Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,1

“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 head 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.