Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,69

sandwich?”

“Oh, Mama.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Are you telling me that you’ve been planning all these movie dates with only the vaguest idea of what actually happens in them?”

She shrugs. “It’s Papa who loves romantic comedies, not me. He used to make me watch them when we first came to the States. I’ll never forget him bawling at the end of Father of the Bride. And we didn’t even have children yet.”

My lips twitch. I can totally see that happening. Papa’s always been the sappy one in their relationship, while she’s the epitome of practicality.

“Romance isn’t going to get you where you want,” she says. “It won’t give you a good husband, a caring father. Someone who will take care of your family. Instead, it just seduces you away from your duty, tricking you into abandoning the people you love for a foolish, unattainable ideal.”

My mouth dries. “Are you talking about…Mat’s mother?” That’s the only possibility, really, since no one’s abandoned anyone in our family.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she surveys my collage of photos—of my sisters and me making goofy faces, of Kavya and me with our arms linked—and that’s answer enough.

Auntie Nit was her best friend. They would take turns watching each other’s kids or retreat to the kitchen and drink chrysanthemum tea if we were playing nicely. Mama must’ve mourned when her closest friend left. I know, from what Mat said, that she tried to atone for Auntie Nit’s actions in the only way she knew how.

And I never even noticed.

I was young, sure. I was grieving the loss of my own friend. But I probably should’ve seen that something was amiss with Mama. That’s the burden of parents, I suppose—that their children will always think of themselves first.

That doesn’t mean that I can’t try to do better.

“She’s only one person,” I say softly. “You should know, from firsthand experience, that there are other stories of romance that end happily. Look at our family. Look at Papa. He takes care of all of us—and he loves you to pieces.”

She brushes away the notion. “Not in a foolish, romantic way. We’re a good match. Partners in every sense of the word. But he’s mostly devoted to our family, to you girls.”

“No, Mama,” I say stubbornly. “He loves you, too. I know it.”

“You can think what you want.” Her face softens, and she places a hand on my cheek. “I love you, romantic daughter of mine. But you’d better get up. You have exactly twenty-five minutes before your date arrives.”

…

Twenty-three minutes later, I skip down the stairs. I could’ve used the extra seconds to primp, but I’d much rather have that additional time with Mat, on the off chance that he arrives early.

Besides, I’ve never needed much time to get ready. A quick shower, the usual ponytail for my hair. Ripped jeans, a simple T-shirt, a bit of gloss, and I’m done.

The one thing I’m not wearing is the emerald necklace. I looked for it on my nightstand, on my dresser, even the floor. But I can’t seem to find the piece of jewelry anywhere. Oh well. I lose something at least once a day. It’s bound to turn up. My misplaced items usually do.

Mama’s sitting on the sofa. I expected Papa to be next to her, reading one of his articles, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Papa?” I ask.

Mama purses her lips. “He went to the gym.”

“Really? Without you?”

It’s one of my parents’ traditions, attending the gym together on Sunday mornings. And she thinks they’re not romantic.

“He had some extra energy,” she says vaguely.

I tilt my head. She’s acting weird, even for Mama. But before I can ask her what’s wrong, she gestures at a composition notebook on the coffee table, the same one Mat was using to record our dates.

“Mat forgot the notebook when he picked you up last night,” she says. “The ruler, too.”

Oh. That’s right. It never even crossed our minds to fill out an entry. I guess we got so caught up in the realness of our date that we forgot to keep up the illusion that it was fake.

“Sorry about that.” I pick up the notebook gingerly. “I’ll take it with me, and we’ll make a record for our dates yesterday and today.”

The doorbell rings.

“He’s here.” My heart dances, and my breath is short. It’s only been a dozen hours since our date—and even less time since we’ve texted—but I can’t help my body’s reactions.

I get to see Mat