter me—is that a reflex?”

  He laughed, one short exhale. “No? Maybe? I don’t know anymore.”

  “It’s been that long, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess, and it feels even longer than it’s actually been because I have to, uh, really immerse myself.” He fumbled a bit, scratched his neck, and I backed off.

  The little tics that manifested now almost made him look like a completely different person. One without glasses. When he shifted in his seat, I couldn’t help myself.

  “How do you do it?” I asked. “Turn off a part of your brain? Is it like a performance? Is it something you can train yourself to do?”

  He sucked on his bottom lip. Eventually he said, “It’s one of my rules that I don’t really talk about this with my clients. Nothing about the company or training, and nothing about my personal life.” His slight frown hinted at some kerfuffle from the past.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry—I mostly wanted to know because I often wish I could turn off part of my brain. Just… constant worrying about stuff I know I shouldn’t be worrying about, but knowing that it’s not worth my time doesn’t seem to do anything.”